Chapter 43 Ligaya
LIGAYA
I’m not sure when it happened.
One day, I’m back from vacation with enough energy to add finishing touches to the gorgeous nursery Tristan started.
The week after spring break was a blur of rehearsals and a string of exam prep for high school state testing.
Truly boring but inescapably essential. Just another spring semester at Centerstone High.
Things were fine. My stomach expanded and my legs waddled, but the daily drudgery of life was manageable.
Next thing I know, it’s April and my body—my sassy, take-no-prisoners, willful body—simply goes on low-battery mode.
I try not to complain, not because I’m a martyr for motherhood.
There’s no profound reserve of stoicism in my soul.
I don’t grumble because when a pregnant woman complains of fatigue, all she gets is the chorus of “Just you wait and see! You think this is tiring? Harharhar, wait till the babies keep you up all night!”
In other words, not helpful. At. All.
Getting out of bed has become an Olympic event, and Tristan will have none of it. He and Dr. LeGuin are having a very involved conversation about my energy levels and sleep patterns.
Tristan moved in soon after we returned from Texas. He religiously tracks what time I sleep and whether I’ve taken my vitamins. My baby daddy is also surprisingly diligent at food prep, so there’s always something healthy in the fridge, even when he’s traveling with the team.
Dr. LeGuin’s medical office is like any other, except for the Doppler monitor waiting to turn me into a human sound system. I’m perched on the crinkly paper of the exam table, legs dangling like I’m a toddler. Or Humpty Dumpty.
Tristan sits on a stiff visitor chair against the wall, long legs stretched out, arms crossed, his expression set to Maximum Concerned Partner.
“Her mother is staying over while I’m away, but it would be so much easier if she wasn’t working every day,” Tristan gripes.
The Mavericks have started their first round of the playoffs against Tampa Bay, winning two games at home. But they’re leaving for Florida tomorrow, and he’s adamant that I take off the week he’s away. In the past, I might have brushed off his concern.
Today, I see his point. It’s a struggle to drive in the morning. I’m so damn tired I could fall asleep at a stoplight.
“You should consider that, Ligaya,” my OB/GYN says, adjusting her glasses and tapping at my chart. “Carrying twins at twenty-eight weeks—”
“Twenty-nine. Two days short of twenty-nine weeks,” my baby daddy interrupts.
“I stand corrected,” the doctor nods good naturedly, clearly unperturbed by know-it-all calendar hogs. “Carrying twins is not the same as carrying a singleton. It’s very normal to ease off work around this time.”
I shift on the paper, feeling contrite and defensive. “I’m setting up the sub this week and wrapping up the play at the end of April, then I’ll take off in May till the babies come.”
Tristan looks pained, jaw tightening. “But I won’t be here next week.”
“My mom is around. Don’t worry, Tristan. I’ll take it easy.”
Dr. LeGuin clicks her pen. “Any contractions at all?”
“No. Lots of movement, though. These munchkins are high energy.”
“Tell her about your back pain,” Tristan cuts in. “And the leg cramps. And the sore feet.”
I groan and tilt my head back like the petulant patient that I am. “Doctor, is it normal for partners to compile encyclopedic details about one’s symptoms?”
Dr. LeGuin chuckles. “I wouldn’t say it’s common, although overexertion can trigger Braxton-Hicks contractions. With twins, the uterus is more reactive to stimuli. Think of it as—hmm, how do I put it—irritable.”
“See?” Tristan says smugly, like he snagged the I told you so medal.
“I’ll make a compromise,” I say without bothering to hide that I’m just as irritable as my uterus. “I’ll go to work on Monday and Tuesday to set up my students and prep the sub. Then I’ll take the rest of the week off of teaching. But evening rehearsals are nonnegotiable.”
“With Toby assisting you.”
“Yes, we talked about this,” I confirm.
The crease between his brows softens, relief making his smile nearly boyish. I reach over as he stands, entwining our fingers.
“Thank you.” His voice is so earnest it makes my heart twist.
“Glad that’s settled.” Dr. LeGuin clears her throat. “Now, let’s finalize the birth plan. With twins, we’ll need to be extra prepared.”
I sit up straighter, my hand instinctively drifting to my belly. “I want to try for a vaginal birth, if that’s possible.”
“Yes, that’s absolutely an option, depending on how the babies are positioned as you get closer to term. Right now, Baby A”—she flips the ultrasound photo on my chart toward us—“is head-down, which is encouraging. Baby B is more sideways, but that can still shift.”
Tristan leans in. “What happens if the babies don’t shift as expected?”
“If Baby A is delivered headfirst, sometimes Baby B will naturally rotate into position once there’s more space.
We also have techniques like external manipulation, using ultrasound guidance, or gently helping reposition during delivery.
But if Baby B stays stubbornly transverse or breech, we would move quickly to a C-section for that twin. ”
I bite my lip. “Is that normal? One vaginal, one C-section?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “It’s not common, but it does happen. That’s why we always have an operating room prepped when twins are born, even if you come in planning for vaginal. Safety net in place.”
Tristan’s hand tightens on mine, and I can practically feel the checklist forming in his brain.
“Twins often come earlier. Thirty-six or thirty-seven weeks is considered full term for them.”
“Baby B is still smaller,” Tristan says.
The doctor nods. “We’re tracking growth discordance. If necessary, we’d admit one or both at NICU for observation. Our team is excellent. We’ll have a neonatologist on call for delivery day.”
The acronym for the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit puts my stomach into a freefall. Dr. LeGuin looks at me kindly.
“Most twins do beautifully. But I always want you to feel informed and empowered. If your goal is vaginal delivery, we’ll support you.”
Relief trickles through me. “That’s what I want. I want to try.”
“Then that’s what we’ll plan for,” she says, scribbling a note. “We’ll schedule extra growth scans every two weeks now. If anything changes, if either twin starts showing distress, or if your body says it’s time sooner, we’ll adjust.”
Tristan clears his throat. “What is an example of showing distress?”
I roll my eyes at him.
Dr. LeGuin finishes her notes on the computer before answering.
“By distress I mean consistent contractions or any kind of pain.”
“Got it. No bungee jumping,” I state in mock seriousness.
She chuckles. “See you in a couple of weeks. And good luck with the playoffs.”
Tristan attempts a polite thanks, although I can see the word distress looming over his head like a storm cloud.
“Hey, everything is good. I made my compromise, and you’re going to beat Florida on the first round.”
“Ligaya, please promise me you’ll take it easy. And don’t pretend it’s the same as a few weeks ago. I can see how sluggish you are. How hard it is to go back to the campus for the nightly rehearsals.”
I take his face in my hands and ensure we’re eye to eye.
“You’re right, this hasn’t been easy. You have my word, Tristan. I will not do anything to endanger the babies. And by Wednesday, my feet will be up, waiting for their rub when you come home.”
He looks so pleased at my promise, I simply have to add, “If you win the next round, I’ll let you pick any name for one of the babies.”
Tristan’s brows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Within reason,” I warn, narrowing my eyes.
His grin turns wicked. “Baby Stanley, after the Cup.”
I groan. “We’ll workshop it.”