My heart is wrecked and rebuilt in the same beat.
Meanwhile, the surgical team continues working behind the curtain. “The surgery part is over, we are just finishing up with stitches. You did great, Ligaya,” Dr. LeGuin says.
The babies’ vitals are checked again. A different doctor, a neonatologist, assures us, “They’re breathing well, good tone, good heart rate. But it is standard NICU admission for thirty-five-week twins.”
“NICU?” Ligaya mumbles weakly.
“It’s precautionary, sweetheart.”
Ligaya’s eyelids flutter, exhaustion overtaking all else. “Stay with them, Tristan.”
I hate leaving her, but I listen. She’s right. It’s my turn to watch over the kids so she can focus on recovery.
The NICU is bright and humming. Olivia and Orlando are placed in incubators for warmth and for monitoring their pulse and oxygen levels. The nurses move with calm efficiency. I hover, useless and awestruck, one hand on each clear plastic shell.
“Can I touch them?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” the nurse says with a smile. “Use two fingers, gentle pressure. They’ll know you’re here.”
I graze their tiny fists. Olivia grips me with shocking strength. Orlando stirs, his mouth open and searching even as his eyes remain closed.
“That’s a good sign,” the nurse offers. “They can try breastfeeding today if Mom is up for it. We have lactation specialists on staff.”
Every update is better than the last. Their blood sugars are good. Their lungs are strong. Their oxygen intake perfect.
The health markers are encouraging, yet they don’t scratch the surface of how proud and happy I am to be their father. Nothing prepared me for how my entire being is changed now that they are out in the world. I’d do anything for them. I’dbeanything for them. For now, I simply watch as they get comfortable and, as if they are in sync, fall asleep within a minute of each other.
By the time I return to Ligaya’s room, she’s pale yet smiling, propped against pillows. Her parents flank her like doting sentries. I’m congratulated by my mother and Cathy. Ligaya’s father hugs me the tightest, still muttering his disbelief that his grandson carries his name.
“Who is with them?” Ligaya asks.
“They’re sleeping,” I reassure her while pulling up the webcam that transmits their every movement. Ligaya stares at the small screen till the painkillers kick in and she dozes off.
After a few hours, the NICU team wheels our babies in for their first attempt at breastfeeding. There are specialists and nurses and all sorts of pillows involved. Ligaya is eager and willing,despite the stiff learning curve. I grit my teeth, wishing I could take some of that discomfort from her.
But once again, my woman is a goddess. Ligaya’s hair sticks to her forehead, eyes hollow from effort, and yet she persists. The twins didn’t quite latch as steadily as she hoped, but nothing dims the love she beams down at them.
Gratitude floods me. Gratitude that we’re a family, that our babies have arrived, and that Ligaya is the woman I get to share this life with.
CHAPTER 52
LIGAYA
The gifts arrive in waves.
First, a modest vase from Centerstone High School, sweet and thoughtful with a card signed by my colleagues. Toby brings it along with two enormous teddy bears that will need their own bedroom.
Then, a massive gift basket from the Mavericks takes up half the ledge counter spanning the window. Propped over the fancy goodies are two tiny jerseys with the team logo. They are the cutest things I’ve ever seen!
A third basket shows up, brightly wrapped, from the WAGs, loaded with the things all new moms desperately need: lanolin cream, soft pajamas, a lavender heating pad, fancy teas, and Belgian chocolate.
Once the babies are cleared from NICU, I ask for them to be moved to my room so I can have unlimited access to their rounded cheeks and count their tiny fingers and kiss their perfect heads. I love the tender weight of them curled against me.
The feeding doesn’t go as well as the cuddling. Every time they try to latch, I feel raw and pinched and incompetent. Feeding hurts more than I thought it would. The lactation specialists help me, and there’s a split second of blissful warmth when Orlando findshis rhythm. Olivia doesn’t seem inclined to feed at all, opting to assess the world with her gorgeous light brown eyes.
When Tristan takes over, I get the best view in the world.
He strips off his shirt for skin-to-skin contact. It’s like he was born for this, easily nestling two infants against his wide chest and cradling their bodies over two impressive forearms.
