Bonus Content The Birth of Lydia and Naomi #2
“She’s going to grab the ultrasound machine. I want to double check. Baby B feels like she moved and it’s hard to tell exactly how she’s laying now.”
Megan’s color drains, and I step closer, slipping my hand into hers.
Before she can say anything, the nurse wheels the ultrasound machine in, and Dr. Harmon spreads the gel on Megan’s belly and starts moving the wand around. The nurse stays standing close by, eyeing the screen too.
I watch both their faces as she adjusts the wand, her expression focused. “Baby A is still head down, which is perfect. But Baby B…” She pauses again. “She’s transverse now.”
Megan’s grip loosens in mine, but I don’t let it fall out. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can’t safely deliver vaginally,” Dr. Harmon says carefully. “We need to do a C-section.”
Megan lays her head back and closes her eyes. “Why?” she whines, “Why did she move? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, Megan. You didn’t do anything wrong. Babies move. It’s completely normal. Very common with twins.”
Tears start streaming down her face. “But I really didn’t want a C-section. I—”
I squeeze her hand, cutting her off gently. “They know you didn’t, Meg. But this is what she’s saying needs to happen, so we’re going to trust her, right?”
Megan looks at me, eyes red, chin trembling.
“Right?” I repeat, still gentle.
She nods, wiping at her face. “Okay.”
Dr. Harmon rubs her arm. “You’ve done amazing, and with twins, the fact that you labored at all is rare. You should be proud of yourself and your body. Now we’re just going to help get your babies here safely. Okay?
Megan nods, wiping her hand under her eye. My heart is breaking for her, but I’m very confident in the doctor. I know that doesn’t mean Megan’s going to be any less upset about it, and that’s okay.
“How long will it take?” Megan asks, voice steadying out.
“We’ll get you prepped and into the OR within the next fifteen minutes.”
Megan nods again, like she’s completely fine with it, but it’s hard to believe her with the tears running down her face.
Dr. Harmon and the nurse leave to give us a minute, and so they can get things prepped.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling Megan into me as much as I can with all the wires and monitors.
“It’s gonna be fine,” I tell her.
“I feel like I wasted so much time and energy just to end up with a C-section.”
My jaw clenches and I swallow. “I can understand why you feel that way. And I’m sorry. But just think…we’ll get to meet them sooner now.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And their birthdays will for sure be on Valentine’s Day.” I point to the clock, it’s after midnight. Megan smiles. She had joked about it on the way here.
I hug her once more, and just a few seconds later nurses come in, and everything else happens so fast.
Consent forms. Instructions I barely process.
One of them hands me a suit thing—light blue, sterile—with a mask and cap.
And waiting outside the OR while they get her prepped might be the longest moments of my life. The nerves, the anxiety, the excitement, the fear, everything hits me all at once, loud.
When I walk in, it’s bright and cold and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. There’s a lot of people, machines; everything’s bright and sterile.
Megan’s lying on the table, arms stretched out straight, blue drape across her middle, face pale under the lights.
I cross the room and sit in the chair beside her head.
“Hey,” I say, running my thumb over her forehead.
She looks at me, eyes wide. “I’m so scared.”
“Don’t be. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The anesthesiologist leans over, explaining something about the spinal block, but I’m not listening. I’m watching Megan’s face, hoping she doesn’t pass out and miss them being born.
“Alright, you’re going to feel some pressure,” Dr. Harmon’s voice carries over the sounds of instruments and monitors. “No pain. Just pressure.”
Megan nods. “Okay.”
I can see the worry in her face, her eyes, her coloring. My heart is racing.
“Look at me,” I tell her. “Just keep looking at me.”
She does. And time passes. It feels like hours but it’s only minutes. But then, all of a sudden, there’s a lot of movement and a sharp, furious cry.
“First baby!” Dr. Harmon announces, her voice bright. “Two eleven a.m.”
I look over the drape and see her—tiny, so tiny she doesn’t look real. She’s got dark hair, splotchy skin covered in a mess of bodily fluids, screaming. Tears sting the backs of my eyes.
Megan’s crying, full-on sobbing, when she sees her. “Aww! Is she okay?”
“She looks great,” a nurse says.
They carry her to one of the tables with a light overhead and I watch as they clean her up, check her over.
Less than two minutes later there’s another cry, louder than the first.
“And here’s baby number two!” Dr. Harmon laughs. “Two fourteen a.m.”
And I can’t breathe. Can’t wrap my head around it. That just like that, they’re here.
Megan’s sobbing harder now, and I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers.
“They’re here,” I whisper. “They’re both here.”
“Go with them,” she says, voice shaking.
“You sure?”
She nods, tears streaming into her hair. “Yeah. Go.”
I kiss her forehead quickly and stand, moving toward the warming tables where both our daughters are being weighed, measured, checked.
The nurse looks up at me. “You want to hold one?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. She wraps the first baby in a pink blanket and places her in my arms.
She’s so small. So warm. Her little face is scrunched up, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in protest.
I look down at her, and my chest cracks wide open.
“Hey,” I whisper, bringing her close. “Hi, Peanut.”
She keeps crying.
The nurse smiles. “She’s five pounds, three ounces. Perfectly healthy.”
I can’t stop staring at her.
Can’t stop the tears running down my face behind the mask.
“Dad, you want to bring her over to Mom?” another nurse asks gently.
I nod and walk carefully back to Megan, cradling the baby like she’s made of glass.
Megan’s eyes light up when she sees us. “Oh my gosh.”
I lean down so she can see her, pressing her cheek against Megan’s.
“She’s perfect,” Megan breathes. “Mason, she’s perfect.”
“I know.”
The other nurse brings the second baby over, wrapped and starting to calm, and places her in my other arm.
Both of them start to settle and I relax slightly. Megan and I look at the both of them, tears in our eyes, just staring from one little face to the other. Like we can’t believe there were actually two babies in there.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I whisper in Megan’s ear, and kiss her cheek.
She laughs through her tears. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Dr. Harmon’s voice sounds from behind the drape. “We’re almost done here, Megan. You’re doing great.”
But I barely hear her. Because I’m looking at my wife. And our two daughters. And realizing that everything just changed.
Nothing crazy. Just the life we prayed for…showing up all at once.