Hospital 1: But I Feel Fine

I have not posted in awhile because I was in the hospital for two weeks (the first to stop labor, the second to deliver our twins and recover from a c-section) where I had no internet service. I did keep a journal and will be posting it in sections.

BUT I FEEL FINE: Sunday, June 14, 2009

Thursday (now three days ago) seemed pretty usual. I woke up without issue, got on the train, and headed to Children’s Hospital for my weekly ultrasound to monitor Mr. A’s lung lesion. Though the news on this front had not been great as of late, I was prepared for whatever the doctors were going to tell me. Except this: at 25 weeks gestation, I was in labor. Well, they didn’t use the word ‘labor’. But, I had a backache, my cervix was very thin, and I was having painless contractions that I hadn’t thought much of. Collectively, that would be labor.

I didn’t get it at first. The message seemed murky, even cloaked in positivity. Children’s Hospital was sending me across town to Pennsylvania Hospital with a packet of ultrasound reports to “be evaluated”. I responded with, “Okay. I’m going to get a bite to eat and then I guess I’ll take the train down there later.”  Um, no. Within ten minutes I was in a cab (with an empty stomach) on my way, not to be evaluated as it turned out, but to have my labor stopped. This is not how it was supposed to happen for me. I was supposed to be the one who carried to term.

Here’s how it unraveled in short order. I was admitted. Mike left work and rushed to meet me. A monitor for each fetus and one for my contractions were strapped to my belly. An IV was put in my arm. That seemed normal enough. But, I still didn’t quite realize how serious the situation was, not even with nurse after nurse looking at my read-out and saying, “Wow, you’re contracting like crazy!” This was about 11 am.  By noon, they had me on an IV drip of magnesium sulfate to stop the contractions long enough to give me a course of steroids (to hasten fetal lung development) and I was moved from triage to labor and delivery. Still, I was pretty calm. I figured, these are normal, preventative measures… right?

By about six o’clock, the pain really set in. A doctor came to evaluate my cervix and that’s when I realized what was really going on. As the words, “two centimeters dialated” were uttered-- it hit me. These kids were on their way out. When Mike, who had been in the hallway for a few minutes on the phone, stepped back into the room, I was in tears as a team of nurses strapped, poked, stuffed, and manipulated me with everything medical, and our OBGYN rambled on about a C-Section. As Mike so aptly asked, “What the hell is going on?

 

Month Six

It's hard to believe that a) this is actually happening and b) it's happening so fast. Six months ago, Mr. A and Mr. B were jokingly referred to as Nick Knack, an imaginary baby that no one believed would actually come into being. Yet here I sit, 30lbs heavier,  gradually becoming completely immobile, incubating two future people made from half my genetics.

I am not immune to vanity and two things are preoccupying  my mirror-mirror. First, my legs are developing a bluish hue which, upon closer inspection, are revealed to be a dense map of spider and vericose veins. I like to think that I'll have this unsightly mess "taken care of" once de-childed. But, if I can't afford the simplest of luxuries now, it's clear I'll never have the dough to zap my legs pretty later on. Second, though I have thankfully avoided getting stretch marks up to this point, they are undoubtedly on the way. Even if they are mild, I can't imagine the disaster that will become my belly once I am no longer pregnant. Spongy, saggy, deflated... you get the picture. Does it ever go back to "normal" after twins? I'm pretty sure this extra skin cannot be zapped with the same ease as spider veins. Shorts and bikinis never again. Oh well.

Kid A

No matter how they try to brighten things up, children's hospitals are depressing places. You look around at all the kids, some look fine, some are clearly broken and there for fixing. And then the rest are there because their brother or sister is broken.

Today, when I went for my weekly ultrasound, I saw three things at Children's Hospital that were profoundly sad, things that seemed like omens given why I was there. First, as I was walking through one of the many glass-walled corridors on my long walk through the hospital to my doctor's office, I caught a glimpse of a teenager in a bed, surrounded by machines and tubes, his mother sitting nearby reading a book. From the door leading to that ward walked a little girl, maybe 5, balding with wisps of white hair, wearing a surgical mask. Clearly, this is where kids go for chemo.

