Bug identification

Today, I walked into the NICU and spotted a sign on the door leading into the room where my boys currently reside. It had "STOP", all big and angry with something about it not being a room for people to simply walk through.

Not totally grasping what it meant, I made a joke to the front desk. "Signs on that door are kind of scary." I thought it was hilarious until the charge nurse, who is also one of the boys' primary nurses when she's not charging, spun around in her chair at the sound of my voice.
"Has the nurse practitioner or anybody called you," she asked.
Immediately my heart began pounding. "No?"
"Nobody has called you?"
My heart stopped and dropped into my stomach. "No."
She lifted from her chair and came around the desk. "Okay. Well, we need to talk," she said and began pulling me towards a parent conference room.

I had never been in the conference room. I didn't know they had one. We've gotten some pretty bad updates at the bedside before. Good gosh, what was I about to learn that was so bad that I had to be put into a little room to learn it?
My legs turned to lead. It was a conscious effort to put one foot in front of the other. Immediately all of the worst scenarios played out in my head. My throat went dry and my heart constricted.

The fear of the worst must have registered on my face. She pat me on the back. "Oh, it's okay! Everyone's okay! We got results back on Wyatt's pneumonia and it requires him to be in isolation. He's had a good day. The isolation stuff is scary looking and we need to go over some things. I'll let the nurse practitioner know you're here and she'll update you."
I felt myself take a breath. My weighted legs nearly turned to jello. Had nobody been watching, I would have collapsed to my knees and cried with relief. I was pretty close despite the audience I would have had.

They had taken cultures of what was in Wyatt's lungs and they finally had an answer to what his pneumonia is. It wasn't the best news but it wasn't the worst news.
Wyatt has Carbapenem-resistant Enterobacteriaceae (CRE). Kind of a nasty bug that's resistant to antibiotics. There are two types. One is worse than the other. Wyatt has the better one. Finally a little bit of luck, right?
This is a bacteria that exists on our skin, in our gut, and a normal healthy person can keep it in check. Since Wyatt is premature, he doesn't have the defenses to do so.

But since it's resistant to some fairly strong antibiotics, he's been placed in isolation to prevent it from spreading to other babies, including Cameron. With the cultures, they are able to test what antibiotics will work on it and he is currently on that antibiotic.
The nurses are impressed that he doesn't seem more sick. He's one tough little boy.
I didn't get any peepers today from him, but he's been stable and the little guy needs his rest.

Now, whenever we interact with him or touch any of his things, we have to wear gloves, a gown and a mask. If we're just looking, we don't need those things. This may be for a few weeks or this may be for the entire duration of his stay.

So they're in separate rooms for now, which makes me sad. They loved being with each other in the womb and I wonder if they miss each other. The staff is working with infection disease control to see how isolated Wyatt needs to be, if his brother can be in the same room with him. They were both moved out of Room 1 today which is the most critical care room. Now they're in the low birth weight center. It's more about the ability to isolate him than suggesting they're doing much better. However, it's a bit quieter there and the lights can come down a bit which will help lessen their stress.

As for Cameron, he's doing well. He's been nice and stable and even looked for me today. They are both eating as much as they can with a PICC line in.

That's really it for now so here are some pictures because pictures are always fun:


Wyatt
(the IV on his head infiltrated which is what the bruise is. That will go away on its own)

Cameron
(some tummy time with the Cammy-cam)



Can we get a tube over here?

Cameron is intubated. He didn't take a step backward or anything. His skin started to show signs that the mask put too much pressure on him. And using the prongs was difficult because of his nose. So they couldn't give him the respiratory support he needed with the CPAP.
I spent hours today watching his saturation rates go up and down. Finally I told the nurse that I would feel better if he were intubated. He could get the oxygen he needed, his nose could heal, and he could get some rest.
Hours later, I checked back with his nurse and found they had intubated him which has cleared up his episodes. He had just finished story time (I got some voice recorders and read some Dr. Seuss so the nurses could play it for them) and is all tucked in for the night. He fell asleep to my voice reading One Fish, Two Fish.

We talked to plastic surgery today. Repairing his nose would need to wait until he's 4-6 months old. His nose may try and repair itself since he's so young but it wouldn't look the same as it did before. And any repair could take multiple surgeries. The surgeon was confident that it could be repaired though. I had turned to google and got scared while reading stories from people saying it wasn't fixable. The plan simply depends on how it heals.

