She nods, wiping at her face. “Okay.”
Dr. Harmon rubs her arm. “You’ve done amazing, and with twins, the fact that you labored at all is rare. You should be proud of yourself and your body. Now we’re just going to help get your babies here safely. Okay?
Megan nods, wiping her hand under her eye. My heart is breaking for her, but I’m very confident in the doctor. I know that doesn’t mean Megan’s going to be any less upset about it, and that’s okay.
“How long will it take?” Megan asks, voice steadying out.
“We’ll get you prepped and into the OR within the next fifteen minutes.”
Megan nods again, like she’s completely fine with it, but it’s hard to believe her with the tears running down her face.
Dr. Harmon and the nurse leave to give us a minute, and so they can get things prepped.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling Megan into me as much as I can with all the wires and monitors.
“It’s gonna be fine,” I tell her.
“I feel like I wasted so much time and energy just to end up with a C-section.”
My jaw clenches and I swallow. “I can understand why you feel that way. And I’m sorry. But just think…we’ll get to meet them sooner now.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And their birthdays will for sure be on Valentine’s Day.” I point to the clock, it’s after midnight. Megan smiles. She had joked about it on the way here.
I hug her once more, and just a few seconds later nurses come in, and everything else happens so fast.
Consent forms. Instructions I barely process.
One of them hands me a suit thing—light blue, sterile—with a mask and cap.
And waiting outside the OR while they get her prepped might be the longest moments of my life. The nerves, the anxiety, the excitement, the fear, everything hits me all at once,loud.
When I walk in, it’s bright and cold and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. There’s a lot of people, machines; everything’s bright and sterile.
Megan’s lying on the table, arms stretched out straight, blue drape across her middle, face pale under the lights.
I cross the room and sit in the chair beside her head.
“Hey,” I say, running my thumb over her forehead.
She looks at me, eyes wide. “I’m so scared.”
“Don’t be. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The anesthesiologist leans over, explaining something about the spinal block, but I’m not listening. I’m watching Megan’s face, hoping she doesn’t pass out and miss them being born.
“Alright, you’re going to feel some pressure,” Dr. Harmon’s voice carries over the sounds of instruments and monitors. “No pain. Just pressure.”
Megan nods. “Okay.”
I can see the worry in her face, her eyes, her coloring. My heart is racing.
“Look at me,” I tell her. “Just keep looking at me.”
She does. And time passes. It feels like hours but it’s only minutes. But then, all of a sudden, there’s a lot of movement and a sharp, furious cry.
“First baby!” Dr. Harmon announces, her voice bright. “Two eleven a.m.”
