Back into the fire.

I'm tethered to the phone like my babies are tethered to machines. Big heavy monitors that loom over their small bodies and tell you their fate. Will they live or die? How are they now? How about now? How about now??

The beep beep beep of their breathing masks. The push and pull of the bag that sucked life into your child while he lay blue and lifeless on the table. The ER doctor, young and terrified, demanding experts from the NICU, who spoke the language of these creatures. The same doctor who hugs me and almost cries when he's finally stable, and she knew she'd saved his life. I don't even know her name, and she saved my baby's life. 

"You were so calm" they told me, when it was over and Gus was being moved to the NICU. 

This has happened before, I told them. And happened and happened. But usually with the other twin. Their mouths opened. 

This is the life of a parent with immune compromised children. I've met so many at the Ronald McDonald House, and I'm one of the lucky ones. My children will grow up, and their immune systems will catch up. One day they hopefully won't be coding on a table because of a virus. A lot of parents don't have that luxury. 

But for now, this is my reality. Hospital life still feels more normal than home life to begin with, so another long hospital stay is just part of life, at this point. How long will it last? Anyone's guess. A week? A month? Two or three more days? Everything changes so fast. If I've learned one thing, it's this: life can change in an instant. 

Life can be taking your infant to the doctor and sent home with advice to watch for a fever, and you take your infant out of his car seat when you get home to nurse him and discover he's unconscious and turning blue. 

You race madly to the emergency room and told next time to just call 911, which only occurred to me as I clawed my way through traffic. 

But the doctor had just seen him. She said he was okay...

Suddenly, nothing is OK. Nothing is OK. And then the other baby gets sick. And nothing is OK. And he gets admitted, too. But he's in far better shape than his twin. For now. What will it be tomorrow? 

The NICU calls while I'm in my boarding room, pumping breast milk for the babies. My heart was already in my throat when the phone rang, because it could only mean trouble. 

"It's Gus," says the nurse, "I can't get him to settle. I think he just wants his mom."

I raced into the NICU to hear my baby screaming, an almost welcome sound after his ghostly silence. He's thrashing around in his isolette like a fish out of water, his back arched and his face red. I tore him out of bed so quick, it yanked his c-pap right off his face. He stopped crying and looked at me, stunned. I rocked him for hours, until we both fell asleep. As horrible as it was, it was kind of a big moment for Gus and I. It was the first time he needed me, his mother. Not a pair of gloved hands and a bottle, but me.