If you’re just joining me, be sure to check out part 1 of this story here.
The brain has a fascinating way of dealing with trauma—it disassociates from reality in an attempt to protect itself. Memories created in a state of trauma are often buried in a long-forgotten broom closet of the brain, making it almost impossible to remember them unless trauma triggers you to go back to that dark place.
The 51 hours between Vivienne’s birth and Margot’s are on the cusp of accessibility. I know I lived them; I remember how demoralizing it was to be pseudo-paralyzed and peeing in a bed pan for two days while my mom and a nurse stood by, but it’s not all there. I know I saw Vivienne, her 1 pound 4 ounce body in a plastic box to protect her from the world—to protect her from me. I know I was too afraid to touch her, but when I think back on those 51 hours, it’s as though I’m looking back on someone else’s disjointed nightmare.
I remember how badly I wanted the epidural catheter out of my back and how my legs and hips ached from days of disuse, and I remember the visitors. For two days, they poured in with care packages, flowers, and prayers. It was a welcomed distraction from my tragic predicament.
The twins are mono-di twins, meaning they shared a placenta, but had separate sacs. When Vivienne was born, Margot’s amniotic sac ruptured from the force. I will spare you the details of what happened with the placenta, but allow me to tell you about the lack of sac.
The main purpose of the amniotic sac is to keep the baby safe. Margot was no longer floating in her relaxing sensory deprivation chamber, she was clawing her way around a dry womb. In case you are wondering, this feels as weird as it sounds. Even once the catheter was out of my back and I was free to use the bathroom, I wasn’t keen on the idea of moving because it felt like some kind of alien takeover.
I can’t recall how I ended up in a wheelchair in the employee elevators. It’s possible it would have been against doctor’s orders if we had asked for permission to go up to the NICU with my sac-less baby still hanging out inside—breech, if I may add. Nonetheless, I found myself peering into the plastic box from the edge of my wheel chair. I trembled with feelings that were too big for my body. After just a few minutes, I left.
Forty-eight hours after Vivienne was born, I was deemed stable and transferred back to the antepartum floor. I texted friends to let them know I’d be in the hospital for a very long time. I made plans for Margot and myself to spend mornings on the terrace reading a decade worth of books I had purchased but never got around to reading. Margot had other plans.
My first order of business on the antepartum floor was a non-stress test. I’d had a dozen of them over the last two days. I wasn’t worried until my mom started to look worried. Then the nurse called the high risk OB just to “make sure everything was ok.” Margot’s heart rate was erratic. The fear was that the umbilical cord could be wrapped around her neck. He did a pelvic exam to try and see what was going on. He repeated the non-stress test, asked me if I consented to a C-section, and then—just like in the movies—I was rushed down the hall and into the elevator in my hospital bed.
I screamed all the way down the hall, and then I paused to ask someone if it was ok to cry and scream. She said yes. I continued with the hysterics.
“Why, God. Why?” I cried over and over.
The OR was bright and it was buzzing with people. I begged them to put me under and put an end to the emotional distress. “Are you sure?” The anesthesiologist asked me. Before I could answer, he said, “It’s better for the baby if we don’t, mama.”
I agreed to do what was best for the baby. He rolled me to my side to insert the needle. I was cold and naked, and he warned me it was going to feel like I was falling when they transferred me to the operating table. I will always remember how small and powerless I felt in that moment. I asked a nurse to hold my hand while I waited for my husband to scrub.
Seventeen minutes after the non-stress test, Dr. Thais Queliz met his girl, Margot. She was 17 weeks early and she was black and blue from trying to fight her way out of the womb. Karyn managed to get a picture before Dr. Q intubated her and swept her away to the NICU. I would spend much of my recovery staring at that picture thinking that baby looks dead. How could she possibly survive?
I don’t know if I fell asleep while they were stitching me up or if—in an effort to protect itself—my brain dumped the hour after Margot’s birth in the medical waste container. Regardless, the next thing I remember is a lactation consultant showing my mom how to assemble the pump parts and affix them to my chest. I know she was just doing her job, but I wondered, does she not know what just happened? Does she not realize my babies won’t live to drink this milk?
The weirdest thing about my recollection (or lack thereof) of my hospital stay, is I can’t remember how I got anywhere other than the OR. The memories exist like snapshots in one of those old image viewers—they tell a story, but it’s choppy.
The whole next seven and a half months of our lives were choppy.