One breath is long enough and too short by far, the pain in my belly taking on color. The rip is so intense, I can't even close my eyes. I feel like webbing covers me, all of it pulled tight under my skin.
“Oh, no,” I hear Andrew grunt from a million miles away, his hands going to my shoulder, my hips, steadying me.
“I'm. Oh. Kay,” I gasp.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, slow and low, meant to calm and soothe. “I called ahead. They know you're coming. Dr. Armaji is on duty.”
I remember her. A flash of memory hits me, no words attached, just a wide smile, slightly crooked front teeth, deep brown eyes with impossibly long lashes. Her older son plays lacrosse and Andrew gave her some tips to pass on.
And just like that, the grip lessens.
Shuffling, I notice each muscle of my inner thighs, how they stretch and tighten, my mind telling them what to do even as other muscles in me take over and do their work, heedless of my command.
“The doctor's office texted. Said to go in through the ER entrance but she's ready for you.”
We make it to an admitting desk, where we're waved onto an elevator to go to the labor and delivery wing. When we came here for childbirth classes, we entered a different way. I'm lost.
Andrew isn't.
“Do you need a wheelchair?” Andrew asks. For some reason, the question angers me.
Apparently, my glare is enough of an answer.
“Here,” he says, hands never leaving me even when he has to push the elevator button for the third floor. He's got the backpack over one shoulder now and my bag in his hand.
My hair must be a mess. We're not presentable. We're not–
“Shhhhh,” he murmurs, wiping away tears I don't even realize are there. “Here.” He hands me another water from the bag.
I sip slowly, then drink faster. If hydration takes the pain away, hook me up to a five-gallon jug and a hose.
Ding!
The elevator doors open and we're suddenly in soft light, a nurse's desk in front of us.
“McCormick?” a woman in scrubs calls out.
“Yes,” Andrew answers.
She points down the hall. “Room 14. Dr. Armaji's already there.”
“It must be really bad if we're getting this kind of treatment,” I gasp as we make our way to the room.
“Or she happened to be here at the hospital and we're lucky,” he counters, making me smile.
“Amanda!” Dr. Armaji is in scrubs, hands on her hips, the friendly, crooked smile making me relax instantly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I know, right?”
“Tell me what's going on.”
For the next five minutes, she checks the heartbeats, the soothing sound of twin galloping hearts making Andrew's jaw unclench, her long list of questions automatic for her. How do obstetricians handle the responsibility? Life itself is in their hands, literally.
Every decision they make in giving advice and counsel to pregnant women has a possible bad outcome. The weight of that must be enormous.
And speaking of enormous...
Dr. Armaji sits on a stool at the base of the exam table. I'm still fully clothed, leaning back, palms flat against the paper strip covering the cool vinyl.
“I'm not going to examine you, especially because the tissues are likely delicate from the sexual intercourse you engaged in last night. But my guess is that the cervix is starting to thin, though not much. You've been with me for eleven minutes and haven't had a contraction.”
“I swear I was!”
One hand goes to my knee, reassuring. “I believe you. And it must be very frightening. But the babies are fine.”
As if on cue, my lower belly pulls in. She senses it, but looks to the monitor.
“Here we go,” she whispers, watching. We all do. It's amazing. What my body does is being tracked on that thin strip of paper, documented in a way that medical professionals will interpret, then act on.
All to save lives.
I breathe through it. It’s painful, but in a shallow way. If nothing else, I feel grateful: My body is showing the doctor what's going on.
“Just breathe. You've crested the peak. The rest is downhill.”
I let out a long, slow sigh.
“Now drink.”
Andrew hands me the water.
“Here's what I see, Amanda. You're experiencing early contractions. Twin pregnancies have their own rhythm, so you can't go by singleton timelines. You're at thirty weeks. We want these little boys to cook for a while longer. We can do a cervical exam, but I'd prefer to wait and have you come into the office tomorrow and we'll do a full workup then.”
“I'm not–I'm not having the babies now?”
“No. Definitely not.” She looks at the water in my hand. “Keep drinking that.”
I obey doctor's orders.
“They need more time, don't they?” Andrew asks. “What if–”
“Let's not play the what-if game, Andrew,” she says kindly. “That will drive you crazy.”
“This is driving me crazy, too.”
“Amanda, you're fine. The babies are fine. We'll see you tomorrow in the office–it'll be a chance to meet another doctor in the practice,” she says with a chuckle.
“I do have two left I haven't met.”
She nods. “And I want you on bed rest.”
“What?”
“Bed rest is best, until you reach thirty-six weeks.”
“That's six more weeks! I can't just sit around for six weeks!”
Andrew interrupts. “You can, and you will.”
“I have a department to run!”
“We'll argue about this later,” Andrew says tersely as Dr. Armaji gives us side eye, using a stylus on a tablet to document something.
“Don't you mean discuss?”
His failure to answer fills me with dread.
Right. Argue it is.
The doctor hands me a short list of instructions that define exactly what bed rest means, but then her phone beeps. She looks at it and frowns.
“Excuse me. I have to take this. Laboring multipara.” She slips into the hall for a moment.
“How are you?” he asks, wincing the second the words are out because duh–how does he think I am?
But I also get it. I know what he means.
“I'm terrified.”
“So am I,” he confesses, surprising me.
“You are? Damn.” The tears fill my throat. “You're never afraid. That means I should be even more scared.”
“No! No, honey. That's not what I want. I was just being open.”
“I think I liked you better when you were an emotionless automaton fixated on work.”
“You've changed me enough that I can't go back to being like that anymore.”
“Is that a compliment?”
The doctor slips back in at that moment, so we shut up. I read the paperwork.
My eyes skim the part about sex.
No intercourse.
“None?” I gasp, Dr. Armaji clearly understanding exactly what I'm reading.
“There are plenty of safe sexual practices you and your husband can engage in, but at this point, intercourse isn't one of them,” she begins.