Below is a critique from my professor and a writing assignment for one of my classes this semester. The assignment was basically to find a picture that triggers strong emotions and write a memoir about it.
Here is what my professor said:
100/100
Nicole, I am impressed both with your nearly flawless writing and your inspiring story. First, you are a strong writer. This has great narrative flow, engages reader interest from the first sentence in the introduction, and creates a vivid sense of both the physical environment of the hospital rooms and the emotional trauma of the experience of giving birth to premature twins. Thank you for sharing your story and the pictures of your precious children. I was deeply touched reading this. I am sure there is much more to this story . . . I encourage you to keep writing.
...and here is what I wrote:
Bittersweet
As I looked down to the ground, unable to hold my throbbing head up any longer, I saw unfamiliar feet attached to my body. They were feet that, yes, had the same freckle on the left pinky toe. They were also painted that same fabulous color of red that I had chosen at the salon the week before. However, these feet were half again the size of my feet, and they were beginning to ache.
As I ran through the list of questions my OBGYN asked me on my (now) weekly visits to check the progress of my ever-expanding belly containing not one, but two tiny heartbeats, I quickly remembered the first one: Do you have any swelling? As I tried to justify in my mind that every woman halfway through their seventh month of pregnancy surely experienced some sort of swelling, I took a Tylenol (the one medication I knew was safe for me to take) and stretched out for a nap. When I woke up, though, I felt worse. I decided to call my doctor, just to get her help with my lingering headache. She then told me to get to her office immediately.
My husband was in the middle of his shift as a police officer, so my mother-in-law drove my four-year-old son and me the 35 miles to my doctor. Within an hour, I was admitted to the hospital with preeclampsia. I was instantly in a state of panic. Although I was not outwardly emotional, inside, I was a mess.
I quickly thought of the roller coaster ride my husband, Wes, and I had gone through to get to this point. We had tried for a baby and miscarried. That had been heart breaking. When we got pregnant again, I was fearful of being excited, because I just didn’t know if I could handle another loss. We found out we were having twins early, because I had developed a pregnancy-related illness called hyperemesis gravidarum. Although I was extremely ill, finding out that we were having twins both terrified us and made us completely exultant. A few months later, we found out we were having a boy and a girl, and that they were healthy, making all of the trials and tribulations worth it. Upon this reflection, I realized now, that I had carried them for seven and a half months and hit a brick wall. They were still too tiny to come into the world. I had not finished nourishing them and carrying them. I hadn’t nested. I hadn’t gotten the last-minute baby supplies I had planned on. Everything was out of order. By the time Wes got to me, I had been intravenously hooked up to magnesium sulfate. This, I soon discovered, is what nightmares are made of. Over a period of two and a half days, the magnesium sulfate was being pumped through my veins in order to lower my blood pressure. My head hurt worse than I could have ever imagined. When I looked around, I had both blurred and double vision, and moving any part of my body was a chore. My arms and legs became so stiff that by the second day, Wes had to carry me to the bathroom. I had never been so happy to be 5’3” and married to a 6’2” man that could easily bench press two of me.
At the end of Day 2, my doctor came to me and said that my blood pressure was not in a safe range. She said it would be best for me and the babies to take them by cesarean the next day. The doctor was followed in by a nurse with a needle containing corticosteroids. The shot was given to me in order to help my tiny, underdeveloped babies’ lungs to quickly mature.
My surgery was scheduled for noon the next day. A team of three doctors and six nurses were in the freezing cold room as I was being prepped. An anesthesiologist administered my epidural and stayed at my head with my husband as the team worked to get my babies out safely. Everything from the time my daughter was taken until about a day and a half later is just an array of splotchy memories.
I do remember Claire Elise being taken first. I remember because I heard her high-pitched squeal, and someone showed her to me over the curtain for a split second. I remember thinking that she looked grey, and it hadn’t been what I’d expected. She wasn’t the bright pink color our first child had been. Through those split second thoughts, I was stopped because I didn’t hear my precious daughter squealing anymore. I learned much later, because my husband is quick on his feet and did not tell me at the time, that she had stopped breathing altogether. He had told me she was still crying so I wouldn’t worry. By then, I was starting to go in and out of reality. From that point on, I only remember a nurse rolling her forearm over my torso to push my son out of my ribcage. It was the first deep, satisfying breath I’d had in months.