Wyatt is doing well. He got a PICC line last night for his antibiotics and has been pretty stable. He was sleepy today so no peepers.

Rest up my sweet boys so you can keep fighting. Mommy and Daddy are so proud of you.

Tiny update: both boys had a great night and got lots of rest!

The 4am Teeter-Totter

At 4am, I woke up as if someone had kicked me. Nobody had done such a thing.

In the dark, I stared at my phone which was charging on my nightstand. I stared at it and expected it to ring.

It didn't.

So I decided to call the NICU to check up on my boys and found out that Cameron wasn't having a good night. He's okay, which is why they didn't call me. But he's struggling. 

I had noticed he was having more A's and B's than usual the day before and was a little bit concerned. A's and B's are when they stop breathing and their heart rate gets low. A=Apnea. B=Bradycardia. This causes their oxygen levels to fall. But the CPAP mask doesn't work as well as the prongs and can explain is increased number of A's and B's.

In the past, when he starts having more than usual, it means something is going on. Last night, the nurse was having to intervene by patting him on the back, moving him around, etc. Anything to wake him up enough to get him to remember to breathe. She's one of his primary nurses which are nurses we've asked to be assigned to each boy when they work so they get to know them well and know when something is "off" but isn't showing in labs or vitals just yet. It's an extra level of protection for my boys. 

She knows Cameron well and knows this was unusual for him. Being a small premie, the part of the brain that reminds them to breathe isn't completely developed yet. Some A's and B's are expected. 

The nurse said his caffeine dose was changed from twice a day to once a day. The caffeine helps remind them to breathe. It sounds like they'll probably go back to twice a day.

More evidence that something is going on is his HeRO score. The HeRO score is constantly calculated by his monitor and is an early indication of infection. It's based on his vital signs and goes up to 7. The lower the number, the better. Cameron has been floating around at a 3, but as of late is a 7. 

The other problem is he started to get bruising around his nose where his mask sits, a sign that his skin isn't taking the pressure of the mask. They switched him back to the prongs which scares the crap out of me because that's what damaged his nose in the first place. They positioned them carefully and the plan is to rotate him between the mask and prongs if his A's and B's settle down. If not, he may get intubated. The number of A's and B's he's been having concerns them because he's having too many. 

They took a chest x-ray and his lung expansion wasn't the greatest which is something else that may push them towards intubating him. And as a reminder, being on the ventilator damages their fragile lungs. It's always weighing the cost/benefit of each procedure or medication. There's always a downside. 

Wyatt is having a good night though. His PICC line went in nicely. He's tolerating his food. He's been stable.

They seem to teeter-totter. When one is up, the other is down. Wyatt was the one who's been down and Cameron was up. Sounds like they've decided to switch. 

I hope they figure out what's wrong with Cameron quickly. Last night was his last dose of antibiotics for an infection he's been fighting.

You can see the sore starting on his nose from the mask despite all of the foam and protective barriers they've used. Poor guy. 

I want them to be better. Just fat, happy, healthy babies in their cribs with no IVs, no tubes, no tape.

Current news

Today the Tiny But Mighty would be 28 weeks gestation and are almost three weeks old. A lot has happened in those three weeks, many ups and downs, but they're fighting like warriors and Nick and I are so proud of them.

Wyatt is currently on a ventilator. Just a few days ago, he was taken off of a machine called The Jet. As best as I understand it, it oscillates puffs of air to keep his lungs open. He's been taken off of it before then needed it again, so when they took him off this time, I noticed The Jet was still on his rack of life support. Today when I came in, it had been removed which says something about their confidence in him.
He is fighting pneumonia however. He had just gotten over some pulmonary hypertension issues only to get pneumonia which brought back a little bit of his pulmonary hypertension. His oxygen needs are low. The nitric oxide they use to treat the pulmonary hypertension is low as well, so he's doing good all things considered. He's on a 10 day course of antibiotics, possibly 14 days. He's had two 7 day courses of antibiotics and always two days after, he tanks. So this has been a stubborn thing that they're hoping just needs a longer course of medication. The poor guy had all of his IVs removed and was taking all his medications by mouth (which actually means through his feeding tube), but for the antibiotics, he needs a PICC line. This will be his second and I hate that he has to get poked so much, but it's what he needs to get better. His electrolytes looked great as well as his blood gas so they were going to wean him off of oxygen a little bit.
We can determine how good he feels by how much he looks around. When he's feeling good, he's very responsive to my voice and tries to find me. It makes my heart go pitter-pat when he does that and today he was looking for me so I know he's feeling better.
A few days ago was a different story and it was breaking my heart. I'm so happy he's back to using his sweet little peepers again.

