Sunday, July 13, 2008. It started out like a regular Sunday with my feeling like I was 12 months pregnant. I went to play the piano at the church, where they said a prayer for me for a safe delivery. At home, we had my parents over for lunch. Later, we just hung around the house like a typical Sunday. At seven o’clock, Dad turned on the television so that we may all watch “AFV,” which the children have dubbed “The Funny Show.”
I felt a contraction at 7:10pm. Two more came during a span of 20 minutes. I told Dad, “I think the babies might come tonight.” He seemed calm to hear the news. I called Michelle, a lady from the church who had volunteered to be my labor support. She was having a hard time getting a hold of her son who had borrowed her car. Dad called his mother so that she may mind the children during the birth. She asked how much time she had to get ready. I had never given birth to twins before, but I know that my deliveries take only a few hours. So I figured that these babies would come closer to midnight.
We were calling family ( I called my dad and left a message) to let them know what was occurring. Dad and I got last-minute details ready (combing Kyle’s hair, finding Taylor’s shoes). As I felt the contractions coming on stronger, around 8:15pm, I laid on the couch on my side. That’s when Michelle walked in the house. She put a hot, wet towel on my lower back and pressed down on my hips during the strong contractions.
Some contractions were stronger and longer than others. They seemed to be alternating: Strong, weak, strong, weak. We didn’t have a time piece (much less one with a second hand), so there wasn’t a way of accurately timing them. To me, it felt as though they were coming every minute or so. When my mother-in-law walked in about 8:40pm, she asked how far apart the contractions were. Michelle guessed that they were about three minutes. Three minutes?! That’s it! OMG. I don’t want to imagine one-minute contractions. Dad asked me if I was ready to go. “One more contraction, please,” I answered – as I was waiting for a really strong and long contraction before getting up and moving anywhere. Don’t get me wrong. The weaker and shorter contractions were painful, too. I just did not want to get up and in the middle of the walk to the van be on my hands and knees for a contraction that could have been experienced on the couch.
We left the house at 8:53pm. Michelle and my mother-in-law were in their own cars. The children and I rode with Dad in the van to the community hospital which was three miles north. The road was wet, shiny. The night was black. So this is what a Sunday night looks like in this town. Some stores were still open. The gasoline stations were lit. We caught a red light.
“Should I take it?” asked Dad. We were going to make a left. This was a particularly complicated intersection with a private lane for the city buses and emergency vehicles on the west side. Thinking of the two ladies in their cars behind us, I answered, “No.” The light didn’t seem that long, although later, my mother-in-law commented that it was a LONG red light.
We arrived at the Emergency entrance at 9:05pm. I felt four contractions during the car ride. Dad got out of the van and explained to the security guard that he had a woman in labor. The guard told him to go around the building to the Women’s Center. At the Women’s Center entrance, Dad rang the bell, knocked, and did what he could to be heard, but no one answered. We went to the Emergency entrance a second time. Dad explained to the guard that the Women’s Center was closed with no answer.
“My water broke,” I said. It was 9:10pm.
“I know,” I think I heard him say. He is familiar with the smell.
The guard brought a wheelchair while Dad helped me out of the van. While Dad parked the car, I sat in the night. By myself. The guard stood several feet away, looked in many directions but mine. I hoped Dad would hurry. A few seconds passed. A male orderly walked toward me quickly, released the brakes of my wheelchair, and pushed me through an entrance that wasn’t Emergency.
“I have to wait for my husband. Where are you going?”
“He knows where to go.”
“No, he doesn’t. I have to wait for my husband.” I was worried.
There was no stopping him. I didn’t want to be by myself while giving birth. I knew that the babies were in less than desirable presentations (breech) for most doctors and midwives. And when they learn that it’s twins, automatic surgery. I didn’t want THAT.
We went down many corridors, into an elevator, taking lefts and rights. I caught a glimpse of two women who looked awfully familiar. Hang on. That’s Michelle! She and my mother-in-law followed us into the Women’s Center.
We approached the nurses’ station. Michelle told the nurses that I was in labor. They asked for my name, all that stuff… I don’t think that they understood the gravity of the situation. I was not moaning in labor. I did not scream. I have always been fairly quiet when giving birth… I felt immense pressure. Not pain. It stung a little, similar to crowning. I told Michelle, “You’re gonna hafta catch the baby.” Yes, right there. In front of the people in the waiting area.
“Uh oh! I see something!” she exclaimed.
I didn’t want to push, but I pushed anyway. It wasn’t I who was doing the pushing; it was Mother Nature.
My wheelchair turned quickly around. I had one nurse holding each of my feet. The nurse on my right told me to put my leg up against a gurney. I did so. The nurse on my left told me to do the same. I couldn’t: I was in the middle of a contraction. I felt that something had come out of me. It’s too small to be a head. Perhaps the buttocks? I know the babies are breech. No, too small to be buttocks. She yelled at me in panic to do as she said. I obeyed this time. As my left foot went up, the wheels of the chair buckled forward. I turned my head to the left to understand why I was moving. The floor was coming closer to my head. I looked at the people in the waiting area and saw faces moving to the right. I’m falling. I hung onto the wheelchair’s arms, stiffened my neck so as not to hit my head, and closed my eyes. With the impact, I felt that something that was hanging out of me hit the edge of the wheelchair’s seat. Shit, they broke my baby’s neck!
“Oh, my God!” I heard several people yelling.
“Is the baby okay?” I cried. I was so worried. No one answered me. I asked again. Louder this time, “Is the baby okay?” I looked at Michelle who was standing above me. She nodded.
