The Most Quixotic Venture So Far

And so the most quixotic of all my ventures begins. Fatherhood of twins at almost fifty-four. That’s a year away from senior discount age.

            When Lisa and I found out she was pregnant with twins, she was, as she says, like a deer in the headlights, but I could only respond by laughing. For me, it went beyond anything I could start worrying about. This was in-over-your-head territory. There was no turning back, only going forward, like that old Spaniard in rusty armor charging on a skinny horse towards the circling arms of a windmill.

            Or like buying a van after we’d just purchased a Toyota Rav-4—a car we’d seen as a bigger vehicle.  But it wasn’t big enough for twins. We went back and forth on taking the plunge, but, as I reasoned with Lisa, we had a clear, unmistakable calling to be the parents of twins. Would God call us to something like that and then say, “Good luck with that” when it came to the needs arising from such a calling?

Or like when I was driving Lisa to the hospital two weeks ago in a hard rainstorm at eleven o’clock at night. The doctor had told us to go to the hospital when contractions were ten minutes apart. When we got in the van, they were four minutes apart. Lisa’s water broke while we’d been sleeping in bed. I remembered how quickly Annora came after that development on the day of her birth—when the pregnancy was induced in the hospital. Now we were home and the hospital was way downtown. On the plus side, there wasn’t a lot of traffic on the highway that time of night. On the downside, visibility was poor because of rain, and I could feel the van going on the verge of hydro-planing now and then, so we couldn’t go as fast as the speed limit. Also on the downside, the contractions were soon at the rate of once every two minutes. That reminded me of what one of our doctors told us—about a woman who had to have an ambulance come to her home to deliver her baby. When the doctor asked her why she didn’t go to the hospital sooner, she replied, “Well, you said to come to the hospital when the contractions were five minutes apart. My contractions were two minutes apart and never did get up to five minutes apart.”

We thought about the option of calling an ambulance, but that didn’t seem warranted yet. Lisa called the hospital again after having called them before we left, and they said we could stop at any hospital. I used to know where every hospital and doctor’s office in town was—because of a job I had in the eighties, but now my knowledge was vague. It seemed best to just drive on. I said, “We’ll get there okay,” a couple times. I had both hands on the wheel—perhaps with  the proverbial white knuckles, and I had to remind myself to breathe deeply, but on some level I was of the same mind as when I first learned we were having twins. This was beyond anything I could worry about. I just had to keep going forward.

I ran red lights when we got downtown, and then we were at the hospital.

It all turned out okay, apart from it being too late for Lisa to get pain medication. She didn’t have to have a c-section as feared, thanks to our regular baby doctor being on duty that night. A younger doctor might have resorted to c-section if one of the twins was breach, as was the case with Graham. It’s a matter of how doctors are trained. A c-section would have meant a long recovery for Lisa, hampering her ability to care for the little ones. Going for another hospital might have resulted in a c-section.

She felt even better in the aftermath than she did when she delivered Annora.

Now the main battle is a lack of sleep. It’s not as bad here at home as it is in the hospital, where they don’t let you sleep.

The first night back home was a challenge, as a result.

In the past, when our family has gotten into a tight spot, one thing my mind has turned to is the Shackleton expedition to Antarctica. The book I read about it made the point that after their ship, Endurance, was smashed by the ice and went down, there was no logical reason for anyone on the expedition to believe they would survive. But even if logic tells you things won’t work out, you just have to ignore logic sometimes. You can’t take counsel of your fears. A bit of that philosophy went into play when I was driving to the hospital, even if I didn’t think of Shackleton just then.

At one point in the story, Shackleton and some of the men made it in their lifeboat to an island with an outpost of civilization on it. The outpost was on the opposite end of the island, so Shackleton and another man had to make the trek, including climbing a mountain. For their descent off the mountain, they just sat down, hooked up, one in front of the other, and slid down in the snow. When they compared notes afterwards, they both found they’d had the feeling there was a third guy with them, and if they’d turned their heads, they might have seen him.

Well, that first night home, in the middle of the night, when we were feeding babies and trying to calm them amidst their screaming, I had a feeling there was a another guy with us, and that if I turned my head, I might see him. Maybe it was just sleep deprivation, or maybe a person is more open to spiritual realities in a wrung-out state.

Then there was last night at one AM—a perfect storm of exhaustion, a baby who wouldn’t stop crying, a whole bottle of formula spilled while feeding said baby on the bed, Annora getting up and joining us on the bed, the other baby wetting everywhere while her diaper change was interrupted by the other chaos. (Ah—I didn’t manage to keep the identities secret after all.)

We’ve read about how babies need to learn to self-console. How do we console ourselves in the midst of such drama? One thought I had in the aftermath when we were laying in the dark again was that one must, in humility, put aside a sense of, “I shouldn’t have to _____”. Shouldn’t have to deal with this. Shouldn’t have to have that. Shouldn’t have to do the other. It’s freeing, actually, to put aside the strictures one anticipated and think instead in terms of, “I choose this or that.” The other thing I thought about was how I’m not in a position to place a value on these children, my wife, myself, or anyone else—that is, their actual, real value in the sight of God. Sure, I value them highly, and should do so, but in a way, that’s irrelevant. Neither can I place a value on our efforts on behalf of the children. The point is, the real value is more than I can know.

It’s taken me almost two weeks to get this written—that is, I started shortly after we got home from the hospital. There's just no time for anything not baby related, it seems. What I’ve really had to say has been elusive and slippery amidst all the sleep deprivation and chaos. But that drive to the hospital on that dark and stormy night will be, for me, a metaphor for the crazy ride ahead. When I look back on everything, it’s clear to me none of what I have in terms of family and home—for instance, always being able to pay our bills—none of it is due to any brilliance or strategy on my part. It’s all God’s grace, and always will be. I just have to keep driving.