The Birth of Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford, Part III

                                

I awoke the morning of December 31st to find myself in the antenatal unit with my husband sleeping soundly on the couch next to me.  The room was large and pleasant looking.  A nurse came by take my vitals and monitor the babies.  Other than explaining that someone would return at 7pm, she had very little to say. She was followed by a woman who wheeled in a breakfast cart, and then left, without saying a word.

I sat and ate the first meal I had had in days, and texted my mother from Court's phone, begging her to bring me my son, and some fresh clothes, as soon as she woke.  I fell back to sleep, and awoke to a text that she and my mother-in-law were on their way. A few moments later, there was a knock on the door, and the sound of my mother's voice.  My heart leaped. I craned my neck, and stretched my arms toward Tristan, for whom I ached.  The poor child took one look at me and turned immediately away, clinging to his grandmother.  I felt a tightness in my throat. 

"You did the same thing when I went to have your brother," my mother said, kindly.  She went on to tell me that Tristan had had a stomach bug over the weekend, and had been up vomiting two nights in a row.  I felt tears rolling out of the corners of my eyes, but pushed them away, so as not to frighten him further. Very slowly, he warmed to me, until finally he was brave enough to sit on my bed.  I sent someone to fill a bottle, which he drank in my arms, and fell asleep.  We napped together until it was time to for him to leave.

Tristan and me on the last day of 2013.

What followed was a period of relative calm.  The days continued in very much the same manner as the first.  I was fed three nutritious, vegetarian meals a day, and slept soundly each night.  (One of the mothers in the online mothering group had sent me a pregnancy pillow; a kindness for which I will be forever grateful.)  The doctors and nurses were, for the most part, extremely kind and helpful, but wholly without answers.  Court stayed with me, and our parents brought Tristan to see us as often as possible.  After four days, it came to light that I was to remain in the hospital until the arrival of the twins, or as long as six weeks.  

That afternoon, Court went home to be with Tristan, while I weathered a snowstorm alone in my hospital room.  I began to feel as if my contractions were again strengthening.  I thought that maybe this was a psychological response to the prospect of staying in the hospital for another month and a half.  The nurse on duty seemed to agree with this theory.  

With this in mind, when Court came to visit me the following day, I sent him home, even though I was again feeling intense discomfort in my abdomen.  A few hours later, the nurse came in with a doctor.  She said she had a feeling I should be checked, just in case.  I agreed. 

"She's at 6," said the doctor quietly but quickly, snapping off her glove.  Again, the room sprang into action, and again, I started shivering and crying.  

"You're 32 weeks, and you've had the steroids, your babies are going to be just fine" everyone kept reassuring me. 

"My husband isn't here, we have to wait for my husband," I pleaded back, as I frantically texted and phoned Court.  

As he sped along the highway, a team of nurses began prepping me for a caesarean-section. I was wheeled into an extremely bright, harsh room with what seemed like a thousand people.  There was a team of doctors for each baby, and one for me.  I started to panic.  I was given a spinal, and still, no sign of Court. I began to babble to the anesthesiologist, who did his best to offer reassurance and calm.   

I was lying on the impossibly narrow metal slab, with a pale green sheet draped in front of me, curtaining my numb lower half from view, when I saw Court making his way toward me.  Relief flooded through me, followed closely by a wave of intense nausea. I alerted the anesthesiologist, who was more than a little concerned, but was, evidently, up to the challenge.  He helped me successfully vomit without choking. 

A few moments later, I heard the surgeon telling his intern to really put her weight into it. 

"Baby A is out," someone called.  I waited tensely until I heard a tiny, infant cry. 

"Baby B is out!"

Again, I waited, and again, I heard a tiny wail. 

This seemed to take several minutes, but later I learned that the boys were born within moments of each other, at 9:46 in the evening.  It was Saturday, January 4, 2014. Baby A weighed 5lb2oz, and baby B weighed 4lb2oz.

After I was reassured that the babies were both alive and well, and breathing on their own, they were rushed off to the NICU. 

I was alone for several hours after that, but it was ok; I felt peace, and relief.  Finally Court returned, and I was brought to meet my children.  A doctor from the NICU explained everything I needed to know, and Court and I decided on names.  I was wheeled back to my room, and given something to help me sleep.

It didn't work.  Court slept soundly next to me, while I remained alert and restless at 3 o'clock in the morning.  I called the nurse on duty and asked to be taken to the NICU.  When I arrived I asked when I could hold my children, and begin breastfeeding.  Jaime (baby A) was having some trouble breathing, so he couldn't try to nurse, but I could hold them both immediately.   One at a time, I was given each boy, and then left alone.  I sat, in the dark, and held them against my chest and hummed, and as I hummed, I prayed.  

Three and a half weeks later, Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford were healthy enough to come home. Tristan was uncertain at first, but has since come to love them fiercely.