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Our beautiful daughters
Ivy Elisabeth Clare + Violet Grace Lucille
ACT I Scene 1
28th August 2008 - As per usual, Ailsa and I met at the hospital for her 28 week scan (mothers of multiples are usually scanned every fortnight or so during the last third of their pregnancy). Having had several scans in the previous months, the novelty was wearing off, and - with the babies growing - it was much harder for Ailsa and I to understand what we were seeing on the scan pictures ('is that a head or a toe?' etc)...
As usual, we waited for half an hour or so to see the Consultant after the scan. They usually just get Ailsa's name wrong and then remind us that we're expecting twins - not today! - Mr Consultant drew us a little graph, illustrating that Twin II had over taken Twin I in size and that they were both rather on the small side anyway... "Some Steroids methinks" said he, "...will help their little lungs grow, just in case they need to come out early - but worry not! it's just a precaution..." and Ailsa was prescribed and injected etc etc. This was, of course, concerning for us, but the consultant had been very reassuring - if in the unlikely circumstance they had to come out (of the womb) early, it would be a much safer option than leaving them in.
Scene 2
1st September 2008 - 'White rabbits!' - the start of a new month, and what did we both say? - "Oh just think, if the babies come a few weeks early, well, it could be next month!" ....... the moment of jinx perhaps?
Because of the Consultant's concerns , the hospital wanted the babies' heart rates monitored twice a week. Ailsa went to hospital, I went to work ... "The twins' hearts are fine."
Scene 3
4th September 2008 - Ailsa and I were getting on with our usual Thursday morning routine: I went off to the Chaplaincy, Ailsa did her pregnant-Ailsa things (mostly knitting, making birthday cards and being generally very well organised).
13:50 We met at the hospital again, had the babies' hearts monitored again, had a scan again, waited to see the consultant again and then the last thing in the world that we expected to happen, happened: the consultant said we had to get them out. Somehow, the very clever scan people with their very clever machines, realised that Twin I was resisting blood flow from the placenta, a condition that if left could cause serious problems for the little baby. They had to come out - and soon!
.......
ACT II Scene 1
c 16:00 It was important to keep monitoring the babies' heart rates so back Ailsa went onto a machine. In the mean time, Mr Consultant was busy making phone calls. Ideally, he was hoping we could be transfered to Preston - Preston was full. Hmmm, Bolton? Salford? Manchester? By the time we'd been given a room in the Delivery Ward and a soul-saving cup of tea, the consultant had left the 'cot-bureau' looking for a suitable place to be transfered to... so far it wasn't looking great - Lancashire was full, the North West in general was full, even Yorkshire became a possibility (a return to the family roots perhaps?)...
nightime in the (surprisingly comfortable, en-suite) delivery suite room was notably vacant of much sleep. Earlier, Ailsa's sister (a midwife in training) and parents came up and spent the evening with us, helping us sort out stuff that needed doing, feeding us etc etc (we'd have been in a real mess without them), and the babies had another half an hour of heart-monitoring.
A very kind and gentle nurse from the neonatal unit, a place that meant nothing to us, came and told us about the care premature babies would receive either here or wherever we might end up. We looked through some literature and a ring-binder of photos, then were taken on a late-night tour of the unit. It was surreal, absolutely surreal, utterly and incredibly surreal to find our selves walking round a hospital ward for tiny and poorly children at 11:30pm on a Thursday evening, not quite convinced that we weren't in fact dreaming...
It was an odd night, to say the very least. I've been reading an Eco novel about a chap who was shipwrecked onto another ship - it took me a good four hours to read two pages and another two hours to say half a rosary. My mind was a mush:
Scene 2
5th September 2008 - we had shared a few hours sleep between us, and in time the long night had passed, and eventually, Ailsa's 6am light-breakfast arrived. She had to fast after this in preparation for the (pending) operation (it was comforting to think we weren't the only ones in Lancaster preparing to fast).