Cameron has been doing well. His tummy has been having a hard time waking up so they've had to give him my milk over the course of an hour for him to tolerate it. But tonight, they're going up on his feeds because he's doing so well with it. They're also fortifying it (2 additional calories!) to give him a boost as he's a little behind on his weight gain. Depending on procedures and how they're doing, sometimes both have had to have feeds withheld. Since Cameron was slow to come around with feedings, he's behind.
He's also been off the ventilator for a while and is on CPAP. But we've had a setback. For reasons not clear to us yet, the CPAP prongs rubbed his nose which created a wound which then turned black. Long story short, the piece of his nose that separates it into two nostrils died and his now gone. He looks like he has one large nostril.
We are devastated. Our handsome little boy. I came home and was just about inconsolable for about 24 hours. We had prepared ourselves for health problems, but not disfigurement.
Plastic surgery has been consulted on this. Though I haven't talked to them (they're supposed to call me soon), it sounds as though he still has two nostrils and some structure is still there. The wound is healing well and not progressing. The NICU changed his CPAP to the CPAP mask so his nose can heal.
The issue with the mask is that it has to put pressure on his face which can cause his fragile skin to break down. They've got some foam and so far his skin is handling it. If his skin starts to break down, they have to intubate him. The problem with this is that the ventilator damages their lungs, can give them chronic pulmonary disease and Wyatt already shows signs of that.
The nose thing is cosmetic and would be something to fix when he's older.

I think it can be fixed.
I hope it can be.
I have a lot of questions for plastic surgery, needless to say.

Healthwise however, he's doing really well. We get to hold him, though keeping his mask sealed while doing so is proving to be a challenge. But, he can get his skin-to-skin snuggles once a day most days.
We can't wait for Wyatt to improve to the point of us being able to hold him.

And that's the difference for these very early babies. People often think they're just like full term babies, only miniaturized. But they're not.
You can't lift their bum too high while changing diapers because they can't deal with the blood pressure change.
You can't touch and talk to them as much as you want as the stimulation is too much.
You can't stroke their face to console them. If you can do skin-to-skin holding, you can't rock them, you can't pat or stroke their back. It's too much.
You can occasionally talk quietly to them. You can occasionally place your hands over their legs or body, but stay real still to simulate the womb or you'll upset them. You can change their diaper and take their temperature at 8am, 2pm, 2am, or 8pm. But that's really all the interaction we can get with them.
I want to rock them, cuddle them, kiss their sweet face, and tell them over and over how much I love them. But right now, it's not good for them.

When we visit, we spend hours just sitting and staring at them in their isolettes. We watch them sleep, watch them twitch, trying to will their health to improve. We judge their coloring, the shape of their belly. Is it bad? Is it good?
Is he comfortable? Is he okay? Will he be okay? When will they be stable enough to move out of the most critical care room?
For hours we watch their heart rate and their oxygen saturation go up and go down. We spend hours listening to alarms go off because their saturation and/or heart rate dropped too low and we watch the nurses revive them. Those alarms make our own hearts stop. We hold our breath each time. But this is all normal premie stuff.
You're constantly attached to your phone. Every noise it makes, every hour of every day...is it the NICU with bad news?
The stress is an unrelenting pressure in our chests. It tests our stamina, our sanity. But we must stay strong for our boys.

They rarely have a good day at the same time. We're almost always worried to the point of nausea about one of them. But they're fighting and doing everything we ask of them. Such tiny but mighty little boys. We're so proud of them.

Wyatt

I got to hold Wyatt for a few moments as they changed out his isolette.


Cameron

The Support

Now that the labor and delivery story is up, this blog will be more about updates on how the Tiny But Mighty boys are doing.

But before that, I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for the amount of support they've shown. 

To my friends and family,

Whether it's a kind word, cheers for my boys, asking how we're doing, advice from those who have been there, or donations to their medical funds. Thank you. 

To Nick's co-workers,

I know time he had to take off work put more on your shoulders. But you generously took that on, brought us food, brought them prayers, well wishes, and even a very special blessing. Thank you. 

