Twinfo

Amazing. She’s totally got it, and it all seemed to fall into place around their due date last Friday.

I am so happy, but understand completely why mothers of twins resort so often to bottle feeding (stubborn, me…). I love it when they feed from me, despite the fact that my left nipple feels like a piece of raw flesh being chewed in the grip of a terrier’s jaws for the first 10 seconds. They are ruthless - just one bad latch 3 weeks ago that I overlooked because it had taken an hour to achieve, and the pain still persists.

Top tip girls - NEVER persist with a bad latch. Even if it took a week to achieve.

Today the three of us achieved something I thought was way out of my short term reach.

At 9am I got up, then single handedly (which is a misnomer as I’ve got two hands - luckily) and simultaneously picked up two babies, changed two babies and plugged in and fed two babies, yes, on the breast, and both totally at once, yes!

I called Paul, and his mum to come and witness; I ordered Paul to take a photo. Then I reached for the phone just within my grasp and telephoned people with the news. Then I sent text messages of my achievement. Having bored the whole world to tears with my story, I’m now blogging about it.

Now of course I think I’m superwoman…

It was however, as always, a case of two steps forward one big one back. The rest of the day was rubbish. Ruby pursed her lips for most of it, refusing to drink the precious nectar I make for her with love, opting instead for some muck by Milupa. Bad baby…

Out of pure laziness (I deserve a break now and again) we gave both girls a bottle in the night rather than suffer the uncertainty of breastfeeding. As a result, I woke this morning to find my breast tissue had been replaced by lumps of wood. By 11am however having had the pair of them chawing on my nipples for a good 2 hours between them, my norgs as Paul likes to call them had been restored once again to the limp flat spaniels’ ears I’ve become accustomed to.

(Yep, they both fed today; hallelujah!)

Right now I’m strapped to a mint green plastic milking machine, bottles strapped to both breasts via a bikini top I adapted. I’m ingenious like that. The best bit is when you remove the bottles, and your vacuum enlarged nipples explode through the jagged cuts in the fabric like bullets firing out of a pistol. My readership has gone beyond friends and family now so I won’t post a picture. It’s very funny. In a kind of Hannah-Barbera way. You’ll have to imagine.

Today we had a breakthrough. Rosa fed once in the night (properly, I mean breastwise), and then again at a sensible hour in the morning, closely followed by her beautiful sister. Ruby has shown no interest so far in my diminutive mammary glands, but today proved that she knew exactly what to do with them. It was bliss. We all had another big sleep in the spare bed, and when I woke I noticed 2 months had passed and it was spring.

Breastfeeding is hard. I had no idea it could be so hard to get a baby to do what it’s supposed to do naturally. I don’t know how much is to do with the fact that they arrived early, the fact that there are two to teach, or the fact that hospital was a stressful early environment. Although resolve wanes periodically, I am determined to make this work. It will be a joyous day when they both want to feed from me. And at the same time? That would be too good to be true. We can only hope…

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.

I will admit now to being worried. I don’t like this at all. The swelling in my legs (now all the way up to the top, and showing a little in my wrists and face) is so severe that my movement is inhibited, and walking is becoming painful. Staying in any position for any length of time allows fluid to settle, meaning a change of position is very uncomfortable. Bending my legs now beyond 90 degrees is almost impossible with the fluid behind my knees.

My legs throb and ache and I don’t know where it will end or if it’s dangerous. My skin is sore and looks ready to burst. Paul has put the end of my bed up on blocks. I’ll report on the effectiveness of this in the morning. Can’t talk about this any more, it upsets me.

Yesterday after sicking up my entire cooked breakfast just minutes after coaxing it carefully down (the cat made me clear up more rodent entrails from the Persian carpet in the hall), I was once again back in my bed on the maternity assessment ward.

Same tests all over again, some very kicky babies (with LOVELY growth charts, “mmm yes, beautiful” she said, the gentle midwife with the lisp), nothing up with my blood, blood pressure acceptable, and nothing to report from the sticky pad heart machine.

I gently suggested that I stop coming in so much, expecting resistance - to my surprise my freedom was granted. I am evidently considered less of a risk now, though twice weekly blood pressure and weekly blood tests will be done by my midwife. (Never mind that, I’ll be doing my own pressure every day thank you very much. I have my own machine you know…)

So that’s all good. What’s not good (and they seem uninterested in this) is that my tubby legs are expanding faster than ever; my taught skin now stretched to the limit, shiny and pink from toe to thigh feels sunburnt by the end of the day, an odd sensation in winter. I tried the popular advice of resting with them up - a disaster - with this much fluid (I can put on 1/2 a stone in a day) in just half an hour it’s shifted to such an extent that I can’t bend my knees. Not funny!