The babies were back on the monitor straight away, beating away the slow minutes as we waited for the sonographers and other members of staff to clock on...
Scene 3
9:00 came and passed, and eventually we were taken to the familiar ultrasound room where, I just knew, we'd be told that there was nothing to worry about, to pack up and go home... but of course this wasn't the case today...
This is when the penny dropped.
Scene 4
Back we were taken to the same room, our same bags and stuff all over the place, the same cups and pillows and handkerchiefs where we'd left them. Nothing had changed at all, yet everything had changed completely.
The consultant came again and confirmed the circumstances... he had decided that the situation couldn't be left as it was any longer, we couldn't wait for the cot-bureau to transfer us elsewhere, so this was it, he was going to operate today, this afternoon, here in the Infirmary, today, here, in a few hours.
Ailsa needed to give her consent for the operation - the details and potential risks were unpleasant to listen to- and for the first time it really struck me that my wife was having a serious operation, standard though it was, which had potentially damaging risks.
My whole immediate family was there in that one body. Without that particular collection and order of matter and energy, I would not be who I am, and my children would not be at all - Ailsa was and is, to use that stodgy yet poignant cliché, my other half. Pursuing that mathematically dubious image (and never forgetting our miscarried child, Niamh) the space occupied by Ailsa at that moment in this space-time-continuum-we-call-existence consisted of my other three fifths (60%).
But seriously, I think this was the point when my latent worry eclipsed the surreality and angst overwhelmed any feeling of excitement. Luckily, this is why God invented adrenaline.
Scene 5
We were joined by Ailsa's sister and then her parents and we were all shifted with all our stuff to a larger room nearer the theatre. The anesthetist came, several nurses and midwives came, the consultant came and eventually, after a long, long, long two hours, we were prepared for the operation. It was to start at 13:30 and last about an hour. Ailsa had to wear a gown, I had to put on these sterile scrubs (and these plastic shoes that had clearly been well exposed to previous operations) and we had our photograph taken...
As usual, we waited for half an hour or so to see the Consultant after the scan. They usually just get Ailsa's name wrong and then remind us that we're expecting twins - not today! - Mr Consultant drew us a little graph, illustrating that Twin II had over taken Twin I in size and that they were both rather on the small side anyway... "Some Steroids methinks" said he, "...will help their little lungs grow, just in case they need to come out early - but worry not! it's just a precaution..." and Ailsa was prescribed and injected etc etc. This was, of course, concerning for us, but the consultant had been very reassuring - if in the unlikely circumstance they had to come out (of the womb) early, it would be a much safer option than leaving them in.
Scene 2
1st September 2008 - 'White rabbits!' - the start of a new month, and what did we both say? - "Oh just think, if the babies come a few weeks early, well, it could be next month!" ....... the moment of jinx perhaps?
Because of the Consultant's concerns , the hospital wanted the babies' heart rates monitored twice a week. Ailsa went to hospital, I went to work ... "The twins' hearts are fine."
Scene 3
4th September 2008 - Ailsa and I were getting on with our usual Thursday morning routine: I went off to the Chaplaincy, Ailsa did her pregnant-Ailsa things (mostly knitting, making birthday cards and being generally very well organised).
13:50 We met at the hospital again, had the babies' hearts monitored again, had a scan again, waited to see the consultant again and then the last thing in the world that we expected to happen, happened: the consultant said we had to get them out. Somehow, the very clever scan people with their very clever machines, realised that Twin I was resisting blood flow from the placenta, a condition that if left could cause serious problems for the little baby. They had to come out - and soon!
.......
