The Birth of Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford, Part I

       

Snow has melted, seeds have been planted and begun to sprout.  Somehow, our days are no longer a blur of breastfeeding, pajamas, sleepy eyes and picture books, and have instead become blissful stretches of sunshine and salty air.   Tristan has traded his crib for a bed, and Cameron and Jaime have transformed from impossibly small preemies to laughing, chubby babies, who roll over and scooch. It's been exactly five months and seven days since they burst into the world, eight weeks ahead of schedule, and now seems as good a time as any to tell the story of how it happened.

Cameron and Jaime are mono/di twins; that is, monochorionic/diamniotic.  In other words, they are identical twins, who shared a single placenta, and whose amniotic sacs were separated by a very thin membrane.  By contrast, fraternal twins, or di/di, each have their own placenta, and their amniotic sacs are separated by a thicker membrane.*  All multiple births are higher risk than singletons, but mono/di twins are especially so.  Because of this, in the second half of my pregnancy, I went for monitoring twice a week, OB appointments once a week, and ultrasounds every other week.

I thought this would be easier.  A torrent of emotions and sensations floods through me as I go back in time, to late December.  I'm not just remembering the contractions that I felt for weeks, my lower abdomen is stiffening with discomfort.  Flashes of backdrops are passing before my eyes; the bright, clean waiting room at the Prenatal Diagnostic Center; crushed snow and ice in the parking lot at Women and Infants; dark skies, Christmas lights; the dirty, crumbling emergency room that was in the midst of renovation; the hospital room that was my home for 12 days; even the harsh, narrow operating table where I would eventually give birth.   These images remain clear and strong in my mind, but they are just glimpses.  Stringing them into a coherent narrative challenges me.

Christmas was a blur.  Most of my memories of the day have since been condensed into a few photographs of Tristan playing with his new toys.  I also remember the intense pressure that I felt when I was on my feet, as if the babies would fall out of me at any second, and how my contractions seemed to increase after a morning of chasing Tristan and tending to chores.  I felt instinctively that I should be on bed rest, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore my responsibilities as wife and mother.  Tristan was going through a phase of night-waking, and we were so busy with the holidays that I could never seem to find the time for adequate sleep or nutrition.

The day after Christmas, Court and I drove to Providence for a routine scan. The monitor picked up enough contractions that the nurse sent us over to triage. Nine hours later, after several excruciating cervix checks, we were sent home; exhausted, famished, and missing our son.  It was a Friday, and I was a day shy of 31 weeks.

I find I'm feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the moment.  Though I remember the following days with considerably more clarity, I also find it more of a struggle to record them.  This surprises me; after all, this story has the happiest of endings.  It occurs to me that up until now, I haven't allowed this experience it's full weight.  I think I'll pause for the moment, and return after I've spent a few restorative hours playing with my children.