To my off-road friends,

For such a tough group of people, you've made the soft spot you have for others, especially kids who are struggling no secret. From prayers, well wishes, the laughs, to donations to their medical fund, thank you. 

To my neighbors,

We moved here only a few months ago but y'all have been so generous with support. Since I've been home from the hospital, we haven't had to cook a single dinner. Y'all have provided us with nutritious, tasty meals and even some treats. That and your prayers are something we've really appreciated. Thank you.

To the NICU,
Thank you for saving my babies and for helping them fight. The care they're getting is second to none. 

We're extremely lucky to be surrounded by great people. 

Labor and Delivery, pt 3 - They arrive!

About 7pm, as if a switch was flipped, my entire stomach contracted.
We'd had a long day of testing and procedures. At 8am I was at the connected children's hospital for a fetal heart echo. They wanted a cardiologist to look at the boys' hearts because Twin to Twin Transfer Syndrome can cause heart failure, backwards blood flow, and other problems.
It was a two hour long ultrasound on a rather uncomfortable table. I was squirming by the end of it and all the pressing on my belly was causing cramps.
After that test, I went to see the Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) specialist. There, the boys got an anatomy scan and we weighed the pros and cons of an amnio reduction. Baby B, Cameron, had too much fluid and his heart had abnormalities which told them he was feeling the stress of dealing with all of the extra fluid. Since the laser surgery was off the table now, an amnio reduction was the only thing we could do for them.
The benefits I was most interested in was that some of the pressure would be relieved and blood flow in the placenta would be improved. Also, relieving some of the pressure might keep me from going into labor so easily.  As it were, I would have contractions just from brushing my teeth. This wasn't a fix, just a bandaid that would hopefully keep them in there longer.
The con, it could bring on labor. And the doctor explained that if they were born now, the odds weren't with them. Labor would be a 1-2% change.
Of course we could simply monitor them and if they stayed in, they could wait until they were so sick that they were better off out than in. That day, they were better off in.

Nick and I discussed things and chose to do the amnio reduction. We knew the risks of doing nothing and the babies did not fair well. We both were of the mind that if we lost them, we couldn't live with ourselves if we'd done nothing.
The doctor removed over a gallon of fluid from Cameron's sac and he still had plenty to spare. I had minimal cramping, less than what the ultrasounds caused. I felt better and the doctor sent me back to my room.

Then they called us back to do a biophysical profile of the boys. It was basically another ultrasound. By the time this was done, it was about 5pm. I had endured about 6 hours of ultrasounds that day, each of them causing me to cramp.

Just before 7pm, things changed. It felt as though a fist was squeezing my insides with purpose. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't like the cramps I'd been having. Three minutes later, I felt another.  Three minutes after that, another.

I called the nurse.

She gave me a sheet of paper and a pencil. I was to draw hash marks for every contraction I felt and they would determine how many per hour I was having. Thirty minutes later, I had drawn nine hash marks and the contractions were getting stronger. I had suddenly, without warning, without any slow gradual increase, leapt into having 15-20 contractions per hour.
The nurse put me on the monitor which meant she and one other nurse had to sit and hold the monitor over my babies.
Their pushing on my belly with the monitors only made the contractions worse which had now added cramping to my misery. They handed me a button to push with each contraction.
"This is worse than when I originally got here," I said to the nurse. They paged the doctor.

I kept pushing the button with each squeeze I felt. I couldn't see how I could be having these types of contractions and not be dilating.
Word came back that the doctors were in the OR or tending to other emergencies, but they'd be down as soon as they could. It wasn't the answer I wanted. Just hang the magnesium. Give me the pills that stopped this before. I couldn't have my babies now. It was too soon! Too soon!

I labored for two hours before a doctor was finally free. I had lost complete control of my body. I laid on the bed, shaking uncontrollably from pain and the anxiety of being in labor at only 25 weeks gestation. I had gone from 2.5cm to 5cm dilation. No, no, no! My nightmare was continuing. Labor was progressing. My little boys! I couldn't lose them. I'd lost two babies before these two boys. I couldn't go through this again. How would I find the strength?

