My boys were IVF babies — fraternal twins — conceived when I was 41 and born less than 2 weeks shy of my 42nd birthday. Because of my advanced maternal age we’d had all five viable embryos transferred during the procedure, and clearly two were contenders. This was our first IVF attempt after a year of trying other, less intensive help, including IUIs and we were very lucky.
The boys were born via planned C-Section because I was coming up on full-term (39 weeks), and Jacob, officially Baby B, was in a dangerous position if I went into labor and tried to deliver regularly — which I never did. I remember feeling sad that I never got to experience labor, that pretty much everything about this pregnancy was so high-tech and unnatural.
But that all melted away the moment I heard that first cry piercing the operating room from the other side of the blue drape. I didn’t get to hold my boys right away — they held them up for me to look at, to verify they were real and alive and then whisked them away to be poked and prodded and cleaned up. And I had to have my body stitched back together and then wait impatiently in the recovery room to be released to go to my boys.
I remember when they finally wheeled me into my room and both babies were there waiting for me with my husband and parents. I was still a little woozy from all the drugs from the surgery, but when I held those babies I was flooded with an instant love so fierce and deep, it bowled me over. Their little faces etched themselves into my psyche and I marveled at how someone I just met — or in this case two little someones — could so suddenly and clearly be at the center of everything — my life, my heart — forever more.
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