The reason I did not remember much after this is due to the blood loss I experienced during the delivery. I was later given a few units of blood. Wes was able to hold Mason Edward for a few minutes in the nursery, but Claire was too fragile. They were taken to the Saint Francis NICU in Tulsa where they could be better cared for. I did not get to see my new babies for five days while I was recovering in my hospital bed. It was the most depressing time of my life. My amazing husband tirelessly drove to Tulsa to spend the day with our delicate little angels and back to Cushing at night to be with me. My parents had come from Texas the first day of my hospitalization to stay with our oldest son, and to tie up loose ends at home. The whole experience was not what any parent would expect for the birth of their children.
On the day I was released from the hospital, I was driven straight to St. Francis Hospital so I could see my fragile little angels. I was wheeled through what seemed like miles and miles of hallways and millions of doors until we reached the secure Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I was then taken to two incubators covered with blankets. The NICU nurse pulled up the blankets (used to block the bright lights on the ceiling) so that I could see my children. For the first time, I was able to touch my daughter. She was noticeably smaller than her brother, but the most visible difference between the two was their complexions. My strong four pound, two ounce little boy was olive skinned with brown eyes and dark hair, just like his mommy. My three pound, fifteen ounce little princess was fair skinned with blue eyes and brown hair, just like her daddy. In the photos, they had looked so much the same that I would have to ask my husband which baby was which. I was not yet able to hold either for very long because they had to stay in the temperature-controlled environment of the incubator, but it was like a breath of fresh air to be able to be with them. I was still far from recovery. In fact, the only reason that my doctor had released me was because my father-in-law is a doctor, and she knew I had medical care only minutes away if needed.
Leaving the NICU that first day was only emotionally possible because I knew I was going to get to finally spend a significant amount of time with my oldest little man who was patiently waiting for me at home. Juggling time between my children was agonizing, because I always felt like someone was being neglected. I wanted all three to be with me in the same place, healthy and happy. My son was unable to visit the twins in the NICU because children were not allowed in the area. He was confused at the time, because he knew he was a big brother, but he didn’t know when he’d get to see his baby brother and sister.
The twins spent the next couple of weeks making progress, and then hitting speed bumps. One day may have been extremely exciting for one, but the other would have had a hard time. At one point, both Claire and Mason were being fed through feeding tubes in their nose. Claire was having trouble keeping her body heat up. Everyday, I would arrive and go over everything with the charge nurse. Before we could take the babies home, each would have to be able to hold his or her own body temperature, eat 2 oz of breast milk or formula in a tiny bottle, and pass what was called a car seat test. Mason seemed to be progressing faster than our tiny Claire Bear. He was out of the incubator after about a week, keeping his temperature controlled. He ate…and he ate…and he ate. All we were waiting for was his *gulp* circumcision and car seat test to be able to get him home.
While this was extremely exciting, it was really hard to see our little princess barely making any progress. She was taken out of her incubator the day before Mason was expected to go home. I was a mess. She was still being tube-fed, and she did not seem the slightest bit interested in expending the energy it took for a three-pounder to drink 2 oz of fluid from a bottle nipple. How was I going to be able to leave her when I took her brother home? The wide-range of emotions running through me made me physically exhausted. I had been told that once I took Mason home, it would be difficult for me to visit Claire as regularly. I couldn’t take it. I think I prayed more than I had ever prayed in my life.
The day had arrived that Wes and I were to take Mason home. Wes’s mother agreed to stay with Claire in the NICU through the evening so she would not be alone. With the tube still in her tiny nose, I kissed her goodbye and told her I would be back as soon as I could to be with her. With a major winter storm approaching, I was afraid of when that would be. We took our little man home that morning and settled him in. It was surreal to be holding this all too precious little guy in my arms but feeling incomplete. I yearned for my baby girl and her big brother (who was now in Texas with my parents) to be with me so that our family was complete.
We received a phone call late that evening from the NICU. My heart dropped seeing the caller ID. Was something wrong with my baby girl? I answered the phone, my heart thudding almost out of my chest. I was told that Claire had taken a complete turn. The nurses had removed her feeding tube. She was eating the full 2 ml on her own, and they were about to perform the car seat test. If she passed that, we would be able to pick her up in the morning. I was elated! Wes stayed home with Mason as my mother-in-law and I drove to pick Claire up. It had begun to snow heavily, so the hospital crew was working busily to get my little princess discharged. Still so very fragile, I watched her like a hawk the entire way home. Bringing this little baby home in near blizzard conditions was terrifying, but as soon as we pulled into the driveway, all was well.
Today, I look at my two little miracle children in awe. Although they still have a few minor things to work through from being premature, they are 110% healthy. Mason is still my strong little man, and Claire is still my petite little princess. They each have their own funny little personalities, but at three years old, they both think they rule the roost. Big brother Cade shuts that down quickly, though. I thank God every day for all three of my babies, and I will always be thankful for the miracles of modern medicine.
