Disclaimer and trigger warnings: dear readers, I know this post is different and may not be of interest to all of you. But this experience changed me forever and, I suspect, changed the way I tell and engage with stories.
That being said, if you're triggered by high-risk pregnancies, medical complications, intensive care, blood and transfusions, postpartum recovery, emotional distress, and physical trauma, please read with care.
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Ever since my seven-week scan revealed my partner and I were expecting twins, we decided to postpone any official pregnancy announcement.
Twin pregnancies are risky by their very nature, even those conceived without fertility treatments.
From the very beginning, one of the twins was measuring small for her age. And we were told many other terrifying things over the course of this pregnancy. Keeping it private was the only way we could ensure a small measure of peace and normalcy in our lives.
Three weeks postpartum, we still firmly believe this was the best possible decision for our family.
Halfway through the seventh month of pregnancy, it became obvious that spending all day sitting, grinding, enduring Teams meetings that should have been emails was taking a toll on my body.
At that point, speaking more than a couple of minutes at a time left me out of breath and there was no amount of snacks in the world to help me get through the day.
So, when my OBGYN saw me struggling with so many weeks of pregnancy still ahead of me, she had no choice but force me to take it easy. Loving my job as I do, it was hard coming to terms with the fact I needed to rest more than just a couple of days a week.
She suggested I started my leave earlier and my first thought was, “what the hell am I gonna do with so much free time on my hands!?”
Well my dear reader, little did I know I was in for a surprising twist of fate.
Sceptical as I was, I had no choice but to stop working that very same week. To take my mind off the brand new hole were my job used to be, I filled my days with as many activities as possible.
I practiced yoga, went swimming, and took a few extra German classes to ensure I wouldn't turn into a couch potato. Just a few days without the constant throbbing of modern day stress convinced me my doctor was overreacting and I just needed a short rest before getting back to work for the remainder of the pregnancy.
That is why I was utterly unprepared when, by the end of my 30 week appointment, I was carted off to the hospital with signs of preterm labor.
I still remember telling my partner how the doctors were being overly cautious. I was sure I would be home for dinner having a laugh. But that day was just the beginning of a three-week hospital stay.
My partner and I affectionately renamed the hospital “the black hole.” Every day, I would be seen by a different doctor that would tell me I would probably be released within the next couple of days, only to be disappointed when my fetal fibronectin1 came back positive and I was forced to stay.
I'll never know if they were being serious or if was just their strange way to give me some semblance of hope. Either way, I did my best to keep my frustration in check. During those three weeks, I read, worked on my book, made friends with my roommate (who was also, coincidentally, pregnant with twins!), and consumed a barbaric amount of ice cream.
I would often go up to the lobby to have dinner with my partner and exchange a few words with the security guard. We settled into the new routine while my bump grew so much it became almost impossible to climb up and down the stairs.
This went on for so long that it shocked everyone (including myself) when I was released a few days before week 34, still pregnant.
I think the doctors expected me to be back for labor and delivery within a couple of days. But they had no idea how stubborn I can be. So, instead, I ended up carrying our baby warriors to full term and delivering them four weeks later, in the exact day of our planned C-section!
The day of the surgery, my body was bursting at the seams. I had avoided pretty much everyone during that last month of pregnancy.
I was big and hormonal and exhausted beyond anything I'd ever experienced in my entire life. For someone who loves scuba diving, trekking, and walking for hours while listening to a podcast or audiobook, that last month lasted an entire decade.
That is why when we finally made it to the scheduled surgery, I was both scared shitless and relieved.
That day, I woke up before my alarm clock and dragged my huge bump out of bed. By 6:30 a.m., my partner and I were sitting in a dimly lit room hearing our babies' heartbeats and feeling their powerful (and rather painful if I might add!) kicks, and, two hours later we were in the operating room, surrounded by a medical team, hearing our girls' voices for the first time!
Our twin warriors were born only one minute apart. When the pediatricians told us they were both doing great, and the midwife held their tiny cheeks to my lips, my partner and I cried. He held my hand through it all, kept me sane, happy, and safe. I could never have asked for a better person at my side to witness the start of two new precious lives.
