Start bleeding uncontrollably one March evening while watching college basketball. You’re
embarrassingly sure you’ve peed in your pants until the couch is forever stained.
Stand in the bathtub and call your doctor. Listen to her tell you to get in the cab Right Now.
Bleed in the cab’s backseat. Feel bad about the mess.
Zip across the Manhattan Bridge. Know you’ll think about this ride every time you’re back here.
The fear and adrenaline taste like pennies on your tongue.
Skip the line—bleeding twin pregnancies trump.
Your doctor is there. She is not on call.
Everyone in the room wants to know exactly how much you’ve bled. No, really—how much? A
teaspoon, a cup, a gallon? Do you have the towel from the cab? They need to weigh it. The
team wants to deliver your babies right then and there—26 weeks and one day. Your doctor
stops them. Never stop loving her.
The bleeding wanes. The babies stay put.
But there’s a catch—now you live at the hospital. The only time you cracked that night was
when they let this slip. All you can think is: I have a literal baby at home. He can visit, they say.
Thus begins your surreal residency on the 8th floor. Your room is across from the OR—where
we put the bleeders, your favorite nurse confides.
Know you’re lucky—hospital, insurance, job, safety net. None of your safety guaranteed
without money, access, clout.
Decide continuing to work is the only thing that will keep you sane.
Hold conference calls and strategically angled Zooms from your hospital bed.
Post photos of your familiar family in unfamiliar places; sharp friends will notice.
Welcome your toddler who charms the nurses and delights in your mini fridge. He loves the
food; you do not.
You’re beholden to the babysitters and relatives who shuttle him back and forth to Brooklyn,
keeping Eastern Car Service afloat and only once leaving his panda in a car. You get it back.
Spoon your husband in that too-small hospital bed with that too-large baby belly. He’s keeping
everyone tethered.
Hate it when they leave, abhor goodnight kisses over FaceTime.
You’re west of the river and they’re east; all wrong.
Befriend the residents and the nurses, except for the awful one in the hairnet who scolds you.
Get to know their rhythms, stories, lingo. It’s just as important to be easygoing here as
anywhere else. Good girl, doesn’t make trouble, never asks for extra towels, still a bleeder.
Negotiate the sale of a second-hand twin carrier, pay the rent, finish the grant proposal, order
your toddler larger pajamas, keep after it.
Greet the woman who cleans the hallways. She is forever kind, quick to remind you that the
cleaning products she’s using are bad for your babies, and strangely sure you’ll try for a girl
next.
Google ad nauseam for anyone writing about your reality. Only platitudes and bullshit return.
You’re doing the best thing for the babies. Find a craft. Make your husband a to-do list.
Honestly, who the fuck are they to advise?
Watch your toddler put his grubby hands on your belly, wondering about its contents.
Savor these minutes with him, knowing your threesome is fleeting. Pre-grieve a little.
Have two more epic hemorrhages.
Kiss your chance of ever going home goodbye.
Each bleed, the crash team rushes in guns blazing, ready to deliver your babies. You snarl and
beat them back. It’s just you in the room each time. One of the NICU doctors you’ll get to know
later remembers you from these bloody fire drills; calls you a fierce mama from before the
beginning.
Start to refer to the hospital as prison and the courtyard as the prison yard. Picture yourself
swapping cigarettes and gossip with the other inmates, but you’re just circling the careful
plantings in your maternity leggings
Listen to everyone telling you to stay the course and do the right thing, as if you have a choice.
Miss your old life. Fear your new life. This current one is neither.
Get a blood transfusion during a long conference call. Guess which one will end first
Read all the relevant medical papers PubMed delivers. Become an accidental expert on
placenta previa and extreme prematurity.
Wrestle with the cumbersome fetal heart monitors. It’s worth it for the predictable thumps
they bring Double hearts holding steady.
Always wear long sleeves to the cafeteria; they cover your hospital bracelets and IV
paraphernalia.
Cheer when the cashier asks if you get the staff discount.