The doctor decided to transfer me back to labor and delivery where I would be started on magnesium and other drugs to stop labor. But their rooms were full so I had to wait.
Meanwhile, my contractions kept getting stronger, more frequent, until they finally seemed to run together.
"This contraction won't stop," I complained, gripping the bed rails with white knuckles. They reassured that they were working on a room for me.
"I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here," my nurse said to me.
I was already experiencing pain I'd never felt before, then suddenly it ratcheted to an entirely new level. The pressure was intense. I hadn't taken any birthing classes yet. I had no idea how to deal with the pain and pressure, but I knew exactly what it meant. I clamped my knees together knowing what was coming.
"I feel like I need to push," I said through unshed tears.
"Like you need to have a bowel movement," the nurse asked.
"Yes!" I punched the plastic bed rails over and over to distract myself from the pain, from the overwhelming pressure. Please, stop. Not yet babies, it's too soon!
"Don't push," a chorus of nurses said to me.
"I know," I ground through my teeth.
The nurse caught the eye of another nurse. "Lets just take her over," she said in a decision that likely saved my babies.

The contractions were relentless. I held my knees together, fighting with every fiber to not push. I punched the bed rails, I cried out, anything to keep those babies in.  The pressure though. Oh God the pressure.

The doctor checked me again. Holding babies in while the doctor checked my cervix was a feat equal to lifting cars off of children. Everyone in the room quietly waited for the doctor's next orders. "Okay," she said to me. "You're going to have this baby vaginally."

I looked at Nick as I hugged the bed rail. A tear slipped out, "It's too soon." Too soon.

The doctor barked orders. "Call anesthesia! Get her to the OR!" It was a whirl wind of controlled chaos, but all I could focus on was not letting Wyatt come out yet. It could kill him.
With her hand still inside of me, pushing Wyatt back, she apologized for how crazy things seemed. With one hand she put on a mask. She straddled my legs as she rode on the bed with me to the OR.

Masks flying, equipment and carts wheeled about. NICU's readiness was confirmed. Somehow I managed to crawl onto the operating table without birthing Wyatt during the transfer. As I laid down on the table, I felt my water break.

Before I could contemplate that, an anesthesiologist was over me. I was breathing like I was sprinting towards a finish line. He clapped a mask over my face which seemed to pinch my nose closed, suffocating me. I wrenched it off immediately. "It's oxygen! It's good for the babies," he said and slapped it back on. For the babies, was all I needed to hear and I held it in place for him.

Lots of things happened in what seemed like an instant. And ultrasound, an IV placed, none of which I was aware of. I was simply straining to keep my body from pushing Wyatt out. I was losing the battle, but I'd fight to the bitter end. Not yet Wyatt. Not until they are ready to help you, sweet boy.

"She's obviously uncomfortable. I'm going to have her push," the doctor announced over a conversation about the IV.
A nurse appeared over me. "Push...like you're having a bowel movement. Curl your body around that baby and push."
That I did.
"Whoa! Not so fast!"
Two pushes and I hear, "We have a baby and he's trying to breathe. Lara, he's trying to cry!"
I couldn't hear his little voice, but that he was alive was enough to celebrate. He wasn't even far enough along that he should be trying to breathe. By some miracle though, he was.
I didn't even see Wyatt. NICU quickly whisked him away. Saving his life was more important than me taking a precious moment from him to see him. Besides, Cameron was next in line.

"Baby B is transverse. Prep for c-section!" Cameron was laying sideways across my cervix and couldn't come out that way.
"Take some deep breaths," the anesthesiologist said to me. At that point, I completely gave in. Things were out of my control. One baby was here, the other soon after. At that point, I really wanted to just run away from everything, something the anesthesia would give me.

It seemed to take forever for the gas to work. And it would be gas, not an epidural. They didn't have time for anything else.
He showed an assistant or nurse, maybe a resident or student, I'm not sure which, where to press on my throat to prevent me from aspirating when they put me under. I slapped his hand away and rather than argue with me, he waited until the gas did its job.

Ten minutes after Wyatt was born, Cameron came into the world. At 9:17 pm, Wyatt was born. By 9:27pm, they had me knocked out, cut open and delivered Cameron.

While I was in a tornado of activity, Nick had been dressed in scrubs and put in the recovery room. Initially, they were going to have him there. But things were moving too fast and too much was going on. It was okay because saving the babies lives was the most important. We can look at them later, if they survive.
A nurse would come in to update him and even took pictures of the boys. But during all of this, Nick mostly stared at a wall. All he could do was hope, pray, everyone would be okay.

Slowly the anesthesia haze lifted and I came to. Unfortunately, the anesthesia wears off faster than the pain meds kick in and I found myself in as much pain as when I was in labor.
Nick says I was nice about it though. I would wave my hand over my stomach as if I were casting a magic spell and give a pitiful sounding, "Hurts." I would learn later that having a c-section after a vaginal delivery is about as painful as it gets.

