On Friday, my sister-in-law gave birth to her twin girls. We're all very excited. She was taking fertility drugs, and finally last winter she became pregnant. She'd looked really awful during her entire pregnancy, and in fact, had been throwing up clear into her third trimester. Poor woman.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had known, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Well Whaddya Know
On Friday, my sister-in-law gave birth to her twin girls. We're all very excited. She was taking fertility drugs, and finally last winter she became pregnant. She'd looked really awful during her entire pregnancy, and in fact, had been throwing up clear into her third trimester. Poor woman.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had know, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had know, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
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