Springtime came and, with it, the promise of new life. But this time around, it wasn’t met with unbridled exuberance, rather with cautious hope. I waited awhile to see a doctor, somehow thought waiting might prolong the possibility of more pain. So, I was 13 weeks along when I went in for my first visit there.  She weighed me and measured me, asked me questions, all the usual. Time then to listen for a heartbeat. For a long time, nothing. Felt a lot like my last visit, the one to the doctor in Nebraska only months before. I held my breath.

Then, that still, small Voice I was coming to know, a nudge. I asked doc if she would move the Doppler over, to the side of my belly, near my hip bone. She did, and then the rhythmic swish-swish-swishing sound rang clear – a life, thank God! She moved the Doppler over to the other side, near my other hip bone. A strange expression came over her face, like a question. And from me: “Is something wrong?” And from her: “It sounds like there’s an echo in there.” And she moved the Doppler back over to the first side of my belly, then back to the other side, over and over. Then a puzzled, incoherent noise from her throat as she put the Doppler back on the table, and an:” I think we should go ahead with an ultrasound today.” And from me: “Is everything ok?” And from her: “I think so, but it would be good to take a peak in there.”

So down to the ultrasound room we went, Nathan and me. On my back again with goo on the belly – remembering vividly the last time I was in this position – trying to surrender shaking hands and fearful heart, gazing intently at the black and white screen, attempting to make some sense out the mess of shapes and fuzz. The ultrasound tech’s first words: “There are two.”  “What?!? Two?!? Two, you mean twins?!? What?!?” “Yes, see there is a head and there, the other head. And only one placenta there on top, see, only one sac that they are sharing. So, not only twins, but identical twins! No, can’t tell yet if there are two boys or two girls in there. But there are definitely two. And see the four arms and the four legs right there? And the two umbilical cords?” From me: “Are you sure? I can’t believe it! Really?!? Two?!?” And more yeses. And, from the tech: “Are you ok?” And from me: “I’m ok, yes…I just can’t believe it.”

While I was still sprawled out there on the table, the neonatal specialist came – a perk of doctoring at a large children’s research hospital – congratulated us, looked at the screen, said they’d need to monitor the babies and me closely, that identical twin pregnancies are considered high risk and there is a chance that one baby could suck up all the nutrients and leave the other baby with none. Weekly ultrasounds would be necessary to measure the fluid levels surrounding each baby down to the nearest millimeter. If one baby did start taking more than his or her share of nutrients – a condition called twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome – there was a new, experimental procedure that they could do, using a laser to cut the placenta into two parts, but not in Iowa, in Boston.

We decided not to tell our families yet, not until we knew if two boys or two girls grew in my recently-vacated womb. And we didn’t have to wait long. Less than a month later, during one of our weekly ultrasounds, the tech asked if we wanted to know gender. Yes. You have two girls. Twin girls. So, let the phone calls back home begin – to parents and siblings and dear friends. Tears from my mom as she choked out that she had been praying that this pregnancy would be so very differently from our last – not one son this time, but two daughters. Not a child to bury, but two children to rock and feed and cherish and nourish and watch grow up, to bring home with us. It reminded me of the book of Job, you know, where at the beginning of Job’s story, he – a faithful and good man – knew so much blessing. But it was all stripped from him, by God’s own word. And, yet, in the end, God gave Job twice as much as he had before. I knew a bit now how that felt, I thought, what that meant, lived out in real life.

Each and every week, back to the hospital, measuring fluid levels, praying that the girls would be able to share what they needed from me to grow and thrive. And they did. No complications ever arose on that end. But when I went in for a routine check-up at 34 weeks, doc was worried. I had gained 20 pounds since my last appointment, only one week before – all water weight – which meant only one thing, my body, my kidneys, were shutting down. And the first time I heard the word – preeclampsia.  Things were hazy after that. She said I couldn’t go home, wouldn’t leave the hospital now until the babies were born, needed to be monitored 24/7, would be watched for seizures. They would try to keep the babies in as long as possible, but she wasn’t hopeful that that would be for long. And by that evening, just after 8:00, it was clear that my body just couldn’t keep going.

Our girls were born via C-section that night, only one minute apart. Nathan, there in his blue scrubs and hairnet, with an amazing team of doctors and nurses, held our first daughter up for me to see briefly before the folks whisked her away to the NICU. Gorgeous, gorgeous baby girl, lots of dark hair, our Sylvia Kay. And then our next daughter, Evelyn Ruth, absolutely identical to her sister. She too was rushed away, and Nathan rushed with them. I wanted him to, wanted him to be with our girls.  Me, on the other hand, I was sewn back up and rolled out of the OR and back to my room, where they put me on intravenous magnesium sulfate, a hard walk. Had to stay hooked up to try and prevent seizures. Waited days before I could be wheeled down a floor to the NICU to hold my babies for the first time.

That day did come though. Nathan wheeled me right in there, past all the other sick and tiny wee ones, and all I saw were the tubes down my babies noses and the needles in their feet and the CPAP machines, masks swallowing up their bitty faces. And in that moment, I prepared myself to bury my girls too, just like I had my son. The nurses reassured me – “no, they are well, just need a bit of breathing help, should go home in a couple of weeks.” But all I could see were their bodies, lifeless; me, bending to put them in holes of dark earth.  It took days and days for me to start to hope, to turn my thinking around, to believe that, yes, my daughters would live.

And then, just before we were all to finally go home, to leave that hospital for good, I woke up in a pool of my own blood. Pushed my nurse call button, she came right in and left just as quickly. Ran back in with the doctor a minute later. And then, pushing me on my bed, through the hallways, onto the elevator, upstairs, back to the OR.  As the nurse hurriedly read us paperwork, asked questions – “Would I consent to a hysterectomy to save my life, would I consent to a blood transfusion to save my life, could they take a vein from my leg if needed to save my life?” and on and on – Nathan sat down on a metal chair, buried his head low, in his lap. And I told him, “It’s ok. Maybe our baby Silas in heaven needs me. Maybe this is the way it’s meant to be. You can be daddy and mommy both to those dark-haired beauties, I know you can. All is well, all will be well.” And then they whisked me away.

I remember when they moved me from the bed on wheels to the cold table in the OR there, how I felt almost weightless, how they were all rushing around, in a big hurry, putting on blue plastic gloves, counting instruments and tools, adjusting lights, pulling a bag of fluids around on a tall metal pole. But while they were moving quickly, it was almost as if time stood still for me. I remember having words inside that I had to get out, just HAD to, before they put that mask on my nose and mouth to make me go to sleep. And I wanted all those people to hear. I spoke as loudly as I could: “I know you’re all going to do your very best to get my bleeding stopped, but I need you to hear this: It’s ok. It’s ok if you can’t. And if this is my time to go Home, I am ready. So if I don’t wake up, please don’t blame yourselves. I will know that you tried your best. And I’m ready to go. I am.”

But I didn’t go Home. And neither did our girls. No. After the doctors stopped the bleeding and pumped someone else’s blood back in to me and I rested some, after the girls’ tubes and needles and masks came off, we put our brand new and very much alive twin daughters in their infant carriers, buckled them into the back of our old green Subaru, and left the hospital for good.

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