I need a word stronger than shivering.
I'm cold. So, so cold. I had been sitting on that bed with my belly exposed, after coming back into the air conditioning from the balmy fall day, for over an hour. My hair is wet from a pre-lunch shower. And I'm more than shivering. So, quaking?
I need a word stronger than trembling.
I'm terrified. The seven women run me down the hall to a locked elevator, and we descend two floors. We careen around corners, into a fluorescent room, and they tell me they need to do an emergency c-section. "We've got to get Baby A out of there," they say. And I'm more than trembling. So, convulsing?
I'm quaking. I'm convulsing.
All the women are donning gowns, gloves, caps. Nobody's scrubbing--no time. Someone puts a cap on my head. Someone else pulls my pants off and throws them on the floor. "I'm going to insert the catheter now," says a body-less voice at my feet.
The women gathered around my hips ask, "Can we go?"
A woman at the top of my head yells, "NO! She's still wide awake!"
This woman leans over me, her face upside down. "I'm [no idea what her name is], the anesthesiologist. What's your name?" she asks. I try to answer, but every time I open my mouth, I convulse. Huck, huck, huck is the only sound I can make. She puts a mask on my face and tells me it's oxygen. "Breathe," she says. I can't breathe. Huck, huck, huck.
"NO!" But then she looks at me. "You're going to go to sleep now."
I don't feel like I'm going to sleep. I feel like I'm quaking. I'm convulsing.
I blink. I'm quaking. It's so cold.
There are only three or four women left in the room. Everyone's moving more slowly.
I slide my hand over my stomach. It's smaller.
I shift on the bed. Fire. The crescent line between my hipbones is on fire.
"Where are my babies?" I ask.
"They're in the Intensive Care Nursery," someone says.
I'm convulsing. "Are they OK?" I ask and start to weep.
"We're taking good care of them. Baby A was having some trouble breathing, so we had to put a tube down his throat."
I still have no idea who I'm talking to. I speak at the ceiling.
"Well, you need to go recover for at least a couple hours first." My heart shatters.
"We'll get you warmed up," says the person. I think that person is lying.
I get wheeled into a recovery room. The nurse lays heated blankets on me, and I just stare at the wall. Quaking. Convulsing.
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