And next, we spend a traumatic week in hospital. Although they didn’t go into special care, our first week didn’t get off to a great start with an incubator and invasive photo therapy for minor levels of jaundice, along with an obsession with feed quantities, nappy contents and blood tests.

Not a great start that brought severe anxiety for me resulting in my sleepwalking on the ward, looking for my babies in my handbag in the middle of the night, and hallucinations. I would wake frequently to see them limp and hung up around the walls on hooks with my clothes, and leap out of bed to rescue them, believing them just seconds from death. As each day went by I lost a degree of control, strength, and ultimately sanity until I felt like I’d been sectioned.

Pronounced obstetrically fine around day 3, it was the babies that supposedly needed attention though in my opinion the extended stay was unnecessary, and actually counter productive after day 3. The worst thing is that we seem to be paying for it now in breastfeeding difficulties, so hard was it to establish this with the stresses of the hospital stay. I’m lucky if I can get them to feed on the breast once each per day; I feel like a bad mother letting her children down.

On day 5 things improved a little as I was moved to a private suite; perhaps fearing they might find me limp outside beneath the ward window if something didn’t change, and I shudder now to remember the thought actually crossing my mind. I didn’t know I had such a strong aversion to hospitals; obviously I didn’t enjoy my pre-natal visits, but something else entirely kicked in when my strong healthy babies were subjected to in my opinion endless distressing and unnecessary tests and unpleasant treatment.

Why didn’t I just leave? That’s the hard part. I would have been happy to. I took advice on their jaundice (the only reason they were kept in) and made an informed decision that the levels were so low that they were and would continue to be fine. Apparently sleeping by day in a window would have been adequate. The fact is that I’m not the only person responsible for decisions over their care. And that’s all I can say on the matter. I do believe we’re paying for it now, but that’s just the way it is.

For the entire duration of our stay they were known as twin 1 and twin 2. Naming them inside just wasn’t going to happen though we had ideas. The staff kept asking; I kept saying we hadn’t decided yet, embarrassed as each day passed. But I knew when we finally got home, it would be a pleasure to do.

We arrived home on Monday evening, a week after their birthday; it was bliss! They had names the next morning. It’s difficult, and I struggle with coaxing them to breastfeed daily, but it’s still bliss. They truly are lovely.

So, quite by surprise, and on the very same day I’m booked for an induction (that I’m adamant I’m not going to accept), out they slip, and all of their own accord.

3.45pm February 11th. With the unsettling sensation of warm fluids trickling uncontrollably from between my legs, I’m feeling all together a mixture of concern for the twins’ prematurity, relief that the pregnancy has finally come to an end, then embarrassment that perhaps this isn’t my waters breaking at all.

On the phone at the time to good friend Charlotte, discussing the delights of twin pregnancies, (she’s carrying indenticals) I brought the call to an abrupt end, then instantly regretted spilling the beans; what on earth would I say when they sent me home, tail between soggy legs, not actually in labour at all? By that time she’d have excitedly told everyone that things were on the way, and I’d have to admit that actually I’d not really done my pelvic floor exercises.

Well thankfully I’m not yet in the market for Tena Lady Extra Plus. I was indeed in labour; they were coming, and pretty fast it would appear too.

It was an ordeal; weak from the last sedentary month of swollen pregnancy, and without the flexibility and vitality I’d expected to see me through all the planned labour positions of my active birth, I was fairly static from fetal heartbeat monitoring the whole time, and did the hardest part on my back in stirrups. “Not very NCT” said the midwife, and she was right. But falling properly asleep between contractions, I was glad for the support.

Felt at one point like I couldn’t go on, but hearing somewhere in the fuzzy distance that baby number one was a little tired, and to prep me for theatre, I summoned all the strength I had left, pushed my face into a contorted purple blob, and squeezed the first of my modest litter out at 7.47am with the help of ventouse. It was agony. Pain with a purpose? My arse. Next time I’m having everything, but I fancied being a hero and trying at least once without intervention.

Number two arrived about twenty minutes later, and with them both safely on my deflated football of a tummy, Paul and I looked at each other, relieved, exhausted, and emotional; a family.