I'd never been so relieved and in love and grateful. All those months of doubts and fears evaporated. All that ever mattered was that our girls were finally here, they were healthy, and the new life with our tiny warriors could finally begin.
That is why we never expected what happened next.
Minutes after the doctors stitched me up, the nurses brought me to the recovery room where I held our babies for the first time. There, I half-listened as the doctors explained I had lost a LOT of blood.
I didn't notice their knitted brows nor the rigidity of their posture while they told me they would keep me under close observation in the next few hours just in case. My partner and I were mesmerized by our twins and very much in love and nothing could burst that little bubble of happiness we had built around ourselves to insulate us from everything else.
But seconds later, everything changed.
Black spots popped up in my vision. The world shrunk terrifying fast. I only had time to tell my partner, “Hold the babies, I'm not okay.”
I don't remember much of what happened next. I was blind and deaf and mute. It was as if the world itself was swallowing me whole.
Hours later, I would be told that the bleeding hadn't stopped, my uterus wasn't contracting and my blood pressure had dipped dangerously low. By that point, my partner had been running on no sleep, rushing between my bedside and the nursery where the midwives and nurses spoiled our baby girls while I couldn't.
My days were marked by hours of excruciating pain and exhaustion, punctured by a few precious minutes with my partner and our two baby girls.
Modern medicine is so precious and filled with slippery slopes. Every life-saving decision is tempered with potential pitfalls. The drug that stopped the bleeding could easily form dangerous blood clots in my veins. Walking could either help me recover faster and reduce the risk of deep vein thrombosis or lead to further blood loss. The iron plunged into my veins, helping me build up my own blood supply, could also increase constipation and make post-op a living hell (ask anyone who's undergone abdominal surgery, post-op trapped gas and constipation might sound kind of silly but they can cause excruciating pain).
There was no one thing that would fix it all.
When the doctors finally allowed me to walk, my paper-white skin had turned into a proud shade of yellow. The darkness at the edge of my vision still had its sharp teeth around my neck, but there was a light there that hadn't been before.
On the evening of the second day, clinging to an intensive care nurse and my partner, I struggled to my feet.
I don't remember walking ever hurting so damn much. I don't remember needing to be held and cheered on to take my wobbly first steps. It was utter despair and supreme joy. I'll never be fully able to put it into words.
The first steps led to the first bathroom stop (a traumatic event in itself that does not deserve a space in this post). And the first bathroom stop gave me the confidence to take my first bath.
Perching on a chair, I reached for the washcloth with trembling hands as if I'd just emerged from a month-long psytrance festival. My head wobbled at the rythme of that infernal music my partner loves and plays out loud to infuriate me. I welcomed it with a throbbing migraine and a cracked smile.
The bathroom swelled and shrunk around me with the cadence of my breathing. Details coming in and out of focus, I forced myself to remove the sweat from my swollen postpartum body. For the first time since entering the hospital, I felt a bit more sane.
The night of the third day, after two transfusions and a plethora of medical interventions, the doctors released me from intensive care. By then, I was more of a shell than a person.
But it still felt like a graduation when I was gently carried to the maternity ward. In those last few minutes, I was never able to put into words how eternally grateful I was to the team who brought me back from the edge of the abyss while whispering words of strength in my ears.
Back in my room, surrounded by clothes and snacks my partner and I had packed what felt like a lifetime ago, I spent the first night ever with my family. But barely functional as I was, I could only watch as my partner changed diapers, fed the girls, and cuddled them to sleep. I could do no more than tell him I loved him, hold the girls a few minutes at a time, and focus on getting better.
I wish I could tell you that everything got easier after that, but the truth is, my road to recovery from postpartum hemorrhage2 was just about to begin.
The next days were a blur. I was told I needed to start pumping if I wanted to establish my milk supply. But also not to pump too much because I needed to focus on building up my blood supply first. I was also told that I needed to get the girls to latch on to my breast. But, at the same time, I should also get plenty of rest myself so I could heal. (And any birth parent of multiples or lactation expert will tell you how hard and tiring it is to breastfeed more than one baby... Let alone succeed in doing so after severe blood loss).