Later, an elevator door opened to a packed car. In the center, a woman with employee badges stared ahead into nothingness, one tear dripping from her left eye. No puffy red cheeks. No sobbing. Just a tear on an otherwise stoic face. I wondered what she had just seen.

So, when my doctor delivered some unsettling news, that the mass in Mr. A's chest had grown faster than he did, past the ratio that sets off alarms, I was saddened, but not heartbroken. Because he's hidden beneath my abdomen, I don't have to watch him suffer the way all the other parents in that hospital do with their diseased children. That mom with the teenager and the parents of the five year old and the employee in the elevator have to look at sick kids and feel a far more palpable helplessness than I. For now.

Mr. A is going to need surgery. I will at some point be that mom sitting bedside watching my kid suffer. Hopefully, it will be just once, with just one kid. Hopefully, Mr. A will stabilize and stay inside long enough to grow enough lung tissue to be able to breath once he is born. Hopefully, he will not be born before 32 weeks. 

Changes

Every major turning point in my pregnancy has been sudden. No gradual shifts. Just big, bold changes. By the time I could really feel a kick, the kicking was non-stop. Two days ago, I saw the kick. My whole belly jumped. Now, it's like snakes under my skin-- and they're only a foot long and a pound and a half. I can't imagine how surreal it will be when they are big. I've been told that I will be able to count toes through my skin. I'm hoping for twenty.

The Question

Swiss cheese. That's what my unborn kid's chest looks like. Today we went for our second of many weekly sonograms to keep tabs on his lung cysts and, even to the untrained eye, the multitude of negative spaces populating his chest cavity are terrifying. But, the doctor reassured us that this was to be expected. These things get worse before they get better. Totally reassuring, doc. I'm left feeling completely at ease. Um, no...

But, his heart still beats. His brother has spun around so that they are face to face. I'd like to think this was on purpose, to lend some comfort. Seeing that they are now both head down explains a lot of the aching I've been feeling in my lower pelvis for the past few days. One mystery explained.

I try not to be scared. What would be the point? There's nothing I can do about it. Just wait and see. Trust the doctors. Go to my appointments. Hope for the best. Put it out of my mind and focus on other things. But, it's always there, looming. The question. What if it all goes horribly wrong?

Battle Royale

The mass in Mr. A's chest is pretty big. After only a couple of hours of ultrasound observation, even I could look at the squirmer being examined and see that something was awfully wrong with his chest. Large black holes orbit his heart. The technician marked the outline of one and typed, "Largest cyst, 1 cm". Largest. Meaning there are more. 

After eight hours of testing and waiting, a platoon of white coats sat us down to explain that the mass-to-baby ration is within the "don't panic just yet" zone- 1.2. At 1.6, we panic. So, he's got some time to cook before we'll really know what we're dealing with. One thing is most certain- the boy can kick.

Mr. B, the quiet one, has just started to make his presence known in my womb. He is feet down (breech). So, you an imagine where he might be kicking. Sometimes, it's my bladder. Sometimes my colon or, even more tickley, my cervix. The MRI tech referred to the spectacle within me as a "battle royale". Lots of sibling rivalry. We are going to need a much bigger house.

The scientist

I've always thought of myself as having a scientific perspective on life and why it is the way it is. Gather information, test hypothesis, make conclusions. My way of dealing with crisis might come across as cold to some people. But, it's really because I want to understand the problem, consider the possibilities, attempt solutions, and be in charge or my own fate. Nothing is inevitable, just probable or improbable.

So, I have been reserving judgement on our situation until tomorrow, when the tests and expert advice show preference toward one conclusion above all others. Yet, I can't help but to have expectations. It's a dangerous beginning for a scientist, to prefer one particular outcome, because the reality is sure to not align with my desire. I expect that there will be a "wait and see, low likelihood of danger" prognosis, which of course means that I am not prepared for the other possibilities.

Several times, Mike has mentioned that he wishes he believed in some higher power right now, something to divert his fear about losing our babies and make him have faith that things happen for a reason. I think that, if I did believe in god, this might be the point at which I stop believing. I mean, what god would do something like that? What would be the reason? It wouldn't make me stronger or teach me any important lesson or give me some sublime insight into the workings of the universe. It would simply make me hate god, and I'm pretty sure that's not what the great intelligent designer would be going for.

No. It's all numbers. We just happen to be on the light side of probability at the moment.