Chapter 30 Aristides
There was nothing in this world that smelled better than a newborn baby.
Double that, and you have an approximation of the satisfaction I was experiencing as I held my children, one nestled in the crook of each arm.
I couldn’t resist bending forward to inhale the clean scent of their perfect skin and light smattering of dark hair.
I sat in a large armchair, surrounded by soft lighting and quiet. Each child grasped one of my fingers with a tiny hand.
My daughter yawned, and my son hiccupped, prompting a small chuckle from me. They were exquisite, and all was right with my world.
“Yianna and Periklis. You are perfect. You are loved,” I told them. It was essential they knew this from their very first day on this Earth.
In the bed nearby, Dede rested, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. Though clearly exhausted, she radiated tranquility.
Dede was alive. She made it. Her presence erased the memory of the last time I’d been in this position.
My gratitude was beyond articulation. My chest expanded with a joy I hadn’t permitted myself to believe possible in twenty-four years.
I bent to kiss each tiny forehead. “Your yiayia is going to…”
“Mr. Christakis!”
The voice penetrated my brain, and the babies dissolved. The peaceful room vanished, replaced by harsh lights and the acrid smell of antiseptic.
I was standing in Dede’s hospital suite, my back against the wall, my hands trembling at my sides. Around me, lights flashed and alarms sounded. Medical staff moved around, their urgency cutting through my paralysis.
“We need to move her,” a doctor said, gripping a gurney. “To the OR. Now.”
Reality crashed over me. I’d been beside Dede, supporting her through rapidly progressing labor when everything went wrong.
I forced my legs to move, following the gurney. My pulse throbbed in my ears.
I reached for Dede’s hand. Her eyes were wide with pain and fear. She was employing her breathing techniques and maintaining her composure despite everything spiraling out of control.
A doctor kept pace beside me, explaining rapidly. “Natural delivery isn’t possible, given the immediacy of her labor. There’s meconium present in the amniotic fluid, and with every push your wife makes, the babies’ heart rates are decreasing.”
“Meconium?” The word was foreign. “What does that mean?”
The doctor’s expression tightened. “It means one or both babies have had a bowel movement in utero. If they inhale it during delivery, it can block their airways or cause severe lung inflammation. Combined with the dropping heart rates, we can’t risk a vaginal birth. We need to get them out now.”
My vision blurred even as I hurried alongside them. I was thrust backward in time to another delivery room in this same hospital, where I heard the words that altered my life permanently: “We’ve lost her.”
I glimpsed a younger version of myself looking around in disbelief. Blood on the sheets. Lydia’s scream of pain, and the high-pitched, uninterrupted drone of a flatlined monitor.
“Father!” Chrysanthos’s voice cut through the noise. He and Tia appeared beside me, matching our pace. “What’s happening?” he asked in Greek. “Where are they taking Mom?”
I couldn’t form words. My throat closed.
“Emergency C-section,” the doctor answered in Greek, not breaking stride. “The babies are in distress.”
“What did he say?” Tia’s voice was panicked. “Chrys, what’s happening?”
Chrysanthos turned to his wife and relayed what the doctor had said in English.
Tia made a small, choked sound. “How bad—is she—”
“We do everything we can,” the doctor said in English, which was no answer at all.
The gurney pushed through a set of double doors. I tried to follow, but a nurse stepped into my path.
“Take these, sir.” She extended a package of folded blue scrubs. “You’ll need to wear them if you’re entering the operating room.”
I reached out, but my fingers were unable to grasp the package. My brain seemed disconnected from my body. I was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t do this. Not again.
“Father,” Chrysanthos said in Greek, his voice low and urgent. He gripped my arm. “Father, look at me.”
I tried. Failed.
“I’ll go in,” Tia said suddenly, her voice breaking. “I can—someone needs to be with Mom.”
The words cut through the fog. “No.” I snatched the scrubs from the nurse’s hands. “I go with her. I am her husband.”
Relief flooded Tia’s face.
“This way, sir,” the nurse said, gesturing to a side room. “You’ll need to change and wash your hands before entering the OR.
I followed her into the small room, my fingers still trembling as I unfolded the scrubs. Chrysanthos appeared in the doorway, steadying my arm as I nearly dropped the shirt.
“Allow me to help you,” he said quietly in Greek.
I stripped off my jacket and shirt, my hands fumbling with the buttons. Chrysanthos reached out, his steady fingers taking over when mine wouldn’t cooperate. He helped me pull the scrub top over my head, then held the pants while I stepped into them.
“Wash thoroughly. Two minutes minimum.”
The hot water scalded my hands as I scrubbed, giving me something to focus on besides the fear clawing at my chest. Soap. Water. Rinse. Again.
Through the small window in the door, I could see Tia pacing in the hallway, her arms wrapped around herself. Chrysanthos had returned to her side, speaking softly.
“It’s time,” the nurse said.
I dried my hands, pulled on the mask, and turned toward the operating room doors.
My children needed me to be strong. My wife needed me by her side.
I wouldn’t fail them.
The operating room was brilliantly lit, sterile, and crowded with people in blue scrubs. Dede lay on the table with a blue drape already positioned across her abdomen.
Her eyes found mine immediately.
“Aris,” she breathed, and extended her hand.
I crossed to her side in three strides. Her fingers encircled mine. “We’ll be fine,” she whispered.
Words failed me. I could only nod.
