Chapter 51 Tristan
TRISTAN
“Don’t take your eyes off them,” my beautiful, brave Ligaya whispers as the nurses carry the babies to a corner of the operating room. They’re checking vitals, suctioning, wrapping their bodies to resemble burritos.
“I won’t,” I promise, and my throat aches because I’ve never meant anything more. “Ligaya, they are so beautiful.”
Our daughter is placed into my arms first. She’s loud, her whole face scrunched and red and righteous. I laugh because even like this, she’s exquisite. Our son, smaller, is nestled against Ligaya’s chest, his head under her chin. His expression of contentment is the most gorgeous sight.
“A son and a daughter,” she murmurs in awe.
“Yeah. A son and a daughter.”
Her eyes shine. “Can we name our son after my dad? Orlando is so dignified and yet sweet.”
“It is.”
“And that’s the name of my favorite Shakespeare character.”
“I already said yes. Please don’t talk about Shakespeare.”
We both laugh. My son and I lock gazes and my world tilts. My child is looking at me, waiting for me to say something profound. Instead, all I can get past my throat is, “Hi, Orlando. You’re very beautiful, and you’ll be a theater nerd like your mom.”
Ligaya smiles, dreamy. “Also, it’s kind of cool together, Orlando and Olivia, don’t you think?”
“Thank you,” I manage to mutter, despite my heart expanding and blocking my airways.
We had considered the possibility of the name but didn’t want to commit until we knew for sure we had a daughter. I look at her now. Her eyes are open, light brown and alert. I kiss her forehead and I swear she relaxes in my arms.
“Hello, Olivia.”
Ligaya’s tears of joy flow freely. “Hi, Olivia. I love you and your brother so much.”
“Thank you for honoring Olive,” I address Ligaya. “But our little girl will have her own name, her own destiny.”
Ligaya tilts her chin up so our eyes lock.
“You are the man you are because of the love you shared with Olive. Our children are blessed to have a father who knows the depths of love, all its joys and its trials.”
My heart is wrecked and rebuilt in the same beat.
Meanwhile, the surgical team continues working behind the curtain. “The surgery part is over, we are just finishing up with stitches. You did great, Ligaya,” Dr. LeGuin says.
The babies’ vitals are checked again. A different doctor, a neonatologist, assures us, “They’re breathing well, good tone, good heart rate. But it is standard NICU admission for thirty-five-week twins.”
“NICU?” Ligaya mumbles weakly.
“It’s precautionary, sweetheart.”
Ligaya’s eyelids flutter, exhaustion overtaking all else. “Stay with them, Tristan.”
I hate leaving her, but I listen. She’s right. It’s my turn to watch over the kids so she can focus on recovery.
The NICU is bright and humming. Olivia and Orlando are placed in incubators for warmth and for monitoring their pulse and oxygen levels. The nurses move with calm efficiency. I hover, useless and awestruck, one hand on each clear plastic shell.
“Can I touch them?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” the nurse says with a smile. “Use two fingers, gentle pressure. They’ll know you’re here.”
I graze their tiny fists. Olivia grips me with shocking strength. Orlando stirs, his mouth open and searching even as his eyes remain closed.
“That’s a good sign,” the nurse offers. “They can try breastfeeding today if Mom is up for it. We have lactation specialists on staff.”
Every update is better than the last. Their blood sugars are good. Their lungs are strong. Their oxygen intake perfect.
The health markers are encouraging, yet they don’t scratch the surface of how proud and happy I am to be their father.
Nothing prepared me for how my entire being is changed now that they are out in the world.
I’d do anything for them. I’d be anything for them.
For now, I simply watch as they get comfortable and, as if they are in sync, fall asleep within a minute of each other.
By the time I return to Ligaya’s room, she’s pale yet smiling, propped against pillows. Her parents flank her like doting sentries. I’m congratulated by my mother and Cathy. Ligaya’s father hugs me the tightest, still muttering his disbelief that his grandson carries his name.
“Who is with them?” Ligaya asks.
“They’re sleeping,” I reassure her while pulling up the webcam that transmits their every movement. Ligaya stares at the small screen till the painkillers kick in and she dozes off.
After a few hours, the NICU team wheels our babies in for their first attempt at breastfeeding. There are specialists and nurses and all sorts of pillows involved. Ligaya is eager and willing, despite the stiff learning curve. I grit my teeth, wishing I could take some of that discomfort from her.
But once again, my woman is a goddess. Ligaya’s hair sticks to her forehead, eyes hollow from effort, and yet she persists. The twins didn’t quite latch as steadily as she hoped, but nothing dims the love she beams down at them.
Gratitude floods me. Gratitude that we’re a family, that our babies have arrived, and that Ligaya is the woman I get to share this life with.