“You people are insane!” I cried. “What are you doing? What is wrong with you people?” I screamed so hard that my throat hurt (and I now that I shouldn’t be doing that because I teach classical singing – but they made me *mad*!)
There were nurses around me, holding up bed sheets to cover the scene. The wheelchair disappeared from under me. There were at least half a dozen people crowded around me, kneeling on the floor. A doctor had his fist on my belly, pressing down hard. “What are you doing? You’re going to hurt the babies!” I screamed. He screamed back at me that he HAS to push down to keep the head flexed, that a foot was coming out. That was a foot. Oh, thank you, God, that it wasn’t a head. Then it hit me. Oh, my God. A real breech. Hands off the breech!
“He’s breech. Hands off the breech! Hands off the breech!” I yelled.
The doctor shook his head as did one nurse who didn’t look panic-stricken. “We are not touching.” Their hands were where I could see them. “You have to push.” I pushed. They wanted me to push whether I had contractions or not. I felt one bulge come out, the legs. I felt an even bigger bulge after that, the abdomen, which took several pushes. I didn’t think that I had the strength to push again, this time, something bigger, the head. My other babies never took this many pushes. Three, four tops. This is push 20. When will it end? I felt some contractions when pushing the head. That helped.
9:15pm. The baby was whisked away. I saw only his shoulder. It was white, yellowish. I heard no crying. “Is my baby okay? Where are you taking him? Is my baby okay?”
Michelle nodded. She assured me that the baby was fine.
The nurses were trying to get me up. I didn’t want to fall again, so I let them do the brunt of the work. The floor was slippery. My right foot was slipping against some plastic sheeting (to protect the precious floor, I suppose). In an instant, Dad was on my right side, helping me up. I laid on the gurney, praying that it wouldn’t collapse right under me.
I was wheeled to a delivery room where things calmed down. An ultrasound technician arrived. A fetal monitor was placed around my belly. I signed some papers. They gave me oxygen. The midwife (the nurse who didn’t look panicked) and the doctor told me that the next baby was breech, too. I hoped that they would let me deliver vaginally. They started an IV, which I didn’t want. “I don’t want Pitocin.”
“This is not Pitocin. It’s just an IV to keep a line open.”
“That sign reads ‘Pitocin.’ I don’t want Pitocin.”
The nurses and doctor were getting aggravated with me and my big mouth. “If I said that it’s not Pitocin, then it’s not Pitocin.”
“But there is a piece of masking tape on the IV drip that reads ‘Pitocin!’”
“It’s just saline. It’s not Pitocin.” (Pitocin, by the way, is an evil synthetic hormone than makes contractions unbearably strong and long. It is an unnecessary intervention that leads to further intervention, and women end up with cesareans because of it. Of course, I’m not biased).
I didn’t want to be on my back anymore, mostly because I felt slight contractions. The midwife said that it was a good idea to lie on my right side to get the baby engaged as he was in a slight oblique angle. I could see the fetal heart rate monitor reading in the mid-140s. For forty minutes, with each contraction, the heart rate remained steady. Good sign. My throat felt a little scratchy from all the screaming that I had been doing. My neck was sore from trying to save myself from being knocked unconscious. I recalled what I had heard from an old-school doctor in a birthing video: “If you want a humanized birth, get the hell out of the hospital.”
Around 10:00pm, contractions became stronger and more frequent. There came a time when I asked Michelle to put pressure against my lower back during the stronger ones. I saw the heart rate drop to the low-100s during the really awful ones, but it came back up quickly. Good sign. I can’t remember how I got to lying on my back once more. “We have another footling,” called the midwife.
“Hands off the breech!” I reminded her.
“I’m not touching the breech.”
10:20pm. Okay, Mom, time to get strong again. I heard several people telling me to push. “Push, push, push, push, push, push!” It’s so easy to say ‘push’ when you’re not the one doing the pushing. I pushed as if it were a breathing exercise in voice lessons. Push two three four. Inhale two three four. Push two three four. Inhale two three four. Some pushes were easier as they were aided with contractions. The doctor had his fist on my belly again – to keep the head flexed. By the time the abdomen was out, I was hoping I was done. I kept hearing “Push,” and I didn’t want to. But with the oxytocin and the adrenaline and the hundreds of hormones bubbling inside of me, I thought of that tiny baby who so desperately needed to come out. All I heard was Dad’s voice, telling me to push. C’mon, Mom. Push. Push.
10:23pm. Out comes Baby’s head. Baby didn’t cry immediately. But when I did hear a cry, I was elated. A nurse told Dad and me that this baby didn’t look like her sister. I asked to nurse the baby. The midwife and doctor looked at me funny. “You want to nurse her?” As if they have never heard of such a thing. The midwife said, “Yes, that’s a good idea. It will help with the delivery of the placenta.”
For 20 minutes, we waited for contractions. “The placenta is right there. It won’t take many pushes,” said the midwife. I felt weak contractions. C’mon, Baby. Nurse. Suck. Pushing that placenta was like pushing another baby. The contractions grew stronger, and I pushed with the might that I had left. That placenta was huge. It was actually two placentae that had fused into one – which led my prenatal doctors to believe that I was carrying identical twins. They must have had a combined weight of four pounds!
************
In the end, we had two fraternal twin girls (wouldn’t that make them “sororal”?):
Kendall Allison, single footling breech, was born at 9:15pm on the floor. She weighed 7 lb. 5 oz. She looks like her mom.
Talon Alexis, double footling breech, was born at 10:23pm, not on the floor. She weighed 5 lb. 9 oz. She looks like her dad.
The three older Sleppy children with Kendall who is not in the mood for pictures.
Talon and Kendall.
