PARENTHOOD.IE

For many people being present at the birth of their first child is cited as one of the greatest moments in their lives. For me, the birth of “the twins will be remembered as a strange, surreal day, and one I’d rather forget.

Tom and Sean’s arrival did not conform to my own images of child birth, as formed by Hollywood and Saatchi & Saatchi: smiling parents, delighted midwife, and pink fat-encrusted babies resting on their mother’s breast.

Our experience was more Mike Leigh than Walt Disney. It reflected the realism of life’s great experiences, involving a range of human emotions: terror, confusion, hilarity, and ecstasy, to name but some. It also gave an insight into the dangers of child birth, the fragility of life, and the unsentimental role that fate play, not to mention lots of blood, guts and gore.

This journey began with a very wet bed and a screaming wife at 5:45am on Monday 12th June 2006 and ended six weeks later when Tom and Sean finally came home.
We were thrilled when we learned that Noreen was expecting twins. Having reared twin cats we believed that two was definitely better than one and that our experience of rearing something might be useful. We were not certain that both babies would make it as one of them started to disappear early in the pregnancy. Thankfully he reappeared and later decided to evacuate eight weeks before the due date.

Speeding along to the hospital with Noreen, her pre-packed hospital bag, and a glass of the ‘waters’ I felt excited but anxious. All sorts of worrying thoughts ran through my groggy mind: what if the kids don’t make it, or are severely disabled, what if Noreen doesn’t make it? Worries less relevant than they were 50 years ago or in certain parts of the world today, but none the less valid.

After been processed by admissions, and checked by a nurse we were told that there was no emergency and that the babies may not arrive. We were directed to the waiting ward where about fifteen uncomfortable and sleepy-eyed women in various stages of pregnancy, were sitting on a bench having breakfast, like Magdalene inmates in maternal purgatory.

After several hours of monitoring, pain, showers we were informed that the babies were indeed coming and were promptly dispatched to the delivery room under the care of a no-nonsense mid-wife. The mid-wife asked the same questions that we had been asked many times that day by the hospital staff. When we told her that the due date was eight weeks away we were met by the usual pregnant (!) and worrying pause.

Then the labour started, Noreen was determined and transformed in to the battling Gaelic Football mid- fielder of her youth, while I was trying to be useful: holding her hand, smoothing her forehead, joining in on the breathing duets, and muttering encouragement from the side lines. A trainee mid-wife asked if she could attend the birth. Verena was a kind, natural, and calm German woman with three grown children of her own and proved to be of great help.

After much pushing and watery noises Twin I (Tom) appeared: limp, white, flat, tiny, and silent. For a moment I thought that perhaps all babies fresh out of the womb looked like this and with a light slap on the bum he’d be pink and crying in no time. But I knew that something was wrong when he was rushed to the corner of the room where three anxious paediatricians connected monitors and breathing apparatus to his tiny lifeless body. When I saw one of the paediatricians slowly shaking his head I was certain that Tom wouldn’t make it. Mindful of the impending arrival of Twin II (Sean) I concentrated on encouraging Noreen while trying not to appear worried about Tom. A surreal moment followed when Noreen’s gynaecologist entered the delivery room and cheerfully said “that one’s gone anyway” and Noreen smiled. I thought, “did I hear him right?”, Jeasus, surely delivery ward humour can’t be that black  (I later realised I completely misheard him). The gynaecologist was great and tried to keep Noreen focused on Sean who was queuing patently in the cervix.
Sean sauntered out, lively, pink, full, and noisy. The only time in his life, so far, where he went by the book. While delighted, I realised how bad Tom must be, and thought about the awful possibilities. Both boys were whisked away. A twin-twin transfusion had channelled Tom’s blood into Sean, with potentially damaging affects to both. There was no time to hold the boys. I felt happy and relieved that both were out and that Noreen was fine, but was worried that the boys wouldn’t have normal lives.
The surgeon appeared and explained the situation. He said that Tom lost a lot of blood, and needed a transfusion and that if he made it through the night then he will most likely pull through. Sean seemed fine.

After a few hours we were allowed to visit them in the intensive care unit (ICU). Their tiny, fragile bodies were in special incubators with all sorts of monitors and tubes. Hopefully this unnatural surrogate womb  would keep them safe while they recovered and developed.
Tom did make it through the night, and recovered well with more transfusions and excellent care from the hospital staff. Sean, who we thought was fine, developed some complications, which were eventually resolved over the following two years. After progressing  between the three levels of ICUs, for several weeks the boys were eventually released: Sean after five weeks and Tom a week later. Both tiny, but tougher, and familiar to us now. The whole experience was dreadful, but could have been a lot worse, considering some of the heartbreaking cases in the ICUs, and I felt we grew a lot as parents. In a way, the boys were born to naive and starry-eyed adults but came home to battle-hardened parents who appreciated how lucky they were to have them.
Paddy, Co. Dublin.