So after a short walk and a long wheelchair ride through St. Luke's, and then back through St. Luke's the other way, I made it to the ultrasound area and started an hour-long—and very gloopy—series of pokes and prods and measurements, during which a dollop of ultrasound gel found its way onto the bottom of my sock, even though my feet were both hidden beneath a sheet and a small table during the whole procedure. I would not be shocked if an entire bottle of the stuff followed me home one day, only to spread its stickiness and stink onto every article of clothing I own.
There's bad news. Baby B doesn't appear to have much fluid at all. He's squished good and a bit crumpled, and his odds aren't fabulous for making it, even if I can keep these brothers in. But that's not the point.
There's good news. Because we've got twins in there, Baby A's fluid acts as a bit of leeway for Baby B to stretch his lungs. Baby B's odds are better than if he were alone. And happy news, we can decorate the nursery a little differently now that we've found that second set of man parts. As it turns out, Baby B is a boy.
I still hold great hopes for Baby B. If he's as strong as his father and as stubborn as his mother, his odds are better than expected. We can hope that with his brother's protection and the prayers of friends and family across the nation, he will live. We have faith for his safety, whatever the will of God is.
And we do have excellent care. Dr. P up at St. Luke's will see me in a week to keep an eye on my cervix (if you're cringing at the word, just stop reading now), to make sure it doesn't thin out. If it does, they'll do a cerclage. I looked up what that is, and frankly, the least disturbing way to say it is that they will sew my uterus shut. The whole thing sounds completely unpleasant. At least I'd be under anesthesia when they did it. But that's for next week, if I need it.
And if I make it a full four weeks, they'll measure the babies again and I'll talk with a neonatologist about what may be next. We'll have a lot more difficult questions to answer along with our difficult realities to face and difficult odds to swallow.
There is hope for our little struggling baby, and for his slightly larger brother. They'll both need strength and miracles to survive. We already know that's possible. What's left to us is the work of prayer—and the acceptance, on my part, of wheelchair rides and continued room service. And patience with the waiting and seeing that has already gone by faster than we can turn our heads.