You would think that after years of failed fertility treatments, heartbreak, and miscarriages, finally carrying twins to thirty-six weeks would have been the happiest chapter of my life.
I thought it would be.
For years, I had imagined what it would feel like to hear two babies crying in our home. I had imagined Trevor holding them for the first time. I had imagined the three of us—or, more accurately, the four of us—sitting together on the couch, exhausted but happy, wondering how we had ever lived without them.
Instead, by the time I reached thirty-six weeks, I was more frightened than excited.
One of the twins had turned breech.
My doctor explained that a C-section was now the safest option. He went over everything carefully: the surgery, the recovery, the restrictions, the pain, the fact that I wouldn't be able to lift much for several weeks.
Then he looked directly at Trevor.
"She is going to need help," he said. "A lot of it."
Trevor nodded confidently.
"I've got everything under control."
At the time, I believed him.
That was my first mistake.
The Life We Had Waited So Long For
Trevor and I had been married for six years.
We had spent almost four of those years trying to have children.
There were medications, appointments, blood tests, injections, procedures, endless waiting rooms, and phone calls that could change the entire mood of our house in less than thirty seconds.
And then there were the miscarriages.
The first one happened early enough that we barely had time to believe the pregnancy was real.
The second one nearly destroyed me.
The third one was the one I still couldn't talk about without feeling something tighten in my chest.
After that, I stopped telling people when I was hopeful.
I learned not to buy anything too early.
I stopped looking at baby names.
I stopped touching my stomach when I was pregnant because I was terrified of becoming attached to someone I might lose.
So when I finally became pregnant with twins and made it past every milestone, I tried not to celebrate too much.
At twelve weeks, I waited.
At twenty weeks, I waited.
At thirty weeks, I was still waiting for something to go wrong.
But the babies kept growing.
Their heartbeats remained strong.
Every appointment brought good news.
Eventually, I allowed myself to believe they might actually come home with us.
Two babies.
Two little lives.
Our family.
By thirty-six weeks, I had become enormous and uncomfortable, but I didn't care.
I would have carried them for another year if someone had told me it would guarantee their safety.
Then came the news about the breech position.
The doctor explained that one baby was positioned feet-first, making a scheduled C-section the safest choice.
The date was set.
Four days.
In four days, I would meet my babies.
I should have been terrified about the surgery.
Instead, I was mostly thinking about the moment they would put those tiny faces against my chest.
Trevor seemed excited too.
At least I thought he was.
He spent evenings assembling baby furniture, although he wasn't exactly skilled at it.
He left one bassinet unfinished for almost two weeks.
I teased him about it.
"You're going to finish that before the babies arrive, right?"
"Of course."
"When?"
"Eventually."
I laughed.
At the time, it seemed harmless.
I didn't know "eventually" would become a word I would remember for years.
"One Last Break"
Four days before my scheduled C-section, Trevor came home from work unusually cheerful.
He walked through the front door carrying a backpack.
I was sitting on the couch with my feet elevated because my ankles had become so swollen that my shoes barely fit.