Like some kind of Frankenstein creation, my beefy legs and skinny arms appear to have been sourced from different bodies, so mis-matched are they. Even my chav velour track pants are beginning to groan under the strain…

Stretch mark cream now reserved for legs as tummy seems to be coping so well.

So - another scan, and once again these two girls are doing fantastically well. They care little about my lumpy legs, swelling induced restricted finger, even arm movement, stiff joints and intermittent lower back spasms that without fail bring on a face worthy of a gurning competition. Another way to look at it is that they are well aware and are behaving impeccably so as not to add to my burden (woe is me…). Good girls, keep that up when you’re born please.

This time their measurements are almost identical, just one millimeter between their head sizes, and the same story with femur length and abdominal circumference. One cross slap bang on top of the other and both still slap bang on that desirable middle line on the chart. Now once again I can’t help wondering if that points to identical twins, as why would fraternals at this late stage be so similar?

Speaking of which we were told again that they weren’t due to the presence of two chorions, the outer sacs. “Oh” I said, looking out of the window, pretending to accept the well meaning nurse’s explanation. Paul’s becoming increasingly frustrated with this, and speaks of taking in some good teaching material, calling a staff meeting and giving a brief lesson on the exact permutations of twins and their amnions, chorions and placentas. Go Paul…

Such a common misconception is this, that I heard of a mother in the States recently that scooped first prize two years running for her baby sons in the ‘fraternal twins that look most alike’ competition. (Do we have those? No, didn’t think so…) The following year DNA testing found that they were in fact identical. Oops!

Having spent most of yesterday back in hospital for some waiting around and the odd repeat check, I’m now at home with itchy stickers on my chest strapped up to a machine that records 24 hours of heart activity. Having been largely ignored by the first consultant on Wednesday, I upped my game, writing a clear list of symptoms and asking again for investigation into the odd heart rhythms and weakness I’ve been experiencing.

The combination perhaps of my precise list and a different doctor meant this time, to my surprise, I was taken utterly seriously. Immediately an ECG was ordered, then the other machine, after which the registrar sent a message that he’d like me to remain in overnight for observation. I got exactly what I wanted, which was to be taken seriously, but was now caught between feeling pleased at my success and nervous of what I’d started.

Against medical advice I declined the offer of a comfy night on the ward and the promise of some great food (Jamie - you’ve done school canteens, now it’s time to get onto the hospitals…), and feeling a bit rebellious, settled myself in front of Celebrity Big Brother with a curry that I couldn’t manage more than a mouthful of. Bad idea. I do struggle with food, but this was properly rank. (Jamie - when you’re done with hospitals, get onto the curry houses.)

My own bed was well worth going against medical advice for even if NHS food might have proved a better option than the gunk I ordered. The deal with the equipment was that I remain connected for 24 hours, without bath or shower (swimming pool OK presumably), and record all activity along with precise times and symptoms. Putting on the light to note that I’d got out of bed for the toilet at 4.54am (no symptoms to report), was tedious I have to say, but remembering that I’d brought this upon myself, I dutifully obliged…

Some poor sod now has the job of tallying my scribbles with the machine’s readings and making some sense out of the data. As for me, it’s now 3pm and I have some slimy stickers and wires to remove. Phew…

On her visit (chez moi, very nice), the midwife found my blood pressure to have reached 140/80; with a booking pressure of 100/60, the significant increase along with my unexplained swelling caused some concern. She’s to take another reading on Friday - if the diastolic figure reaches 85, she plans to monitor me, threatening hospital admission if it reaches 90. Boring - have to avoid if that if I possibly can I’m thinking. I’ve always had such low blood pressure, so I smugly decide that admission is highly unlikely.

Today when my own checks reveal a reading of 170/100, I actually admit myself without struggle or permission. Over the space of 4 hours I’m subjected to various blood and other tests, fetal activity monitoring (they’re squirming as usual, oblivious to my issues and seemingly perfectly happy with textbook heartbeats), but with no real conclusion as to why my ankles look like cold custard poured into a pair of tights, and why my blood pressure has gone from a healthy low to an alarming high in a matter of days.

Since it’s customary to comment on the staff, I won’t disappoint. I was lucky enough to spend most of the time with the kindest, most helpful, caring, attentive and wide angel on earth (nurse, midwife? I never have got the hang of hospital uniforms). Then, the tranquility shattered as Dr Sour arrived, clearly having left his bedside manner in the car park.

