“It’s a twin pregnancy”.
It’s amazing how four words can change everything. On 11th June 2007, at 12 weeks and 5 days pregnant I went for my nuchal scan.
The night before, I had a dream (my first really whacky pregnancy dream) that I went for the scan and the sonographer couldn’t find anything. As they showed me the blank screen, I wondered why I had been feeling so sick and tired and felt really stupid. The receptionist told me off for wasting their time. I woke up in a confused state and dragged myself out of bed.
First stop, bathroom. I was in the throes of incredibly bad morning sickness. The magic 13 week milestone was drawing nearer yet I felt terrible. As it turned out I would get worse before the sickness eased but I wasn’t to know that at the time. I felt extremely apprehensive, as if I were about to take my Law A-level exam again. Luckily I had a 9am appointment so I didn’t have to spend the whole day building up to it.
I recall that it was a warm and dry, if rather cloudy day. For some reason (probably the fear of an internal) I decided it was absolutely essential that I shave my legs and so I wore a skirt and top and wondered how long I would still fit in them. I vividly recall throwing up all over my skirt on our way to the hospital as the bus lurched over a speed bump. I tried in vain to sponge off the worst of the sick in the hospital toilet but the stains remained and I was very aware that I carried a strong whiff of vomit with me.
I anticipated a long wait but we were called in by the sonographer pretty quickly. We sat down and went through the standard questions: confirming name and date of birth, yes this is my first pregnancy, no previous miscarriages. Formalities over, the scan began. The screen was positioned so we could both see it. I remember seeing two blobs on the screen and thinking ‘My baby has a really big arse!’. Then the four words:
“It’s a twin pregnancy”
I felt my body tense up. “W-WHAT?” I stammered. “It’s a twin pregnancy – two babies”. The sonographer spoke as if we already knew. “Oh my GOD”. I felt the tears start. I looked over at dh, who was now holding my hand a little tighter than when the scan began. I vocalised my next thought: “Are they ok?”. The sonographer said they looked fine, but he had to do lots of checks and measurements so it would take a while and not to worry.
I recall watching the two little creatures on the screen as if I were watching myself from above. Twin 2 (on my right) was clearly an early bird and waved its arms and legs around as if to say ‘Hello, I’m here and everything’s fine”. Twin 1 (on my left) was completely still. The sonographer tapped my stomach with the wand to make it move. Nothing. He banged a little harder. A tiny twitch? He banged a third time, quite hard. Finally Twin 1 decided to wake up and make some little movements. I realised I had been holding my breath and thought it might be a good idea to breathe out.
Then, the magic bit. The sonographer turned the sound on and we heard our babies’(!) heartbeats for the first time, galloping like horses in the Grand National. It was the most amazing noise I had ever heard. They were ok. They were really ok.
The sonographer said he was fairly sure they were non-identical twins but wanted to get a senior person in to make sure. My Dad (it was all his fault!) is a non-identical twin, so I was in no doubt. He came back with his colleague, who stuck her head round the door, glanced at the screen and said “Separate sacs, definitely non-identical” and disappeared.
That was it. I could have sat and watched the tiny creatures on the screen for hours but our time was up. The scheduled 20 minute appointment had taken nearly an hour. The poor sonographer would probably be behind with his appointments for the rest of the day.
We walked to the reception desk to book the next scan clutching a yellow piece of paper with the babies measurements and the black and white scan pictures and experienced our first ‘Twin conversation’: “Ooh Christmas twins! Do they run in your family?” the receptionist smiled. Recovered from my tears, I smiled broadly and told her about my Dad, as if I had been practising for this moment for years.
As we walked out of the hospital, I burst into giggles which turned into hysterical laughter. I looked at dh: “Bloody hell!” and we just smiled at each other. I realised that he had been incredibly calm throughout but I didn’t question it at the time. Afterwards he told me that he was more concerned by my reaction to the news rather than the news itself.
We switched our mobiles on and I rang my Mum. She didn’t answer (she’d popped out) so I took it as a sign that my Dad should know first and rang him. I told him the news and he had what I can only describe as ‘The vapours’: “Oh my gawd, bloody hell, Christ, etc etc”. Not exactly the calm reassurance I badly needed at that moment! I informed him (semi seriously) that it was all his fault and left him to his fretting. I got through to Mum and she burst out laughing when I told her! Then we went through the process of telling everyone else via phone calls, text messages and Facebook, naturally.
Later, dh went to work and I sat alone in our tiny flat wondering where on earth we would put two babies and all their stuff. Another thought struck me. I picked up the phone and dialled:
“Mum, how on earth do I breastfeed twins?!”
