Within one short minute early last Friday morning, I suddenly went from pregnant to not. It would seem like such a monumental change should take place over a longer period of time, but as my husband would say (quoting from an episode of West Wing), pregnancy is a binary state. You either are, or you aren’t. And now, I’m not. Whew.

So, after the c-section, I was groggy but happy for a while. Since I had felt some pain during the surgery, I had been given a little extra dose of happy juice while they put me back together. They also used something called duramorph. Instead of having a morphine pump for pain after the surgery, they injected a long-lasting dose/form of morphine with the spinal. For a solid 24 hours, I can honestly say I felt no pain, and I noticed no negative side effects. For that period of time, they also gave me pitocin to help contract my enormous uterus and IV fluids. I had inflatable cuffs around my calves, not unlike alternating blood pressure cuffs, to keep circulation going and avoid blood clots. It was a little odd at first, but not terribly uncomfortable.

At this point, I hadn’t slept in a good 24 hours. But as there were new babies and it had reached somewhat reasonable hour of the morning, there were phone calls to be made. Excited grandparents were weepy, aunts and uncles (real and honorary) were cheering us on. I was sleepy, but the adrenaline (and frequent checks by the nurses) would keep me up for a while.

The first day saw me confined to bed, but no shortage of visitors. My dad arrived directly from a business meeting several hundred miles away by 2pm. Our only local relatives (my aunt and my sister-in-law) came by as well. I smiled sleepily at them and assured them I was feeling no pain. They got to go with the new daddy to see the babies in the nursery. I was jealous.

By Saturday morning I was unhooked from my various tubes and wires and was able to slowly start moving around. I finally was able to go to the nursery to see the babies for myself. It was really the first time I’d seen Daniel at all. My first thought was how small he looked. I knew he was bigger than Rebecca, so I figured he’d be huge. But no, he was a little six-pound newborn. It’s only after spending time with or holding his sister that he suddenly looks like a linebacker.

Since I knew I wanted to breastfeed the twins, and they were not really in a position to be directly nursing, I was started on the pump. You can’t help but moo the first few times you get your boobs into the suction cups. Though I likely wouldn’t produce much of anything at first, I was instructed to pump for 15 minutes, every three hours, to help my milk come in. Fun times.

Sunday I was able to walk to the nursery on my own and not require a wheelchair or assistance from the nurse. I started going more frequently, realizing I was welcome there, and tried to make it to as many feedings as I could. I learned what it took to “stay on top of the pain.” Motrin and Percoset became good friends. The pain was quite manageable, but my elevated blood pressure and swollen extremities would not abate. I was instructed, yet again, to spend more time on my left side, and keep drinking plenty of water. And here I had been so excited to finally sleep on my back again. Ah well.

In the meantime, we had scrapped our original plans of hubby spending nights with me in the hospital. Since the babies weren’t rooming in, we decided we’d both have a better shot at a good night’s sleep if he went home and took care of the dog and kept his snoring to himself. I’d not only be able to sleep instead of yelling at him to roll over every 10 minutes, but he’d be able to rest up instead of being on an uncomfortable cot, waking up every time the nurses came in. We both liked this plan.

Sunday night, as he got ready to go home, I got my first case of what I refer to as “the weepies.” Hormones combined with a huge emotional life change are a really special cocktail. I assured my husband I was just fine and insisted he get home and get some rest, and then proceeded to cry for 30 minutes. No particular reason. Just the weepies.

By the time Monday came around, I was feeling a lot more human again. I was more comfortably mobile, able to shower and wear something other than the hospital gown and a robe. As much as I missed being home, I was also getting anxious about being discharged. Not that I was concerned for my health, but rather because I wanted to keep being down the hall from the babies. Not across town lines. I was additionally stressed because the pumping was coming to absolutely nothing. Three solid days of dutifully pumping every three hours, and I had nada to show for it. I don’t mean “not much.” I mean nothing. Every time I went in to feed the babies, someone asked if I wanted to put one to breast, or if I had any pumped milk I wanted to feed them. I tried one of them at breast at least once a day, just for the sake of practice, but there was nothing for them to get.

Monday night, the weepies came on with a vengeance. I cried at the thought of leaving the babies at the hospital. I cried out of the guilt of having someone else take care of them, even if it wasn’t a matter of choice. I cried at the feeling of not being able to take care of them myself. I literally woke up three times during the night, bawling. Tuesday morning was no better. I had finally gotten a hold of myself when the nurse came in to take my blood pressure. Unsatisfied with the results, she told me to lay down and rest and she’d recheck me in half an hour. I once again burst into uncontrollable tears. I wanted to get to the nursery to be with my kids, and I had to lie down again for my stupid blood pressure. I was a wreck.

Just before I left for home that afternoon, I finally got my first measurable amount of breastmilk from the pump. I kid you not, it was two milliliters. Total. Both breasts combined. And I brought it right over to the nursery so someone could eat it. The nurses were great, and proudly combined it with formula so the babies could have it. We came back to the hospital a few hours after leaving to feed the babies, but I was running on empty. I couldn’t stop crying, no matter what. The kind SCN nurse insisted that it would be a good idea for me to just go home and rest, and I could come back in the morning.

It was nice to be home, but again, very mixed. After being unsure how “connected” I would feel to them since they were in the nursery all the time, the prospect of being further separated positively broke my heart. I ached from missing them. I couldn’t even look at the polaroid of the three of us from two days earlier without sobbing.

Wednesday and Thursday, however, were improvements. We were at the hospital for four feedings a day, and all the pumping was FINALLY starting to produce something. The first time I got a full ounce, I nearly jumped for joy. It wasn’t enough, but it was finally progress. The babies were doing well, and it looked like they would come home. I was having minimal pain from my incision, and was able to keep it at bay with only ibuprofen, maybe a single percoset at night.

And here I am, the end of day two with babies at home. My in-laws were here the last two days and were more helpful than I worried they’d be. It was good to have the extra set of hands. I still burst into tears with minimal provocation, but it’s getting better. My belly is a big, stretch-marked bowl of jelly and my feet and legs are still determinedly retaining lots of fluid, but I’m trying not to worry about it. The pumping is yielding 1.5-2.5 ounces at a time, which is enough to keep up with their current needs (doctor sent them home alternating breastmilk with high-calorie formula to help gain weight).

I’m pretty tired, and I haven’t got the foggiest idea what I’ll do when my husband goes back to work in a couple of weeks, but I can’t possibly think that far ahead. Tomorrow is our first full day by ourselves, so we’ll see how that goes. I think we’ll make it.

So, that’s the story. This is now, officially, a “mom of twins” blog. Hard to believe, but it’s really true. I have two babies. Yipes!