Chapter 29
Zita
The pain starts at three in the morning, pulling me from sleep with an intensity that’s different from the false contractions I’ve been experiencing for weeks.
This isn’t the uncomfortable tightening that Dr. Kozlova warned me about but a sharp, demanding pain that makes me gasp and clutch the sheets while my body prepares for something I’m not ready for.
“Tigran.” I shake his shoulder, trying to keep panic out of my voice even though we’re still two weeks away from the target delivery date. “Something’s happening.”
He’s instantly alert. “What kind of something?”
“Labor.” The word comes out between contractions that are already closer together than they should be for early labor. “Real labor, not practice contractions.”
Within minutes, he sweeps me from our bedroom in the Wisconsin estate to the birthing room that doubles as an operating room in the medical wing.
Dr. Kozlova appears from her private suite here, followed by the team of specialists we’ve had living on the property for the past month.
The rotating shift of neonatal nurses and pediatric doctors that Tigran hired several weeks ago mobilizes with the efficiency of a military operation.
“How far apart are the contractions?” She checks her watch while a nurse, Patricia, begins taking my vital signs.
“Three minutes.” I can barely speak through the latest wave of pain. “They started ten minutes ago.”
The doctor performs a quick examination while the medical team prepares equipment around us.
The room already looks like a proper surgical suite, with monitors for six babies, backup power systems, and the sterile field being established by nurses Maria and Jennifer. The NICU is in the room next door.
“Your cervix is already dilated to six centimeters.” Her announcement carries concern. “This is progressing very quickly for a multiple birth.”
“What does that mean?” Tigran asks, and his hand tightens around mine.
“It means we need to do a cesarean section immediately.” Dr. Kozlova signals to Dr. Wu and Dr. Romano, the surgical and pediatric specialists on rotation.
“With sextuplets at thirty weeks, vaginal delivery presents too many risks—cord prolapse, placental abruption, and positional complications with each subsequent birth. The safest option is surgical delivery.”
I tremble. I was expecting a C-section, but it was planned for two weeks from now. It was going to be carefully controlled in a relaxed environment, not in a rush due to an emergency. “How long do we have?” I manage to ask between contractions that are still coming hard and fast.
“We need to get you into surgery within the next thirty minutes.” Dr. Kozlova’s voice remains calm but firm. “You’re progressing rapidly, and we can’t risk waiting any longer.”
The next half hour becomes a blur of preparation.
The anesthesiologist, Dr. Singh, arrives and begins explaining the spinal block while nurses prep my abdomen and insert an IV line.
Tigran changes into surgical scrubs, and his movements are precise despite the tension radiating from every line of his body.
“I’m scared.” I admit this to him while Dr. Singh positions me for the spinal injection. “What if something goes wrong? What if the babies aren’t ready?”
“We’ll handle it.” Tigran holds my shoulders steady while the anesthesiologist works. “We’re a formidable team.”
The spinal block takes effect quickly, spreading numbness from my chest down through my legs. It’s a strange sensation. I still feel the pressure of contractions, but the sharp pain disappears and gets replaced by a disturbing awareness that I can’t move or feel anything below my ribs.
“Can you feel this?” Dr. Kozlova tests the anesthesia with something sharp against my abdomen. I can see it on the mirror on the ceiling that Tigran had installed when I said I wanted to watch their births, but I can’t feel it.
“No.” The word comes out shakily. “I can’t feel anything.”
“Perfect.” She nods to her surgical team while Patricia positions a sterile drape to block my view of the incision site. I can still view through the mirror if I want, but the idea is suddenly less appealing. “We’re ready to begin.”
Tigran sits beside my head, and he holds tightly to my hand. There’s fear in his expression despite his controlled demeanor. It’s the same fear that’s making my heart race against the monitors.
“Talk to me.” I need his voice to anchor me while the surgical team works behind the drape. “Tell me something.”
“I’m thinking about the nursery.” His voice stays steady even though his hand trembles slightly. “I can’t believe we spent three weeks debating paint colors and furniture arrangements.”
“You wanted gray.” I focus on his words instead of the strange tugging sensations I can feel but not interpret. “I wanted cream.”
“We compromised on both.” The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Three cribs in each color.”