They connected the dilaudid pump plus a few other pain meds. I struggled to keep my eyes forward as we got updates from the NICU, from doctors, from social workers. The boys were still hanging in there.

My night was not done though. As soon as I was concious, they began "uterine massage". Every hour, someone would come in to press on my stomach to help get the uterus to shrink back down and clamp off any bleeding. Ugh!

After I had recovered, they wheeled me back towards the OB floor. But we made one important stop at the NICU and I met my two precious boys.

Labor and Delivery, pt 2

Either by design or by mistake, the large rectangular window near me on the helicopter was just out of my view. All I could use was the lower corner closest to me but my view was mostly of the night sky. The sun had long gone leaving no color to the sky. Pitch black cloaked the mountains and I could see a few twinkling city lights if the helicopter tipped enough. I stared at what were light grey walls in the dark, watching medical equipment swing with the movement of the helicopter and feeling a constant vibration I assume comes with every helicopter. It's not a floaty feeling like an airplane. It's kind of a grit your teeth and hope the thing holds together feeling. Someone had a flashlight they'd turn on I assume to look at me, IV medications, or other necessary things. Occasionally, objects swirled together as tears filled my eyes. I managed to blink them back, but the weight of the situation still pressed on my chest, on my heart. My babies.  Please protect my babies.

The pilot expertly navigated the brick-turned-bird to the hospital and we swooped down, circled, and then landed with a gentle thud. Except for the flight nurse asking if I was okay, everyone was quiet while the helicopter powered down. 

Cool air skipped across my face as the door opened. As gently as they could, they unloaded me and wheeled me into Labor and Delivery. I was helped into a hospital bed in my own room with a closed window to my left that I'd learn later was not to the outside, but was to the NICU. My room became busy with activity similar to the last hospital. They confirmed information from me, they got my side of the story. They took vitals, checked medications, asked how I was feeling. 

"I'm okay," I said to them. Things had calmed down at least. I wasn't in any pain, just somewhat scared.

The doctor soon came in, introducing himself as a resident and telling me who his attending physician was. He asked my side of the story, checked if I had dilated anymore, which I hadn't. Then the nurses came at me with that blasted monitor.

We hadn't given the babies names yet and so they were referred to as "Baby A" and "Baby B". Baby A earned his letter by being the one closest to my cervix. He was also what is called the "donor" with their Twin to Twin Transfer Syndrome. His fluid levels were much lower than Baby B who essentially had an Olympic sized swimming pool to float around in. This would cause me and the nurses much grief.

The nurse applied gel to my stomach and, with a disc attached to a cord, slid it around my stomach, hunting for Baby B. With each press of the disc, I could feel the cramping start. I knew they needed to check a heart beat on them, but I was slowly trying to scoot out from under them with my behind. 

As soon as they'd get a heart beat on Baby B, he'd swim away to another part of my abdomen. And while he darted every direction, poor Baby A was pinned to the wall of my uterus by Baby B's insane amount of fluid. They could usually find Baby A fairly easily. And if they got two heartbeats, there was always a discussion of whether or not they have two babies on the monitor or if they were capturing the same baby.

After an hour of torture and cramping due to my belly being pushed on, they called in the doctor who did an ultrasound to find Baby B. And even with the ultrasound, they couldn't catch him. The doctor could see him, the nurse would put the disc on my stomach, and then Baby B would swish away, applying a well aimed kick to the disc to confirm just who was in charge.

I was trying to find a happy place as I had about had enough when the doctor said, "Well, we have them on sono and they're happy with a good heart beat. So lets just monitor them by ultrasound."

And so was the routine for the next several days. I'd take medication, they'd check on the babies, I was ordered to stay in bed and to let them know if I needed to go to the bathroom. Once they were certain that I wasn't about to deliver at any moment, they sent me to the regular OB floor. This is where I would stay until a fetal heart echo could be done on the babies and a Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) specialist could see me.

And so I relaxed, took medicine, ate, and tried to get some rest. They even talked about sending me home. It was a good few days until 7pm on a Tuesday night after a long day of tests. 

I worked in an Emergency Department and often rolled my eyes at the drama television injected into their medical shows. I had never seen anything unfold the way it did that night, the night my boys were born, except on TV.