and it only occurs in identical twin pregnancies, because they share a placenta.”
His delivery was nice enough, but this diagnosis still slapped me across the face. I should have been taking notes. But I couldn’t move let alone write anything down. Didn’t the doctor know how devastating this news was to me? I needed a moment to begin to wrap my mind around this and I needed some kind of hope before I dived into the dirty details.
But Dr. Bill was still talking. “The shared placenta contains abnormal blood vessels which connect the umbilical cord and the circulation of the twins.”
“What in the world?” I heard all of the words he was saying, but I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t decipher the secret code. What exactly is the problem? I asked myself. The shock of the news was inhibiting me from processing information in any coherent way. He kept repeating “monochorionic placenta,” “monochorionic-diamniotic,” “donor,” “recipient.” I was getting lost in the medical jargon. I felt like Marty again, “English, Doc Brown.” Then I immediately shifted into self-blame. Had I done something to cause this?
When I was five or six, I broke a Waterford crystal vase in our formal living room. My little sister Melissa was a toddler; we were playing tag and I was chasing after her. I ran into the side table knocking over the vase and spilling the hydrangeas that were arranged in it. There were shards of glass everywhere.
“It was all my fault,” I burst into tears when I told my mom what had happened.
“That‘s okay, it was an accident,” she reassured me. “You didn’t do it on purpose.”
I hadn’t done it on purpose but I was old enough to know I should not have been running around in the formal living room—a room that millennials such as myself deemed unnecessary. I also knew how special that vase was to her, and well, I needed to assign blame to ease the guilt; it was no different with the TTTS diagnosis.
I feared I was somehow to blame. “So…” I cleared my throat. “How exactly did this happen?” “Did I do something to cause this?”
I was too active; I should have rested more. In fact, I never should have gone off bedrest. After the blood clot dissipated, I thought we were in the clear and nothing else could go wrong. I thought I could resume normal pregnant activities, including a family trip to Sea World. I had clearly pushed myself too far.
He shook his head. “No, it was nothing you did or didn’t do. We aren’t certain what causes TTTS. It is not genetic or caused by a specific thing. It just happens.”
Why wasn’t there an explanation? I wondered. Not even a medical theory based on facts? I did everything right. Why did this have to happen to us? I wanted answers no doctor could give me.
I felts the hot tears come and I stopped listening. I knew what this diagnosis meant: my twins were in the balance, hanging on for dear life. Voices were muddling, and then I heard Dr. Bill say something that caused me to stop breathing: “If not dealt with immediately, the mortality rate is 95 percent for both babies. In other words, there‘s a slim chance of survival.”
“No.” I gasped. I kept saying. “No, no, no, no, no.” Hysteria gripped me.
“No, oh God, no!” my mom screamed, and my poor heartbroken dad put his face in his hands. Suddenly, I couldn’t take any more. I sat up, and fiercely grabbed some tissues to wipe off the gunky gel from my stomach. I pulled my blouse down, stepped off of the exam chair and snatched my Tory Burch purse. I bent down and scooped up Abby into my arms. “Mommy, Mommy!” Abby kissed my cheek, a few Goldfish crumbs still on her little lips. I’m outta here, I thought. I hugged her and five seconds later walked out of the exam room.
Chapter 2
The Wait
The April sun glared hotly as I stormed out of the doctor‘s office into the parking lot. My mind felt like it had fractured into a million pieces. I could feel the surge of emotion coming. No, not yet, I thought. Just hold it together until I get home. But I felt the outpour would begin at any second—the hot, thick tears of fear, panic and utter horror. I was short of breath. I had to put Abby down next to me. I felt like I’d been punched in the chest and it had knocked the wind out of me. I continued to hold back the tears, suppressing them, waiting for the right moment to let go. It definitely wasn’t here.
My parents caught up to me and Abby. My mom‘s face was splotchy, as if she’d been crying. She handed me a piece of paper with a name and number scribbled on it.
“The nurse stopped us on our way out,” she said, using a tissue to wipe her nose. “They want you to go and see a specialist first thing in the morning, I’m…” her voice broke.
“I’m so sorry honey,” she reached over and put her arms around me.
My dad reached into his pocket and handed me a small packet of tissues.
“A nurse from their office should be calling you,” my dad said, now holding Abby by the hand.
I let go of my mom and took a step back. I opened my purse and pulled out my cell phone. My eyes widened as I looked at the screen.
“Seven missed calls,” I screeched.
I had seven missed calls from Dr. Cooper, not the main office line, but his personal cell phone that he had given to me in case of an emergency. Bad news travels fast. I wondered if, at the moment I’d stormed out of the office, Dr. Bill had speed-dialed his colleague Dr. Cooper and relayed the upsetting news about his patient—the one he had referred to him months ago for additional screening. Dr. Cooper had been in the field for thirty years, he was confident with his decisions. After my second miscarriage, he had reassured me countless times, putting to bed my worries. He had a calm, cool and collected personality and spoke to me with such politeness and tact. His bedside manner was warm and soothing. Even when he didn’t have the answers—especially the ones I wanted to hear—confiding in him had always made me feel better. He made me feel like a smart, well-researched and concerned mother-to-be rather than a paranoid pregzilla who was constantly on Web MD trying to self-diagnose. Things had been turned upside down, and my calm Dr. Cooper was now the one freaking out and calling me. Yup, I replied to Dr. Cooper in my head. I’m aware that this-is-some-serious shit.
The car ride home seemed longer than usual. I stared out of the window taking notice of the Houston Rodeo billboards. I looked forward to this time of year almost as much as I did Christmas. But eating barbeque and watching bull riders was the furthest thing on my mind. I picked up my cell phone, scrolled through my favorites list and dialed Ed‘s office line. I hated sharing awful news over the phone. He answered on the first ring and I blurted out, “We have Twin to Twin disease, the girls are sick.”
“What?!” he cried in terror. I was sobbing into the phone, wiping my snot into my cheeks. I wasn’t ready to repeat the details of the appointment. I told him we could talk about it more in person when he came home from work. I did not feel like talking and my parents definitely understood. No one wanted to talk. There was utter silence the entire twenty-five-minute car ride home.
As we pulled onto our street, I noticed another car in the driveway. It was parked in the spot right next to where I usually parked my minivan. It was Ed‘s gray Kia Forte. It was about 3:30 pm in the afternoon. Ed never left the office during the day unless it was for a deposition or client meeting. A habit instilled in him like most attorneys at big firms. Perhaps he had forgotten something at home that he needed? Perhaps he had spilled something at lunch
