Once all of the paperwork was filled out, I was taken back alone to be weighed. I had gained another three pounds in the span of just a few days, all fluid from the Twin to Twin Transfer Syndrome (TTTS) affecting my babies. Ugh, it was progressing, the surgery is supposed to fix it, but now we had a complication on our hands with the spotting.
I mentally collected myself. Lots of women have spotting and it turns out to be nothing. I had read. Right?
They whisked me away to a room. Nick followed closely. Nurses, patient care techs, they all came in strapping things on me, taking measurements, asking questions, getting me into a gown. A flurry of activity that stole my thoughts. I wasn't thinking at that point, just giving myself over to the medical professionals and simply being.
The doctor came in and introduced himself. He was one of the doctors in my doctor's group. I had never met him, he'd never met me. But he would later work some miracles which I feel is a big part of why my two boys have a chance.
After introducing himself, he tells me he has to look and to assume the position. All of the cramping intensified during his exam, as the nurse had promised. But his findings drove fear into my heart. "You're dilated 2-1/2 centimeters and 80 percent effaced."
What?
He looked concerned.
I got really concerned.
"The baby's head is right there," he murmured to the nurse who had been running a monitor over my belly, pushing way too hard, trying to get my babies' heart beats. I would learn to hate the monitor.
He ordered a lot of medications, some of which he promised will make me feel horrible, "but it would help to stop labor."
Labor? Excuse me? I was only 24 weeks! How could I be in labor!! I was walking around just an hour ago! No, no! I was supposed to have surgery and give birth ten or twelve weeks later to two healthy baby boys. This wasn't happening! This couldn't be happening! Why was this happening?
They started an IV and bag after bag was hung and connected to my arm. I swallowed four giant pills of the same medication, some sort of super Ibuprofen. It and magnesium would try and stop labor.
About 30 minutes later, the general discomfort began to ease. I wasn't cramping as much but I did feel the hot flash brought on by the magnesium. Things started to settle, or so I had convinced myself.
The doctor returned, asked how I was feeling.
"Better," I said and he gave a passive nod.
"We need to transfer you because if these kids come, they'll need a NICU with higher level care. I need to make some calls. Let me check you again."
Luckily, labor hadn't progressed and the doctor left to make his phone calls.
The doctor returned again. "I can't get you transferred to the hospital I wanted because their NICU is full. But we have a second option. I'll work on that." I still couldn't process what was happening. Were the babies going to come tonight? And at a hospital that wasn't the first choice? Why was everything suddenly going so wrong?
I can't remember why, but Nick had to run home and the nurse confirmed that he had time. A few minutes after Nick left, the doctor returned.
"I got you in to the first hospital. The helicopter will be here in about thirty to forty five minutes."
"Helicopter," I asked. My eyes about fell out of my head. I had figured I'd go by ambulance.
"Yes. The hospital is a forty five minute drive from here and if those babies come in the ambulance, they won't survive. So you're going by air," he said.
I text Nick:

"What about Seattle," I asked.
"You're not going to Seattle," the doctor said.
I let my head fall back against the pillow. Did I say a prayer? I don't know. I was too stunned to even cry.
The flight crew arrived to the room just before Nick did. They asked questions, took information from the hospital staff. I was instructed to lay on my side. They wrapped a sheet around me to protect my dignity and strapped me down onto their gurney. Buckles and straps went all over me, clinking and clacking together, buckling with a snick. The crew was extremely polite and kept conversation light.
The hospital doors slid open and the cool air hit me. Lights slid across the shiny paint of the red and white helicopter as they pushed me towards it. As an EMT, I had sent a patient by helicopter, totally unaware of the impact it would have had on my patient.
I was the patient now and as they slid me into the back, it finally began to dawn on me just how serious this was. My babies' lives were in jeopardy. I wanted Nick there with me.
As the helicopter whirred to life, my eyes filled with tears and my chest heaved. Please, baby boys. Stay put.
But I would quickly learn that I had absolutely no control over the situation.
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