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Chad
I must have fallen asleep in the chair without even realizing it. It’s probably a good thing that the nurse suggested I let our baby boy go back to the nursery or I might have fallen asleep with him in my arms. Not that would be a bad thing, but she was right about one thing. We’re all exhausted.
After making sure that Seraphine had everything in her room that she could possibly need, plus things that would brighten the space and hopefully make her feel better, I sat down for a moment to rest. I hadn’t intended to fall asleep. It just sort of happened after the adrenaline wore off and fatigue finally caught up with me.
I’ve been keeping a vigilant eye on Seraphine and our babies since they were admitted to the hospital three days ago. Seraphine is stable and recovering from some sort of internal bleeding that I still don’t fully understand. Our son is doing perfectly and isn’t even that small for having arrived as early as they did. But our daughter—well, she’s the one that is truly pulling on my heart.
She issosmall. I didn’t even think that was how it worked in the womb. I thought that twins were supposed to be the same in everything—same appearance, same mannerisms, samesize.I couldn’t have been more wrong.
She is tiny enough to hold in one hand and the doctor said that she was more affected by the stress of the emergency birth and the stress felt from Seraphine while she was still in the womb. Now, she is in the NICU, fighting to gain strength enough to survive out in the world.
I amdeterminedthat she will.
I walk over to check on Seraphine. For a moment, it looked as though her eyes were open and that she might be waking up. But by the time I get to her bedside, she is asleep again.
“Sorry,” the nurse says when she sees my disappointment. “I didn’t know that you were just about to wake up, but she needed her pain meds topped off.”
“It’s okay,” I say as I sit beside Seraphine for a few moments. “It’s good that she rests.”
“That’s what I told her too.”
The nurse gives me a few moments and a kind smile, and then asks if I want to go to the NICU again. Of course, I do.
I’ve been spending a lot of time there, holding my little daughter’s tiny hand and flinching at how many wires and tubes are attached to her. The doctors and nurses keep telling me how well she is doing and what a fighter she is, but all I see is a much too small and too fragile little body. I wish that I could be the one fighting her fight for her. I wish that I could take all of this away and give her a better welcome into the world—one with soft blankets and pink stuffed bunnies, and all the things that adorn little girl’s nurseries. It pulls at my heart to the point of breaking when I think about how wonderful Lilly’s birth was—how uneventful and peaceful, and how we were able to take her home the very next day and shower her with love and comfort. This little girl hasn’t even been bestowed her name yet because her mother is still recovering, and she is in here fighting to get stronger.
Dr. Gideon said that she will survive, and the team here at the NICU all agreed that she will assuredly make it through. But the “making it through” part is difficult and painful to watch, because that’s all I can do.
I talk to her and rub her little back as I recite all the children’s stories I can think of. I promised myself that for as long as she is stuck in here, I will not run out of stories to tell her. It’s a stretch though, because I’m not very good at it and I have to start making up my own stories about software fairies and tech dragons, and I find myself wishing that I had a greater literary repertoire. I am sure that Seraphine does.
I can’t help but tear up when I think about how I could haveeveragreed to turn my back on Seraphine and our babies. What had I been thinking? Did I truly believe that I didn’t want this? Or that my lack of involvement would make things easier for Seraphine and our children? Whatever I had been thinking, it was clearly wrong.
I can’t imagine a day without any of the three of them, no matter how tough things are.
I am still sitting there beside my daughter when the nurses change shift and when Dr. Gideon comes in to check on the baby. She gives me an update on everyone, last of which is my tiny baby girl.
“She isn’t out of the woods completely,” Dr. Gideon says. “There are still serious complications that she could potentially face. But she will survive. She’s a fighter and she will definitely pull through. All we can do is hope that she will pull through entirely unscathed.”
I thank Dr. Gideon for all that she has done and continues to do and brace myself for several more long days and nights here at the hospital.
“You should go home and get some rest, Chad,” she says. “Seraphine and the babies are in good hands here and you will want to be in good shape for when it’s time to go home with them. Trust me when I say that getting through this is only the beginning. Twins are double the work, double the expense—”
She stops herself and chuckles when she realizes that last part won’t be an issue.
“Well, you know what I mean,” she says. “You and Seraphine will both need all the rest that you can get. It’s all-hands on deck with multiple births.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound belligerent. “But I wouldn’t be able to sleep at home if I left here. It’s all of us staying together now, and as long as Seraphine doesn’t send me away, that’s how I want it to be.”
“Suit yourself,” she smiles before leaving the NICU.
A few minutes after Dr. Gideon has left, I can feel my phone vibrate against my pocket. I look down and see that it’s Lilly calling.
“Go ahead,” one of the nurses says as she reaches out to take my place with the baby. “You can take your call outside. I’ll sit with her.”
I walk out into the hall and return the missed call right away.
“Hi Lillybean,” I say, trying not to sound as tired as I feel. “Sorry I didn’t pick up right away, I was in the baby nursery and there’s no phone calls allowed in there. Everything okay?”
“Yep, everything is fine, but you look tired.”