“You’re feeling pressure now.” Dr. Kozlova announces from behind the drape. “That’s normal during the procedure.”
The pressure intensifies, becoming a sensation of pulling and shifting that my numbed nerves can’t fully process. I hear the medical team communicating in quiet, efficient voices while equipment beeps steadily around us.
Then a baby cries.
The sound pierces through my fear, high-pitched, indignant, and absolutely perfect. Dr. Romano appears beside the drape holding a tiny infant wrapped in warming blankets.
“Your first son.” He announces while showing us the baby’s face for just a moment before carrying him to the first warming station. “He’s a good size for thirty weeks, with a strong cry, and excellent color.”
“Mikhail.” I whisper the name while tears stream down my face. “That’s Mikhail.”
Another cry joins the first within minutes, then another.
The surgical team works fastidiously. Dr. Romano and Dr. Wu move between warming stations, performing rapid assessments while nurses Patricia, Maria, and Jennifer monitor vital signs and remain ready to begin immediate interventions if needed.
“The second baby is a girl.” Dr. Kozlova’s voice carries satisfaction. “Strong and active.”
“Anastasia.” Tigran’s hand tightens around mine. “Our daughter.”
The babies come quickly after that. Viktor is third, then Natalia fourth, Claude is fifth, and each one gets announced with clinical efficiency by the surgical team. Each cry adds to the chorus filling the operating room, offering proof that our children are alive, breathing, and fighting.
“Last baby.” Dr. Kozlova works behind the drape for what feels like an eternity. I sneak a peek but quickly look away at the sight of all that blood. “This one was tucked way up under your ribs.”
Isabella’s cry comes softer than her siblings’, but Dr. Romano assures us it’s strong enough.
“This is your final daughter. She’s an excellent size and good respiratory effort.
” “Six babies delivered,” Dr. Kozlova announces, raising her voice.
“All showing good initial vital signs. Surgical team, let’s close up so Mom can see her children properly. ”
The next twenty minutes pass in a haze of sensations I can feel but not fully understand from the tugging of sutures, the pressure of hands on my abdomen, and the quiet efficiency of the surgical team working to repair what they’ve opened.
Meanwhile, in the next room, cordoned off by a glass wall that allows me to see the babies the whole time, six warming stations glow with heat lamps while medical staff works on them.
“Can I see them?” My voice sounds desperate even to my own ears. “Please, I need to see them.”
“Give them just a few more minutes to stabilize everyone,” says Dr. Kozlova. “I still need to finish up here. You can be sure they’re all doing remarkably well for thirty weeks, but the NICU staff will need to make sure airways are clear and temperatures are regulated.”
Tigran stands, moving to where he can see the babies better through the glass while staying close enough for me to maintain contact with him. His face transforms when he looks at each warming station in turn.
“They’re perfect.” His voice breaks slightly on the words. “All six of them. So small, but perfect.”
The door separating the rooms opens as Patricia moves away from the operating table.
Clearly, Dr. Kozlova no longer needs her assistance.
She pauses in the doorway to confer with the staff in the NICU room, leaving the door open when she turns back to us.
“Weights are coming in. Baby A is three pounds two ounces. Baby B is two pounds fifteen ounces. Baby C is three pounds even. Baby D is two pounds twelve ounces. Baby E is a whopping three pounds four ounces, and Baby F is three pounds one ounce.”
The numbers mean our children are small but appropriate for their gestational age. They aren’t tiny enough to cause immediate alarm but premature enough to require the specialized care for which we’ve prepared.
“All done.” Dr. Kozlova steps back and smiles down at me over the draped partition. “The surgery went perfectly. Blood loss is minimal, and the uterus is contracting well with no complications. That’s going to hurt for a few days though, since it was expanded well beyond normal limits.”
I nod, recalling reading about that in a book I bought about multiple pregnancies. “When can I hold them?” I’m desperate for contact and proof that they’re real, mine, and safe.
“Very soon.” Dr. Romano calls that out from the NICU room, and it carries through the open door.
He appears to be finishing his assessment of Viktor.
“We need to get them into their incubators first and get CPAP masks on a few who need respiratory support, but then we can bring them to you one at a time. After you’re recovered enough, you can sit in here with them. ”