Depending on my iron and hemoglobin levels that day, I was either told to move around as much as humanly possible or to take it easy, hydrate and eat (despite everything tasting like ashes in my mouth).
And since my levels were spinning like a Ferris wheel, I could only complain while the world threw me in every possible direction, stretching me thin, thinner than I’d ever been.
I would wake up one day feeling as if I could take on every challenge, only to crash on the bed the minute after taking two bites of toast. For those first shy days, I didn't make any measurable progress, until something miraculous happened.
Day after day, I lay in bed, paper-thinned, exhausted and feeling sorry for myself, while my partner shouldered all the load of caring for our babies with a smile on his face. Then one day, an exhausted nurse stormed into our room.
I think she saw me laying there like a jelly blob and couldn't decide whether to slap me or scream at me. We started arguing straight away, of course. With my hormones all over the place and her busy schedule, I was just one more entitled patient who had overstayed her welcome.
At first.
But as her shift continued and I turned more and more into a jelly blob, something changed. It was the early evening when we last saw each other. I had somehow managed to take a another bath and she and my partner were helping me into my compression socks.
My partner cracked a few jokes (as usual), and, to our surprise, she actually laughed.
When she leaned in closer to give me my daily dose of heparin, she said. "Mom, you need to walk. You can't lay in bed for so long."
"But I'm so tired," I groaned.
"I know. I know you're tired. But you have to walk. Just 10 minutes, you'll feel better. Trust me. You'll see."
"I can't," I said with all the drama queen energy I could channel.
And instead of slapping me and calling me on my BS, she said, "You're so strong momma." She nodded towards the twins. "You birthed two babies. You're a strong woman. You can do this. Just walk. You will feel better. Just walk."
Later that evening, I was cuddling with one of the twins, staring deep into her eyes when it hit me like a bolt of lightning.
What the fuck was I doing?
You see, dear readers, I finally remembered why I wanted to be a mom in the first place. I wanted to watch these two little beans grow. I wanted to be there for them. Marvel as they conquered and dazzled the world.
In that precise moment, something shifted inside me.
Now, if this was Hollywood, you could picture me putting on my gray jumper running up and down the corridors and punching the air in front of me like Rocky Balboa, with the full weight of an orchestra following my every step.
But this was real life. So, instead, I fashioned very unflattering pair of mom diapers, white compression socks, and a hospital gown that revealed way more of my butt cheeks than I was comfortable showing.
And then I walked.
One step at a time, the world spinning around me, the clock moving impossibly slow, and a mantra in my head: I'm a powerful warrior, my body is strong.
Dear beautiful reader, thank you for sticking around until the end. This has been, by far, the most vulnerable post I ever shared.
I finished it to the sound of Bob Marley and The Wailers, the only vibe that keeps my twins and I from driving each other crazy in these early days of life.
If I have one request for you is to check on your pregnant friends, before and, especially, after birth. No matter how positive the experience, it's still a life altering event and, most of us, just need a few words of kindness to help us make it through the day. Just a simple, “How are you doing?” goes a long way.
We are more than our babies. We are fire, we are rain, we are the unsung heroes the world forgets to celebrate.
A fetal fibronectin test checks a person’s risk of preterm birth.
If you want to learn more about this condition, read: https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/22228-postpartum-hemorrhage
My dear Ana,
I didn't read it all - I confess - because of my own struggle with PCOS while trying to get pregnant with an asexual partner for five years now.
Still, I read it with caution, as you suggested. I skipped the parts that made my anxiety spike a little, always with how much I care and wish you well on my mind.
As you know well, there is that portuguese saying that tells us "The sun comes after the tempest", and I am SO relieved to know that, after all you've all been through, you will be okay, with your two miracle warriors and your so supporting partner.
I also learnt things that I will keep forever in my mind with your letter, and that is that everything in life has a right time. Everything we go through has a purpose, even though sometimes we might not know what it is yet. I will remember that and keep it close to my heart, with all the rollercoaster of feelings and thoughts I had over these past years, about myself as a woman, as a person, about my future and what is or isn't really important for me to feel happy.
Thank you for sharing, and thank you for your strengh.
Be well and best wishes,
Your friend, Ana