And I almost forgot – who stepped in fresh onto his morning shift with neatly pressed shirt and imaculate suit at the last moment to steer my little angels into the world? Yep, Mr Sour! He bossed me around to just the right extent (I was unusually compliant throughout the whole episode) to get the job done, but without intervening more than my hedge monkey ethic would accept. He didn’t flap, or over-react; I consider myself extremely lucky to have had almost the most natural twin birth I could possibly expect - I don’t doubt that under anyone else, the mention of theatre would have become a reality, 16 hours of labour then a slice. I can only shudder at the thought. Mr Sour, once again you have redeemed yourself. I salute you. Big time.

It was only when I tried to stand up later that day that I realised how drained I was. I had a shower held up by Paul, then spent the rest of the day checking that my babies were breathing.

They tried to induce me today. Quite suddenly, without warning, as I was in for a routine check. By that, I don’t mean that they slipped a quick dose of prostaglandins in my tea, or whipped a pessary up under the covers when I wasn’t looking; they did ask my permission, but it didn’t feel very much like I had a choice.

Anyway it came as such a surprise, I laughed. Then I left.

“Reckless” they probably thought.

“Barmy” I definitely thought.

So that was Mr Cool. Mr K, on the other hand (AKA Mr easy on the eye / Dr Fit, yep, I’m with you there ladies…) had me believe belly slice delivery imminent, and that I was reckless for not allowing him to dose me a big fat wallop of steroids there and then, the minute he found my blood pressure up a mere smidge (white coat syndrome, I’m convinced of it). The steroids are to mature the babies’ lungs; a practice my health authority insists on for 4 additional gestational weeks after the rest of the country considers it unnecessary.

So the diagnosis is this – I am pre-eclamptic, but it’s being controlled, fretting not required, and a normal vaginal delivery can be expected in anything from a week’s time. This is all good, or at least as close as I can reasonably expect to get to the natural, non-invasive drug free birth that a hippy like me would like. Induction, probably, but just don’t slice me up! Thanks.

So I when I said rather arrogantly, or optimistically depending on how you look at it, that I was going for 40 weeks, I didn’t have fat legs then. Sorry, I thought I could manage. Then it all started. Now I see…

Well… so much to say. Sorry for the absence, but I was in prison. Imprisoned I mean. And thanks to the episode of limited, rather no, freedom, I now understand a great deal more about the various beliefs and approaches of hospital staff, from midwife to top level consultant, and their hugely differing interpretations of test results and hospital protocol.

If I were to believe every word uttered from the mouth of every caregiver I’d believe I was critically ill one day and perfectly fit and healthy the next.

Take Dr Sour for example, who left his bedside manner in the car park a few weeks ago. Seems I had him all wrong. Completely - and I’m not saying that just because he was the only one that approved of my going home (albeit blood pressure dependent, but that’s OK, I cracked it – deep breaths and think of lavender – works a treat).

Why he’s now Dr Cool
He seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge in hysteria or over react. I approve of that. Like I said, not ill, pregnant. PREG – NANT. See? There are certain symptoms associated with pregnancy that don’t necessarily need drugs, bed rest or imprisonment. I guess when I marched in the other week insisting I needed an ECG, he did the same – didn’t freak out, took my pulse, told me it wasn’t necessary. When I finally persuaded one of the hystericals to order me one, the result was normal. At that time, I wanted to be taken notice of – but get too much attention, suddenly all you want is to be left alone.

So Mr Sour, (and it seems you are ‘Mr’ not ‘Dr’, my mistake) you are now Mr Cool, and welcome at my bedside anytime, manner or no manner, it’s all the same to me…

Do you know what, I think the twatting record’s got stuck.

Finally re-united with my computer (been imprisoned in my fetid NHS bed on an overheated ward without sniff of a wireless connection for a good week) I’ve read back through the last 3 or 4 posts and concluded that I’m not really giving value for money here. Thank you all for your concerned messages, but the story of my fat legs is becoming boring. Correction – it’s become dull as fuck, and you really don’t deserve to be subjected to such blatant self-pity any longer.

And just so you know, I’m no longer upset by it. Yes it’s shit, they hurt, I move like an eighty year old arthritic, but they look so daft, it’s actually quite funny, and apparently this temporary situation’s doing me no harm at all.

So last night we took some pictures; you might get to see them. But for now, I have a little catching up to do on events in the last week or so when my progress reports were non existent. I’ll fill in the details in some sort of order; lots to say, but for now, just this – my faith in conventional medicine is waning more than I ever thought possible.