ACT II Scene 1
c 16:00 It was important to keep monitoring the babies' heart rates so back Ailsa went onto a machine. In the mean time, Mr Consultant was busy making phone calls. Ideally, he was hoping we could be transfered to Preston - Preston was full. Hmmm, Bolton? Salford? Manchester? By the time we'd been given a room in the Delivery Ward and a soul-saving cup of tea, the consultant had left the 'cot-bureau' looking for a suitable place to be transfered to... so far it wasn't looking great - Lancashire was full, the North West in general was full, even Yorkshire became a possibility (a return to the family roots perhaps?)...
nightime in the (surprisingly comfortable, en-suite) delivery suite room was notably vacant of much sleep. Earlier, Ailsa's sister (a midwife in training) and parents came up and spent the evening with us, helping us sort out stuff that needed doing, feeding us etc etc (we'd have been in a real mess without them), and the babies had another half an hour of heart-monitoring.
A very kind and gentle nurse from the neonatal unit, a place that meant nothing to us, came and told us about the care premature babies would receive either here or wherever we might end up. We looked through some literature and a ring-binder of photos, then were taken on a late-night tour of the unit. It was surreal, absolutely surreal, utterly and incredibly surreal to find our selves walking round a hospital ward for tiny and poorly children at 11:30pm on a Thursday evening, not quite convinced that we weren't in fact dreaming...
It was an odd night, to say the very least. I've been reading an Eco novel about a chap who was shipwrecked onto another ship - it took me a good four hours to read two pages and another two hours to say half a rosary. My mind was a mush:
- are my babies in pain right now?
- are my babies safe to come out?
- I can't wait to hold my daughters!
- will my babies be OK when they come out?
- is my wife going to cope with surgery?
- can I cope with my wife in surgery?
- wow, I'm going to see my daughters tomorrow!
- am I happy? Am I scared? Am I nervous???
Scene 2
5th September 2008 - we had shared a few hours sleep between us, and in time the long night had passed, and eventually, Ailsa's 6am light-breakfast arrived. She had to fast after this in preparation for the (pending) operation (it was comforting to think we weren't the only ones in Lancaster preparing to fast).
The babies were back on the monitor straight away, beating away the slow minutes as we waited for the sonographers and other members of staff to clock on...
Scene 3
9:00 came and passed, and eventually we were taken to the familiar ultrasound room where, I just knew, we'd be told that there was nothing to worry about, to pack up and go home... but of course this wasn't the case today...
This is when the penny dropped.
Scene 4
Back we were taken to the same room, our same bags and stuff all over the place, the same cups and pillows and handkerchiefs where we'd left them. Nothing had changed at all, yet everything had changed completely.
The consultant came again and confirmed the circumstances... he had decided that the situation couldn't be left as it was any longer, we couldn't wait for the cot-bureau to transfer us elsewhere, so this was it, he was going to operate today, this afternoon, here in the Infirmary, today, here, in a few hours.
Ailsa needed to give her consent for the operation - the details and potential risks were unpleasant to listen to- and for the first time it really struck me that my wife was having a serious operation, standard though it was, which had potentially damaging risks.
My whole immediate family was there in that one body. Without that particular collection and order of matter and energy, I would not be who I am, and my children would not be at all - Ailsa was and is, to use that stodgy yet poignant cliché, my other half. Pursuing that mathematically dubious image (and never forgetting our miscarried child, Niamh) the space occupied by Ailsa at that moment in this space-time-continuum-we-call-existence consisted of my other three fifths (60%).
But seriously, I think this was the point when my latent worry eclipsed the surreality and angst overwhelmed any feeling of excitement. Luckily, this is why God invented adrenaline.
Scene 5
We were joined by Ailsa's sister and then her parents and we were all shifted with all our stuff to a larger room nearer the theatre. The anesthetist came, several nurses and midwives came, the consultant came and eventually, after a long, long, long two hours, we were prepared for the operation. It was to start at 13:30 and last about an hour. Ailsa had to wear a gown, I had to put on these sterile scrubs (and these plastic shoes that had clearly been well exposed to previous operations) and we had our photograph taken...
Costumes on; theatre awaits; the curtain is ready to rise.Friday 5th September 2008 : 1315
...
(More to come when I have time!)
Violet Grace Lucille
Ivy Elisabeth Clare
Violet's first cuddle with mummy - breathing without assistanceSunday 7th September 2008
