I am sorry readers but I won’t have time to edit, so you are (actually as with most of my posts anyway) about to read a stream of consciousness style description of the past four days.
I have been unable to post, largely because it feels wrong writing about my babies when I could instead be at their incubator side. However, I am currently forced to do something to occupy my mind as there is a lot of prodding and poking of my babies currently occurring, so I need to detach, should probably try to use the hour to catch up on much needed sleep, but instead of sitting worrying about every beep of a machine in the neonatal unit, I prefer to write.
So on Saturday, having been told that there weren’t two cots available at my preferred hospital that day, but that there may be on Monday. I asked whether therefore I could eat, and being told ‘yes’ I decided to indulge in a bacon butty – having been nil by mouth for ever… Fifteen minutes later, a knock at the door, and another midwife entered saying
‘You haven’t eaten anything yet?’.
I confess to the bacon butty.
‘When?’
‘15 minutes ago… why?’
‘We have two cots and a team ready to operate today.’
I ask whether the butty incident will mean that it can’t happen. She heads off to check. I suddenly feel very sick, and the bacon butty isn’t to blame.
She returns apologising for the miscommunication re eating and says that the team will wait til the effects of butty-gate have worn off. So the babies will be delivered at 4pm.
I felt completely overwhelmed, sick with fear, and the tiniest bit excited. This is absolutely not how I wanted to meet my twins. The idea of a c-section (never having had an operation) is frankly terrifying.
In strides the uber confident Consultant – instantly likeable for his showmanship.
‘So, twins? 28 weeks? Tell me about this….’
‘Well actually, you are responsible.’ I reply.
‘Oh dear. Why?’
‘You referred us for IVF two years ago and this is the result.’
‘I’d better be off then!’
He explained the cesarian process to me, asked if there were any issues or questions. I had about a hundred as always.
I explained that I had an anaesthetic risk, and he said this was fine as it was on my notes.
He then told me about the set up for the delivery.
He would operate with a registrar. There would be a team of anaesthetists, Consultant, registrar and assistant. Each baby would require two midwives. The midwives would hand the babies to two paediatric teams of three. Would I mind if a student doctor and two student midwives attended? More the merrier I guess.
I told him that my husband WOULD be in theatre and that we had also, at the last minute booked a stem cell freezing company to collect and store the stem cells from the blood cord and tissue, so a phlebotomist would also be at the party. So in total…. 21 people and two, very tiny babies.
Suddenly, I felt incredibly grateful to the NHS.
So then, the wait. There is a lot of waiting it seems in this long drawn out process for us less fertiles. But this one was most certainly the worst.
At 3.30pm the anaesthetist popped in.
‘So just checking that we are fine to go with a spinal block’ he said.
‘Yes – if you think so. As long as it isn’t..’ and I explained my anaesthetic risk.
‘Does anyone know about this?’
I point out that it is all over my notes.
‘Oh right. I think I need to check with a Consultant, as if the spinal doesn’t work, that is normally the drug we would use in an emergency.’
He vanishes. I am grateful that he is now investigating what should have been investigated already, but I am now feeling more and more sick with anxiety about the op and the outcome of the op.
45 minutes later, consultant obstetrician returns.
‘Sorry for the delay,’ he says casually. ‘We are all set up but these blooming anaesthetists…. I suppose that they are rigorous at least…’
I imagine the other 16 people in theatre waiting and wondering if they will get to that pub or party tonight….
Another 45 minutes passes. Obstetrician returns with immaculate Consultant Anaesthetist. If I am going to let anyone play with my consciousness it is this woman. She is dressed with precision, speaks with precision, smiles with precisely lovely teeth.
Right we have found the drugs to suit you. It will be under epidural rather than under spinal block and we have found an emergency anaesthetic that should be fine.
So off we go, the procession to theatre and to the delivery of my tiny little bundles, whose outcome is unknown.
I enter the brightly lit operating room. It is shiny and oddly welcoming (or perhaps that is the crowd). In the corner, in the direction of the foot of the operating table are the two incubators that my babies will be whisked away to once they have been plucked from me.
I sit on the table, slouching forward as my back is numbed and as the epidural canula is put into my spine. I have a canula also placed into my hand and various drips and flushes are put into me. Then the epidural is injected as I sit and I have to quickly move onto my back and bring my legs onto the table before they start to go numb. My gown is pinned up from my waist forming a screen, anaesthetists stand behind my head, my husband is seated on my left handside and the rest of the crowd are lined up ready for their piece of the action beyond my gown and my spread eagle nether regions. Oh, the glamour of it.
To make this somehow even less dignified the Consultant then says…. Let’s go around the room, so that everyone knows who everyone else is…. It feels like some sort of grand conference, with medics of all varieties now introducing themselves to my private parts as I can see only those who are head end. My husband and I give our names. No one can see my face….my detatched name floating out. The Consultant Obstetrician, knife waving wildly, with his registrar is smiling at me on the other side of the gown. They look to me like some sort of bizarre punch and judy act above my half pinned gown and I a child looking up at them.
The upside down anaesthetist looks down at me from behind and with her beautiful skin (how does she do that?) says that she will now test me for feeling before they start. They spray a cold liquid from my knees to my breasts checking to see at what point I can feel it.
‘Only on my breasts.’
Off we go then.
The Consultant slices and we all chat away merrily. He rips my muscles open (they mesh back together better that way…. and tells me as he cuts through each of the layers… They reach the uterus.
Twin one on his way out. I can feel a lot of tugging internally – no pain but just an odd sensation that someone is having a really good yank of my innards. Bottom first comes TWIN ONE. Our little W. I can see nothing but hear a cry immediately. He came out crying says Consultant. Good news.
Next some more rummaging. TWIN TWO. Our little girl is pulled into the world in her amniotic sac. I hear a slosh and then a cry. Our E is crying and alive. I can hear little squawks. Husband goes to get a glance. The teams are working away on them.
Lots of busy voices shouting medical terms. Consultants keep chatting to me.
‘I am going to pop you back together now’ says Obstetrician. ‘This’ll take longer than taking you apart….’
All that I can think of is my babies. Somewhere in the direction of my numb feet. I keep sending husband to see if they are alive. He keeps saying they are fine… After what seems like an age, little E is wheeled past me so that I can catch a glimpse of her. I can see little as she is wrapped in plastic. The lovely doctor tells me that she is perfect and absolutely beautiful. I can see nothing but will be eternally grateful.
Little W is next. This time I can see a pink leg. That is it. They dash them up to the intensive care unit. I remain on the bed as I am stitched layer by layer as the theatre clears each saying good bye to me as though they are guests at a polite party.
My husband and I are moved into recovery, thinking only about our little ones and their immediate chances.
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