What's in a name

Naming a baby.  Pretty big deal, right?  The name is like a gift, a wish, a legacy.  There is also the asshole-factor to consider.  This is the certain, sad knowledge that some people are mean and will look for ways to pick on someone with a name this is unusual or rhymes with anything embarrassing  toilet related or sexual.  So you want a name that conveys the idea of the kind of person you imagine or wish your child to be, as well as help them out in avoiding unnecessary bullying.

We had a list of possibles leading up to the big day.  There were some that I kept on the list despite Thom's disapproval   I thought, 'We'll see on the day, and if I think the name is right, he might be too elated to care'.  I'm sneaky, eh?

much earlier days

As my readers will know, that day was a tough day for all, but especially for my two little guys.  As I laid in the recovery room, numb from the waist down, Thom rushed away to go see them on the Special Care Unit.  He reported back with photos of Twin 1 and 2 and we named them.  I knew that one had enormous difficulties breathing, while the other had a slightly easier time.  One of Thom's photos showed a little body with tubes and needles attached to every limb, hand and foot.  The other had less.  Assuming that the one with more equipment was the twin who suffered greater injury, I named him Ethan, meaning 'strong'.  The other I called Noah, meaning 'comfort'.  I wanted the one who suffered to be strong and the other was a great comfort for me and Thom when he was briefly passed to us after delivery. It just seemed right.  

It was only later that I discovered Noah was the one who needed strength.  In the following weeks, as we battled the tribulations that came to our new little family, I would often blame myself for naming them the wrong way around.  I thought, if only I had named Noah differently, he might have lived.  I guess I was searching for some reason to why this had happened and grasping at any solution I could think of to make it better.    

In naming them I had intended to give them the character of the name.  Hoped that something of the meaning of the name would sink into them and carry them through that dark time.  Ethan did indeed turn out to be strong.  He very quickly started letting the nurses know who was running the show by pulling out his feeding tube and cannulars, as if demanding to be released from hospital.  He even urinated all over the consultant's suit as we waited to be discharged.  

Despite my initial regret, he did end up with the right name.  What I want to share today is that I am starting to think that Noah had the right name, too.  Undoubtedly, Noah's death changed us.  Although it is impossible to know how we would feel and be if he stayed with us, Thom and I are consistently trying to be in the present in the short time we have together in this life.  In those last hours with him, we promised Noah to love Ethan, appreciate life and never forget.  Noah taught us so much in his short life.  

In the aftermath, as we have tried to figure out what caused the problem that lead to Noah's death, the possibility of a placental abruption has been thrown into doubt.  It could be a placental failure or a rare occurrence where the cord becomes trapped and constricted.  But in any case, he suffered more, and it seems to me, absorbed a lot of the trauma, leaving Ethan more protected.  I felt I knew some of their personalities in the womb.  Noah seemed rambuncious, energetic but also caring towards Ethan.  Ethan moved less and seemed to prefer to snuggle, curled up at the bottom.  But when he did move, Noah responded, like he was playing with his brother.

So, as Ethan moved from strength to strength, fulfilling his name, I also became more aware of how Noah had fulfilled his.  Comforting his brother in their most terrible time.  Giving us the time he had with us to appreciate his beauty.  The lessons he taught about love will continue to give hope and comfort to Thom, Ethan and I.  And most comforting is that as long as I carry the love he taught me, he will never be far from my heart.

Keep calm and carry on? Or panic and freak out?

Yesterday I left a slick, shiny gym in London with a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction.  I felt calm walking slowly from the gym through the tall glass buildings.  The wind whipped around me, traffic and people rushing past in the half light of the dusk.  Surrounded by bustling people, it somehow felt like my own special moment.

Yesterday I finished the final component of a personal trainer diploma.   When I began the course, I managed the first week before finding out that I was pregnant.  Whether I would be able to finish before my body gave out on me was questionable, especially after we discovered I was harbouring twins in my swiftly disappearing six-pack.  The last module just happened to be 'Adapting Exercise for Ante- and Post-Natal Clients', something I wanted to specialise in as a personal trainer.  I was the only pregnant student there and provided a useful example to the others in the gym demonstrations.

me sporting my six-pack

The man sitting next to me was a father of twins, now one-year-old.  He provided a happy and optimistic account, saying how they were fun and happy to give mum time to do other things while they played together.  But then we got onto birth experiences.

'They were delivered at 30 weeks,' he told me.

30 weeks!?  But I am at 32 weeks and no where near ready to be carted off to the hospital!  I knew this was common with twins, but blissfully ignoring the fact that I was at that point where these things happen.  I resolved to pack a hospital bag this week and finally write that birth plan.

So yesterday wasn't all self-satisfied smugness.  And it even got a little worse.  Thom and I were invited to a twin-specific ante-natal class that evening at the hospital.  My warm glow after leaving the gym was wearing thin by the time we left the house and the comfy sofa into the cold, dark night to get there for 7pm.  It was completely wiped out by the antiseptic smell wafting over us as we passed through the automatic sliding doors.

Yuk, hospitals, I thought, the idea of my fellow student's wife giving birth at 30 weeks fresh in my mind and the enforced hospital stay that early arrival would necessitate.  Just to tip me over into total panic stations, the class included a video of parents of twins talking about birth experiences, including the weeks into pregnancy they were at delivery.  32 weeks.  36 weeks.  My heart pounded as I counted the where we would be by then.

Our class continued with a trip to the Special Care Baby Unit, a little ward with friendly nurses and little tiny babies in clear plastic boxes.  Not the warm cuddly image I had in mind for my own.  The nurse pointed through the glass at a tired looking woman smiling into one of plastic boxes.

'Here is one of our ladies who gave birth today!'  Turns out she was meant to be on the twins ante-natal class with us that evening, but her babies had other plans.  And so there she was, like a walking wake-up call, that this is possibly happening very soon.

I woke this morning full of resolve.  Pulling a handy list off the internet of what should be in a hospital bag, I strode into town with a purpose, armed with my debit card and a healthy dose of anxiety.  Probably not a bad thing for me because now I can sit here and write to you with the calm knowledge that a suitcase now stands packed and ready should the little wrigglers make a surprise appearance.