I positioned myself near her head, well clear of the surgical team, whispering encouragements I couldn’t entirely believe while stroking her hair. “You’re doing well, my love. It will soon be over, and our babies will be in your arms.”
The obstetric surgeon and team worked efficiently. I registered every gesture, glance, beep, instruction, and silence.
“It’s a boy,” a voice announced.
I strained to see as a small form was lifted, then immediately carried to a warming station across the room. A team surrounded him instantly.
I waited for a cry, telling myself I wouldn’t breathe until my son did. But there was silence.
Time stopped.
The operating room became a mausoleum.
I could see a nurse, her expression grave as she worked. Instead of a steady heartbeat, my ears registered only the whine of a flatline.
Then... a mewl. Initially weak, then strengthening. Only then did I permit myself to breathe.
“And a girl,” another voice said. My daughter appeared briefly above the drape before she too was whisked away to the second warming station. Another cry overlaid the first, this one wailing forcefully.
The sound broke my composure. I collapsed into the chair beside Dede’s head, surrendering to tears.
They were alive. All three of my loved ones were alive.
I stood and pressed my forehead to Dede’s, my tears falling onto her skin. “You saved me.”
She offered a weak smile but seemed too fatigued to respond. In the background, a nurse called out weights and Apgar scores, but all I heard were two sets of lungs breathing.
Alive! All of them, alive!
I hadn’t left Dede’s side. Not when they wheeled her to recovery, not when the anesthesia began to wear off and she drifted in and out of consciousness.
The surgery had gone exactly as planned. The doctor performed the salpingectomy Dede had requested after the cesarean, removing both fallopian tubes before closing the incision. She’d been adamant that she wouldn’t risk another tubal ligation, not after conceiving twins despite having had one.
The babies had been taken to the NICU for observation. It was standard protocol for babies born at thirty-six weeks, the nurse had assured me. I’d sent Tia and Chrysanthos to accompany them, choosing to remain with Dede, anticipating the language barrier might isolate her.
Six hours had passed in a blur of watching Dede sleep, pacing, and checking my phone obsessively for updates from both the NICU and my brothers. When my phone buzzed with a text from Kostas, my heart seized.
Mother is awake. Full recovery expected. Asking for you and Deanna.
I closed my eyes, letting the relief wash over me. Before I could respond, a tap at the door announced a nurse wheeling in a double bassinet, with Tia and Chrysanthos following.
Image of the twins...
“Your babies have been doing beautifully,” the nurse announced.
“No signs of meconium aspiration. Their lungs are clear and they’re breathing on their own.
The doctor wanted you to have some bonding time.
You have about an hour with them, then we’ll take them back to the NICU for overnight observation. ”
The tension in my shoulders released as I translated the nurse’s words for Dede. Her smile was the brightest I’d seen all day.
“Not only that,” Tia enthused, “they’re gorgeous!” She gave me a teasing look. “Clearly they take after my side of the family!”
The nurse checked Dede’s vitals, smiled at the family tableau, and added, “I’ll be back in an hour. Enjoy your time with them.” She slipped out, closing the door behind her.
I glanced at Chrysanthos, who stood by the bassinet, looking down pensively. I walked over, carefully lifted our son, and placed him in Dede’s waiting arms. “I remember when you were this size,” I told Chrysanthos. “You were a crier.”
Chrysanthos chuckled. I lifted my daughter, kissed the crown of her head, then held her against my chest.
“What are their names?” Chrysanthos asked.
I held up my daughter, turning her toward her brother. “Meet Yianna.”
Beside me, Dede said, “And this is Periklis, who we’ll all call Perry.”
Greek tradition dictated he should have carried his paternal grandfather’s name — Periklis. But Lydia had lost both her parents as a child, and naming our twins after her parents had been the one thing she’d asked of me. I couldn’t refuse her.
The plan had always been to give the next son my father’s name. But there was no next son. Not with Lydia.
“Pappoú would have liked that,” Chrysanthos said quietly.
I reached out and gripped the back of my son’s neck. He leaned into it, just briefly, before straightening.
“And these are your older brother and sister, Santo and Tia,” Dede continued. “Santo will teach you how to drive a car.”
“I will claim that privilege,” I said, though I couldn’t help smiling at Chrysanthos. “I have watched you terrorize every road from Europe to Asia. Periklis and Yianna, they will learn the respect for machinery before they learn the speed.”
“For the record, my husband is an amazing driver and an even better teacher.” Tia’s expression softened as she looked at the babies. “May I hold one?”
I carefully transferred my blanket-wrapped bundle.
“Now you, Santo,” Dede said, offering Periklis.
Chrysanthos looked as if Dede were offering an explosive device. “I don’t know. He’s extremely small, and my hands are rather large.”
“It’s straightforward,” Dede encouraged. “Trust your instincts. You’ll know what to do. Besides, it’s good practice for when your turn comes.”
Tia emitted a surprised sound. “One step at a time, Mom.”
Image of Santo, Perry, Tia and Yianna...
We gathered in a close circle, the small room containing nothing but our breathing, heartbeats, and profound connection.
“Aris,” Dede said quietly. “Your mother. Have you heard anything?”
“Mother is awake, yes. The full recovery, it is expected.” I had to pause to steady my voice. “She is asking for us.
“Oh, thank God.” She looked at our babies, then at me. “She’s going to meet them.”
“She will, yes.”
My mother would live. My wife had survived. My children were healthy and perfect.
Everything I’d been too terrified to hope for had come to pass.