Chapter 5 - The Triple Emergency
The operating room was a chaotic symphony of beeps, flashing lights, and shouted medical terminology.
“Anesthesia pushing propofol. Securing airway,” the anesthesiologist announced near my head. The world tilted sideways, the white lights above me melting into a smear of blinding glare. I felt a heavy, pulling pressure in my lower abdomen—not the gentle kicks of weeks past, but a violent, tearing expulsion.
“First one down. Amniotic sac intact,” Dr. Foster’s voice called out over the din of the room. “Suctioning... clamping... cord cut.”
A tiny, high-pitched squeak—so fragile it sounded like a dying kitten—cut through the room.
“Oliver is out!” a nurse shouted, scooping the tiny bundle into a pre-warmed towel and rushing him toward the neonatology team at the far wall. “One minute Apgar is three! Start bagging!”
I tried to lift my head, desperate to see my son, but heavy straps held my arms pinned to the operating table.
“Focus on me, Becca,” Andrew whispered fiercely, pressing his face right next to mine, his tears mixing with the sweat on my cheek. “I’m here. I’m right here. Oliver is out. He’s breathing.”
“Sophie... and Mia...” I gasped, the drugs pulling me down into a dark, heavy swamp of semi-consciousness.
“They’re coming, sweetheart. They’re coming right now.”
The pressure returned—twice as intense, a searing, white-hot agony that cut through the local and regional blocks.
“Sophie is presenting breech!” a resident shouted, panic lacing his tone. “Dr. Foster, heart rate is dropping again!”
“Get in there. Clear the path,” Dr. Foster barked, her hands plunging deep into the surgical field with absolute, practiced ruthlessness.
Seconds stretched into eternity. The monitors began to emit a low, ominous warning tone—a rhythmic, pulsing chord of danger.
“Got her foot. Gentle traction... rotating... out.”
Silence followed for three terrifying beats. No squeak. No cry.
“Sophie! Come on, baby!” the neonatal nurse yelled, aggressively rubbing the tiny, purple body with a sterile gauze pad.
Then, a faint, ragged gasp.
“Heart rate is back up! Intubating now! That’s twin two!”
“And twin three—Mia!” Dr. Foster shouted, her forearms covered in blood up to the elbows. “She’s small, she’s very small—pulling through—out!”
Another tiny form was swept away into the flurry of heated blankets and micro-catheters.
Three babies delivered in less than four minutes.
May you like
Four children total now existing outside my body.
The heavy fog of anesthesia finally closed completely over my mind, dragging me down into a black, dreamless void where the sound of monitors faded into a distant, gentle hum.
