Megan’s been asleep for a few hours.
I haven’t moved from the chair beside her bed, watching the monitors, watching her breathe, watching the contraction lines spike and fall on the screen even though she can’t feel them anymore.
The epidural was a good decision. Watching her in pain like that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to watch. And I’ve seen a lot of things.
Megan stirs about twenty minutes later, blinking slowly, disoriented.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning forward. “How you feel?”
“I feel pressure, just on my right side.” She smooths her hand down the right side of her stomach.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. Not nearly as bad but…uncomfortable.” She shifts, wincing slightly.
Right on cue, the door opens again and a nurse steps in with Dr. Harmon close behind, both of them smiling.
“How are we doing in here?” the nurse asks.
“Good,” Megan says through a breath. “Pressure on my side.”
“That’s normal,” the nurse nods, glancing at the monitor. “You’re on your side, so it’s not evenly distributed. Your contractions are closer together now.”
Dr. Harmon pulls on her gloves and moves to check Megan.
“You’re at eight centimeters,” she says a moment later. “Almost there.”
Megan’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really. I’m just gonna feel their positions again, make sure they’re still head down.”
She places her hands on Megan’s stomach, feeling, pressing lightly, focusing, thinking. Moving from one side to the other. She looks at the nurse, and the nurse then heads to the door, no words exchanged, like she knows exactly what the doctor’s telling her. I straighten, but Megan doesn’t seem to catch on.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“She’s going to grab the ultrasound machine. I want to double check. Baby B feels like she moved and it’s hard to tell exactly how she’s laying now.”
Megan’s color drains, and I step closer, slipping my hand into hers.
Before she can say anything, the nurse wheels the ultrasound machine in, and Dr. Harmon spreads the gel on Megan’s belly and starts moving the wand around. The nurse stays standing close by, eyeing the screen too.
I watch both their faces as she adjusts the wand, her expression focused. “Baby A is still head down, which is perfect. But Baby B…” She pauses again. “She’s transverse now.”
Megan’s grip loosens in mine, but I don’t let it fall out. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can’t safely deliver vaginally,” Dr. Harmon says carefully. “We need to do a C-section.”
Megan lays her head back and closes her eyes. “Why?” she whines, “Why did she move? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, Megan. You didn’t do anything wrong. Babies move. It’s completely normal. Very common with twins.”
Tears start streaming down her face. “But I really didn’t want a C-section. I—”
I squeeze her hand, cutting her off gently. “They know you didn’t, Meg. But this is what she’s saying needs to happen, so we’re going to trust her, right?”
Megan looks at me, eyes red, chin trembling.
“Right?” I repeat, still gentle.
