September 9. Wish I had more time to write more. I get exhausted at night and end up having a few beers and crashing with Jenny. But it was a great, great day -- can't say that about most of them the past few weeks.
I've been going to the hospital during my lunch hour, which seems to stretch out a little longer than an hour once I get there. Today I got there and visited Luna right off.
The act of visiting is becoming routine. Jenny & I do it differently. She tends to stay for hours, and she holds the girls. She opens her blouse and puts their small warm bodies against her skin, and she'll hold them and rock and talk to them.
When Jenny is holding one of the girls, I can lean forward from my chair and pull back the edge of the blanket and see their small, pinched face up close, very close. Usually they put a hand against Jenny's skin, beside their cheek. Their eyes are large, almost too large for their sockets. The skin over the eyes is almost transparent, reveals the exact shape of the globe that is the eyeball.
The twins seem very happy against Jenny, but it's hard to say what they feel or don't feel, what they know or don't know. The cynic that I am, I tend to think they don't feel much. But the nurses disagree, and there has been some evidence to suggest that mothers who engage in "kangaroo care" tend to have healthier babies that go home sooner.
When Jenny isn't there holding one of the girls, I stand by the isolet and pull back a blanket that covers the plexiglass dome and stare down through the slightly blurry plastic and watch my daughters.
They move, but very slightly. They stick their legs out of the blankets, stretch. They churn a little. The breathing always seems labored.
Sometimes their faces contort, as if in agony. But I don't know if they're feeling pain or if it's just some kind of facial tick. Maybe they're going to the bathroom.
I wish I knew what I felt exactly when I'm standing over the isolet looking down at them. I can say this, I suppose. When I'm looking at Luna, I'm rooting for her. I'm hoping she will make it. When I'm looking at Stella, I'm remarking to myself about her size, much larger than Luna; and I'm wanting her to hang in there, to persist, to keep growing. I worry less about Stella than Luna.
But today was a big day for Luna. I was standing over the isolet, for about a half hour, partly listening to the nurses gabbing in the pod, when a new arrival came. Luna has a new podmate, a little boy across the way. A couple of nurses got busy hooking up the newborn. One of Luna's doctors, who had just been at the delivery, arrived with them. She busied herself with the newborn and then came and talked to me.
I tried to act like it was no big deal. I said something like, 'Looks like you're busy this morning....New arrival and all...' I didn't want to appear too anxious. But she had news, good news. The latest ultrasound reveals that the ventricles in Luna's brain have not increased in size. In fact, they're a little smaller. The PVL has not increased and remains static. The doctor feels good about her condition and doesn't seem too concerned about the bleed.
I had to sit down and think a few moments after thanking the doctor. I could feel a kind of weight leaving me...no it's more like this. The whole drama of the birth and sustaining life just takes a big piece out of you, like you've been bitten by a shark or something. Really, it's silly the way I just put it, but I'm tired, and that's how it feels. Like you've lost a chunk of your left hip, and your own bleeding just gushes, just rolls on out, and you feel yourself getting weaker, but you stagger on. You keep going.
I texted Jenny on the old iPhone, but didn't give her the news because she texted back that she arriving at the hospital. When she came into the NICU, where I was waiting ,the doc gave her the news. 'That's good to hear,' Jenny said. We embraced.
All the same, in the time between when I got the news and when Jenny arrived, I dialed the happiness and enthusiasm down a few notches. I don't want to get excited. I'm more comfortable, it seems like, playing against the odds.
A couple of days ago, while Jenny was holding Luna, the nurse suggested we change the tot's diapers. These diapers are about the size of a playing card. Jenny lowered the squalling bundle off her chest into her lap, wires slung over her shoulder. I peeled back the diaper. It was filthy, an Army-green paste mixed with cakey white diaper creme. It was thick, a mess, up and down her legs. I took about a dozen wipes from the drawer in the isolet and slowly daubed up the waste and the creme from her toothpick legs and crumbled bottom. Jenny peered into the darkness and held Luna tight. We laughed. Something normal, regular, for a change. I clipped on a new diaper. Jenny brought Luna to her chest again, closed her eyes, rocked.
