Chapter 29 #2
The transfer from operating table to recovery bed happens smoothly, and my numb body gets moved by skilled hands while the medical team continues working around us.
The room we’re wheeled into is the recovery suite adjacent to the NICU.
The space also has a large glass wall designed specifically for this moment, allowing me to see the babies while still receiving post-surgical care.
This perspective offers a different angle from the OR, and I can see more of the babies now.
Six incubators line the far wall, and each one is a high-tech cocoon of warmth and monitoring equipment.
Nurses move between them, adjusting oxygen levels and checking vital signs while the babies adjust to their new environment.
“Mikhail first.” Dr. Romano carefully lifts our oldest son from his incubator, supporting his tiny head while navigating the tangle of monitoring wires. “He’s on CPAP for respiratory support, so you can’t hold him against your chest, but you can touch him.”
He places Mikhail in the crook of my arm, this impossibly small person with dark hair and features that are unmistakably Tigran’s.
The CPAP mask covers most of his face, delivering pressurized air to help his premature lungs, but I can see his little closed eyelids moving and his tiny fingers curling reflexively.
“Hi, baby.” I touch his hand with one finger, marveling at how complete he is despite being so small. “I’m your mama. You’re safe now.”
Tigran leans over us both, and his finger joins mine against Mikhail’s palm. Our son’s hand closes around our fingers with surprising strength, causing my chest to ache.
“He knows us.” Tigran’s voice carries wonder. “He’s been listening to our voices for months.”
“He’s been waiting to meet you.” Dr. Romano smiles while monitoring Mikhail’s oxygen saturation. “They all have.”
One by one, the medical team brings each baby to me for brief visits—Anastasia with her delicate features and surprisingly strong grip, Viktor who’s the smallest but most active, Natalia whose cry is the loudest despite her size, Claude who opens his beautiful dark irises to study my face with startling awareness, and finally Isabella, our youngest, who seems the most peaceful.
“They’re all stable.” Dr. Kozlova reviews the monitoring data with satisfaction a few minutes later.
“We had to provide respiratory support for four of them, but that’s expected at thirty weeks.
There are no signs of major complications for the moment.
There’ve been no brain bleeds on the preliminary scans, hearts are functioning well, and digestive systems are immature but developing appropriately. ”
“What happens now?” I ask while nurses settle each baby back into their individual incubators.
“They grow.” She gestures to the sophisticated monitoring equipment surrounding each baby.
“They’ll need to stay in NICU care for at least six weeks and probably longer.
They need to reach certain milestones, including breathing without assistance, maintaining body temperature, feeding consistently, and reaching four pounds minimum weight before they’ll be out of here. ”
The reality of the next several weeks settles over me.
Our children will be confined to this room by medical necessity, growing stronger in their artificial wombs while we wait anxiously for each small milestone that will bring them closer to getting out.
At least we have the blessing of the NICU here at the house.
The afternoon grows dimmer outside the windows, as I recover in the post-op room before being moved to a fourth room adjoining the whole suite.
This one is a bedroom with a hospital bed and other items I might need during my recovery, again with a window that lets me watch my tiny babies inside their incubators.
Each one gets monitored by equipment that tracks every heartbeat and breath.
They’re so small and vulnerable, these six people who will change everything about who we are.
“What are you thinking?” Tigran asks from his position beside my bed, his attention split between me and the babies.
“First, I’m amazed how quickly you made everything happen, from buying this place to renovating this wing to be the medical suite, to hiring the staff. You thought of everything, including windows in each adjacent room so we can always see the babies.”
He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “I was motivated to make things happen quickly since I didn’t know exactly when they would arrive.” He takes my hand. “I didn’t want us to spend weeks or months in the hospital when I had the means to make this possible at home.”
I squeeze his hand. “Thank you for everything.” I lapse into silence again.
He frowns after a moment. “What else are you thinking? Your expression is suddenly sad.”
“I’m thinking about how close we came to losing this.” I watch Anastasia’s chest rise and fall with the assistance of her CPAP machine. “They’re going to be okay, right?” The question carries all my fear and hope. “All six of them?”
“All six of them.” Dr. Romano says that as he taps on the door and enters the bedroom suite. “They’re showing every sign of being fighters. They’re small, but strong and stubborn.”
Mikhail, Anastasia, Viktor, Natalia, Claude, and Isabella were born too early but arrived exactly when they needed to, surrounded by the medical support that will give them every chance to thrive.
“I love you.” I say to Tigran once Dr. Romano returns to the NICU room. “I love what we created together.”
“I love you too.” He kisses my forehead gently, careful not to disturb the IV lines and monitoring equipment attached to me.
As I look at the six incubators glowing in the dimming afternoon, surrounded by the medical team that will help us navigate the challenging weeks ahead, I know that every moment of pain, every month of fear, and every battle we fought was worth it to reach this moment.