Not only did he pay little attention to and dismiss most of what I said, he had scant disregard for the obvious concern of my GP, midwife and the angel, with the air of someone who has better things to do with his time. (”Why did you come in?” he asked).

Like many people, I have a blood pressure monitor at home, but bought it when on special offer more for curiosity than serious medical need. However in this case it proved a very useful first alert, with the readings tallying pretty much with those of the calibrated hospital machines. Obviously displeased at what he seemed to consider my intervention, he asked why I possessed one. I paused saying that I didn’t know how to answer. I spent the afternoon in a large, clean and pleasant room, though clearly too cramped for his ego.

When he left the angel apologised to me for his manner. I felt sorry for her having to do that, but it did make her even more lovely. When I asked for his name and confided that I found him a bit abrupt, there was a certain rolling of the eyes that said it all. “You and me both…” she said, her halo glowing brighter than ever.

These feet are really looking stupid now, and I took them for the doctor to have a laugh at today. He didn’t find them funny at all. In fact, he took them very seriously, right away requested urine and blood tests to check out my liver, kidneys and other parts, and ordered the midwife to pay me a home visit in the morning armed with the results.

The answerphone message I got from her said she’d be with me before midday; she didn’t expect me to be out, as I’d obviously be resting. I didn’t know I was meant to be resting. It must be worse than I thought. I’m very happy though, not to have to heave myself back into the car to go to the surgery again (I move as though crippled).

I’m glad he took this seriously. Ankles fatter than your head is obviously not a good thing, and this is the third time I’ve pointed it out to my care givers.

I’ll interpret rest in my own way, as duvet, daytime TV and plenty of cake.

I am so tired. It’s almost week 32 and chronic fatigue has stepped up a gear. Whether to put it down to getting up 5 times in the night and finally giving up trying to sleep at 5am (the bonus was that I saw a beautiful strong moon casting a magical light between the shrubs on the lawn) or just the tail end of this cold, I’m not sure. Both I expect, plus being properly up the duff, and carrying an extra 3 stone about (I’ve overtaken Paul - eek! The talking scales say “one at a time please…”)

Mornings used to be my best time, for energy, enthusiasm and a general lust for life, albeit one that often waned exposing harsh reality by lunchtime. This morning my legs felt too weak to hold me up even for the time it took to make two pieces of toast and peanut butter. I was back in bed by 8am, though did manage to see to a load of washing and get a beef casserole going in the slow cooker first before I slumped. At least I don’t have to cook tonight. Love the slow cooker, it’s like someone else has made you your tea…

Lucky me that I can go back to bed - I’ve just guiltily realised that some do this with a child or two already. I have no right to complain.

Woke at 9.30 to the cleaner doing all the jobs I’m delighted to avoid. Bliss. A second breakfast is way more delicious than the first when you’re watching someone else clean the sink.

I had my first “double trouble” comment today, and was asked later if I’d conceived naturally. Strangely I didn’t really object to either, though I hear these are pretty much top of the list for riling parents of twins or twins to be, along with being asked whether boy girl twins are identical. Durr…

(One little girl’s stock answer “No, he’s got a willy and I haven’t” seems to do the trick.)

I’ve made an equipment list – it’s shocking how much we seem to need for these tiny creatures. I suspect it’s not ‘need’, but rather ‘want’ and well… something else. I used a checklist of some 180 items from a baby magazine as a starting point, and now I think about it, the page was fairly heavily embellished with various ads for brand name baby consumables. Mmm… I smell a rat.

I thought I was more of the cavewoman mentality, you know, tie the baby on my back with some animal skin, then off we go, not a buggy, changing bag or one of those handled carrier things in sight, but it would appear I’m getting a little sucked in…

Speaking of buggies, I refuse to buy a double, or at least, not just yet. The idea of negotiating my car boot, kerbs, and slimline shop doorways with a weighty monster of hulking travel equipment for two tiny 7.5 pounders is not my bag at all I can tell you.

I’ve secured myself a used but sound and lightweight single buggy with carrycot; they can jolly well share that for a while or take turns between the sling and pram, and when they’re too big I’ve cleverly chosen a model that converts to a single pushchair for those occasional separate outings I’m told are a must for one to one parent child bonding. God I’m good.

I’m not falling for this consumerist pressure before I’ve even met the girls; a good double buggy seems to cost upward of £500, and apparently many twin families repeatedly buy in error not finding the right one until contraption number 3! This way suits me fine, and you can be sure I’ll let you know how I get on. Trouble is, I’ve not heard of anyone else adopting this approach meaning I’m either truly a pioneer, or quite deluded.