Hi there, I'm Victoria, I'm 27.
In February 2021, I found out I was going to be a mother for the first time. In March, I found out I was going to be carrying the 6th consecutive generation of twins in my family. And in April, I found out I was growing two beautiful, perfect, healthy baby boys. I instantly knew we would call one Warren. The other was left to be decided, but soon Ian would be the name of my Baby A. By July, the boys were growing rapidly, and so was I.
On that fateful Saturday, the 17th, never to be forgotten, I had all the telltale signs of labor but I didn't want to believe it. I went to the emergency room and after about an hour and a half I was sent home with the instruction to come back if the symptoms worsen. I asked the nurse if I could have a doctor's note for work the next day, seeing how I was in visible pain and discomfort. She said she would ask the doctor and left the room. When she came back, she said the doctor insisted a note for work would not be necessary and that I should be feeling better by the morning. But I knew deep inside, that the guarantee of a pain free Sunday morning was nothing more than a kick in the ass to clear up a room for someone else who...needed it more?
Four hours later I was back in the same emergency room, praying this time someone would pay a little more attention to me - this time being wheeled in by my fiancé because I could not walk. The nurses struggled with the heart rate monitors on my belly. They were worried they were only finding one heart beat. So they called in the same doctor who had sent me home earlier. He came in and quickly used the ultrasound monitor to show me that both babies' hearts were still beating. Whatever sense of relief that gave me soon vanished due to the amount of pain that I was in.
The doctor left the room immediately after finding the heartbeats and the nurse went to find some pain medication that would be suitable for me. It seemed like she was gone for hours. No one had been there to check on me. I had waddled to the bathroom multiple times hoping that maybe I was constipated and I could finally have a bowel movement and the pain would magically disappear. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed and nothing would come out. I didn't know what to do. Every time I walked past the desk, there was no one there. It felt like I was in a triage unit all by myself. Not a soul other than my fiance's to be found. Why was I alone? Why was no one around to hear my cries? My pleas to take this godforsaken pain away. If I wasn't in labor, my boys' lives weren't in jeopardy, and I had nothing to worry about, then why did I feel as bad as I did?
My body was telling me something was very wrong. But the doctor insisted I had strained a lower back muscle at the gym that morning. He was trying to get me to consent to getting "imaging" done to my back to make sure it wasn't just a pulled muscle. Finally after telling them I was not leaving until this pain goes away, the doctor sent a nurse in to do some "stretching" with me. Nothing helped. The only comfortable position was on all fours in doggy style. All dignity was lost in that moment, and I could not care any less. I prayed that someone would just believe me.
Another nurse in the room suggested to the doctor that he should check my cervix again. He stuck two fingers inside of me and said, "they're coming." As I was being rushed into the delivery room, I closed my eyes and felt the most relief I had ever felt in my life. I knew I was right, and I knew no matter what was going to happen next, the pain was going to be gone. Once in the room, I was told to wait, don't push, until the team could finish setting up the emergency equipment to hopefully keep my boys alive once they were born. Finally able to push, the doctor had to break my water to get Ian, whose hand had been sticking out of me for I don't even know how long, whose hand was now purple and lifeless.
As I was delivering Warren, I heard in the corner of the room, "12 minutes, no heart rate. 23 minutes, no heart rate." And I knew then, that my first born son was gone. His soul was no longer in that tiny 1 lb 11 oz body. There was just this tiny, purple, bruised body in a plastic crib in the corner of the room. I didn't even want to look at it for the first few hours. I couldn't believe that was my baby there. Before my other son was rushed to a NICU at a different hospital, the flight team brought him to my room so I could meet him for the first time. All I could do was cry. My fiance held our lifeless son Ian up to Warren who was fighting for his. Before my eyes were both of my beautiful boys who I had worked so hard to grow. One was living, one was not. What did I do? How could this have happened? WHY did no one listen to me? I was telling everyone for hours that I think I was in labor. Why did nobody believe me?