Eight years ago today I was lying in a bed in the antepartum wing of the hospital, my OBGYN and my perinatologist on either side of me.
They looked over my charts and numbers from the weekend and were all, “Yeah, NO. These do not look good.”
And I was all, “I’m feeling great! I think I can totally keep my blood pressure under control at home.”
And they were all, “Your babies are fine for now, but you’re probably going to have a seizure if we let this go any longer.”
(Let’s not talk about the nurse who had said, “We were all talking about how we’ve never seen someone with protein so high who was still pregnant!”)
And then an hour or so later, a nurse stuck her head in my room.
“Did they tell you you’re delivering today?”
And I said, “No. No they did not.”
And she said, “Oh! Well you’re on the board for 4:30!”
And I was like, “DAMN.”
And that is – give or take a few liberally misquoted conversations, but that’s pretty much the gist of how it went down – THAT is how I ended up delivering two tiny twin girls at 31 weeks.
Happy birthday, sweethearts. We’ve come a long way.