Increasing our children by 200% unless we're talking about mass, in which case, about 5%

Part 1:  The Story

We expected our twins would be here before the scheduled C-section at 38 weeks gestation.  Jamie was thinking somewhere around 36 weeks, and I was guessing more like 34 weeks, but Cyrenius and Dulcinea had a different idea.

After a Sunday through Tuesday hospital stay two weeks ago and a mandated bed-rest for Jamie, I thought we were in the clear for a while.  Last Friday morning, though, I got a call at work saying we needed to go back to the hospital.  We were having contractions. (When I say "we" I actually mean "Jamie" because my non-uterus was not contracting, but I want to feel like I was part of it, so I'll say "we").

The doctors were determined to slow down the contractions and let the babies stay "cooking" for at least three more weeks.   As the afternoon progressed, labor did not progress.  Jamie thought she was having contractions, but the monitors were not showing them, and she was not dilated.  At this news, I got Afton, went home, and went to bed.  (Having an on-call sitter in case I had to go back over night)

I wrote Jamie some custom goals in the Antepartum unit.

After putting Afton to bed, I spent a few hours cataloguing some of my new massive record collection.  Thinking I would be waking up in the morning to take Afton out for breakfast and visit Jamie in the hospital, (where we thought she was going to be for a week or two) I crashed at 11:30.  At 1:00 or so, Jamie called to tell me she was dilated to a 3 and they were moving her to labor and delivery.  "You probably better come back," she said.

This was it, and I knew it.  I called my friend Steve, who graciously came to sleep on our couch for the rest of the night until Afton woke up in the morning, and I drove toward the hospital.  I was getting nervous.  I spent the whole drive scanning the radio to find something that would calm me down a bit.  As I drove past East Peoria, "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" by the Righteous Brothers came up, and it was the soundtrack for the rest of my drive (and is in my head still!).

I arrived at the labor and delivery room, and the resident doctor was telling Jamie the plan.  The doctor upped her medicine to the maximum amount she could give in a last-ditch effort to slow down the contractions.  She said she would check in an hour to see if there had been any change.

The hour was tense.  All my effort was spent restraining myself from making jokes, which is my strongest defense mechanism, and unfortunately acts contrary to Jamie's strongest defense mechanism, being completely somber.  I kept staring at the monitor as the contractions kept coming, hoping that they would slow down.  They continued, and they grew in intensity.  Each minute, I became more convinced the babies were coming tonight.

After the hour was up, the resident came back and rechecked Jamie's cervix.  She said, "Well, you're at a 6.  We're going to have these babies."  Jamie's doctor was called to come in for the C-section, and we prepared for the surgery.

I made several texts and phone calls to inform parents that the babies were indeed coming tonight.  The nurses gave me a disposable surgery outfit consisting of shirt, trousers, foot covers, mask, and medical hair net.  After getting dressed, I stood at Jamie's bedside while she signed consents for surgery and anaesthesia.

When giving birth to Afton four years ago, the C-section was an emergency, where doctors and nurses were running around shouting at each other to hurry, ripping and cutting cords out of the wall, and running Jamie away in about 5 minutes.  This time, we had to wait a bit longer.  Jamie was understandably emotional, and my words were inconsolable.  I knew that it wasn't my fault though, so I tried to shut up and wait patiently.

They wheeled Jamie away, and I had about half an hour to spend by myself as they prepped her for surgery.  Knowing I had no power to do anything productive, I pulled out my phone and started crushing candy.  This lasted about 3 or 4 minutes before I couldn't stand the solitude (which I usually treasure).  I went to stand in the doorway of the labor and delivery room, positioned right across from the nurses station and wait for them to come get me.

As I stood there, I observed the difference between medical staff and patients' families.  For me, this is something that happens twice in my life.  They do it every day.  So while I'm all tense standing there eagerly awaiting this major life change, they're sitting there talking about their upcoming weekends and eating their dinners.  I also saw the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) staff calmly walk the beds that our babies would be staying in to the operating room.

After this eternity, a nurse came out and got me, and I walked to the operating room.  They sat me down by Jamie, and I waited.  At Afton's birth, I couldn't see what was happening.  Here, I was able to peek around and see my wife cut open.  It was kind of gross, but kind of cool too.  I'm intrigued by what doctors are able to do with the human body.  It reminds me of a nerdy kid I went to gradeschool with that would disassemble and reassemble a Nintendo, only this is a living being.

The surgery seemed pretty standard, although I can't really make a comparison, because like Theodore Donald Karabatsos, I have no frame of reference.  Two NICU nurses stood by with beds for the twins, ready to take them down to their home for the next several weeks.

After a few minutes of the doctor "doing his thing" in my wife's open abdomen (okay, maybe that's not the best wording), I heard him say, "It's the boy.  4:14."   I saw a nurse carry the tiny boy over to his bed and transition him from fetus to baby.  The NICU staff suctioned his mouth, and within about 30 seconds or so, he started crying.  Eventually his cries will be something I try to stop, but this first one was angelic.  A wide smile grew under my surgical mask and tears started to fill my eyes.

Cy shortly after birth

Jamie said, "What does he look like?"  I responded with an obvious, unhelpful, "He's a baby."

We must have been living in slow motion, because it seemed like 5 or 10 minutes when the doctor said, "Here's the girl.  4:15."  After that, the NICU nurses said I could come over to where the babies were.  I walked to Cy first, as there were still nurses gathered around Dulci, trying to get her to give her first tears.

This started the split feeling that I have not yet been able to shake.  Part of me wanted to stay by Jamie to comfort her, tell her I loved her, and that she did a great job of carrying these children; part of me was excited to see Cy for the first time; part of me was anxious that Dulci had not yet cried.

Dulci right after birth

Eventually Dulcinea cried, and I moved to stand between the two babies while they completed the first phase of their Apgar tests.  The nurses carried Cy over to Jamie so she could see him for the first time, then they started the trek over to the NICU.  I stayed with Dulci.  After they stabilized her, she was shown to Jamie, then I joined her and a couple nurses for a walk to the NICU.

As we passed the Labor and Delivery lobby, we stopped to greet my dad.  He said, "I couldn't go back to sleep."  I asked if he saw Cy when he came by, and he had.  While my dad's not an emotional guy, I could tell he was deeply touched by being there to meet his two new grandchildren. 

The nurses and I started back to walking.  I had a million questions to ask the NICU staff, but on the walk, I failed to recall a single one.  Instead, they fed me scores of information that I instantly forgot.  I was with Dulci as they hooked her up to several monitors, including a c-pap that covered half her face.  Then I was shown Cy's room, and he was already being monitored.  I was asked to leave as they hooked up IV's through the babies' umbilical cords.  They told me that Jamie should be coming out of surgery any time, and I can meet her in recovery.

Dulci in her C-Pap

So I went back up to Labor and Delivery, waited about 3 or 4 minutes for Jamie to move to the recovery room, and I sat with her for a while.  Thus started my rounds between Jamie's room, Cy's room, and Dulci's room.

Part 2: How does it feel?

While Jamie was still in the hospital, I spent my time going back and forth between her room and the babies' rooms.  It's a bizarre feeling thinking that you're needed equally by multiple people in different locations, yet you're unable to provide sufficient time to any of them.  Even though Jamie and the babies needed me, I needed to care for myself as well.  That first day, I was running on an hour and half of sleep, so in the morning, I made a cot in Jamie's room and slept for another hour.  After picking up Afton in the afternoon, I went home and took a nap for another few hours.  Afton needed me as well.

Cy working on his tan

The entirety of Jamie's hospital stay, I was torn between her and all three kids separately.  When Jamie was discharged, it became easier to give the twins equal attention, but it remains difficult to give Afton the attention she deserves.  Also, I returned to work yesterday.  Thankfully, I am able to work remotely, but now I feel as though I'm being pulled between my family at home, my family at the hospital, and work.

At the same time, it's very strange going back and forth to the NICU.  The staff is incredible, and I love spending time with the twins, but the disconnect between home and hospital is unnerving to me.  People keep asking me how I'm doing, and my response is always, "Good...but it's weird."

It's weird to have children I'm devoting this much attention and love toward, whom I'm lucky to see for 2 or 3 hours a day.  I feel uncomfortable that I'm sleeping at home, watching football games, and writing blog posts, while my children are in the hospital.  I feel awkward that I have one child who has little to no connection to the others, because they do not yet live together, and she's only spent about 2 hours with them.  I feel like an inadequate parent because it's difficult to engage with a child whom I can only hold for a limited amount of time in a tiny room.  I feel like a lousy husband sleeping, while Jamie is awake every two to three hours to pump.  I feel guilty regardless of whom I'm devoting my time to, as though I'm neglecting someone else.

NICU room

I know that it's going better than I feel.  I know that I'm spending quality time with Jamie, Afton, and the twins.  I know that my reading to the babies, even though they have no clue what I'm talking about, is stimulating their minds.  I know that the rest I'm getting is helping me make rational, good decisions, and giving me patience with Afton, while Jamie is incapacitated by exhaustion.  I know that this will come to pass, the twins will come home, and I will probably miss this time.

For now, I will keep going back and forth, doing the best I can.  Jamie is recovering well from the c-section, Afton and I have had the opportunity to go for a couple meals together and a nice hike on Sunday afternoon, and the twins are doing great in the NICU; the doctor yesterday said, "Just watch them grow."  So it's only a matter of time until we are one complete family at home together.

Bonus Part 3:  The Kingdom of Heaven

Recently at my church, the worship bands have done a series called, "The Kingdom of Heaven is Like", where we spoke about the different things Jesus compared the Kingdom of Heaven to.  This has inspired a few new analogies that others have come up with. (see Jeff's post and Charlie's post)  This whole birthing experience has reminded me of the Kingdom of Heaven and its "now but not yet" state.  This is not a perfect analogy as you'll see (we do not parent Heaven), but bear with me.

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a fetus awaiting birth, and the Earth is the expectant mother.  The Kingdom started at conception.  A sperm (the spiritual realm) fused with an egg (the earthly realm), and the Kingdom began as an embryo.  It has been growing since.  The mother begins to see signs that her baby is coming.  She gets morning sickness, becomes bloated, eventually sees the doctor, who gives a sonogram and shows through a vague picture, that the fetus is there.

The fetus grows, and the mother's uterus begins stretching.  She knows that the baby is inside her, growing, and she longs for the day she gets to meet it, but it is not yet time.  She has a connection to the fetus; she feels it kick and move.  

As the fetus continues growing, she begins to have contractions.  These contractions are false labor, her uterus getting ready to deliver, but she can tell the baby is closer at hand, and its arrival is imminent.  Contractions become more regular and increase in intensity, the cervix dilates, and the baby is born.  All the pain was worth it, as the mother holds that new-born baby in her arms.

Jesus said, "the Kingdom is at hand."  It is here on Earth, now, just as a fetus is present in the mother's womb.  We are anticipating the Kingdom of Heaven.  We can feel it kicking, we know it is imminent.  In time, the Earth will go into labor, the Kingdom will be born, and we will experience it in fullness.