The Grandmother I Almost Was

by M. Flagg

“Look how big you’ve gotten.”

“How I love visiting my grandson.”

“Grandchildren are God’s gift.”

These are sentences I don’t get to say. These are feelings I don’t get to share. Neither does my daughter.

I remember as if it were yesterday. The day my daughter sent a text with not one – but two babies in the sonogram.

Seated at my desk, and in the middle of a meeting with the school’s guidance counselor, I fully froze. My eyes, glued to the black and white picture, narrowed.

The dear friend across my desk kept saying, “What… what? Is something wrong?” My heart skipped many, many beats. I sucked in a quick breath and let it out slowly as my eyes grew large and round.

“Look,” I sputtered, “What am I seeing? Is it what I think it is?”

Handing over my phone across the desk to her, she studied the photo and let out a quick, short shout. “She’s having twins!”

“No,” I countered. “Can’t be. We don’t have twins in our family.”

“Mickey,” she stated, “Your daughter is having twins!”

My eyes teared as I shot up and took my phone back as if it were my most prized possession.

Yes, indeed. My daughter was having twins.

I hugged my colleague, fully ready to burst into the happiest tears of my life, right there in my office of the school. True, I was a middle school vice principal in charge of a considerable population of students whom I would see at lunch in a few minutes.

Calm yourself, I told myself, but I couldn’t stop smiling. Simply couldn’t stop.

I don’t recall the lunch period I supervised that day almost three years ago. To say it was a blur would be an understatement. What I do remember is that many students asked why I looked so happy.

“I am going to be a grandmother,” was the reply. The words sounded strange coming out of my mouth.

An alien word – grandmother – and not something I saw coming. My children were both single, both in their thirties. But my daughter was now in love with a man she had met months ago.

Marriage? It didn’t matter.

Miracle? Totally! You see, we had a very frank discussion when she told me she was pregnant weeks before I got this life-changing text.

“Do you love him?” I asked.

“Yes, Mom, I really do.”

“You know you are glowing.”

“I know,” she said with a smile. “I’m so happy. I’m so ready.”

Of course, she was. Always playing with babies, always with a bright, beautiful smile on her face. She worked with animals, currently doing MRI’s and scans on pet cancer patients.

Giving patient and loving care to everyone’s fur-babies when he or she came to the pet medical center. She had great health insurance, and she was healthy. Petite but strong. Gentle but firm.

She knew her mind, and this unbelievable miracle of life within was accepted with love, gratitude, and graciousness. She would, with the utmost confidence, take good care of herself through her pregnancy.

These babies were already loved to the moon and back by everyone in her life. Everyone in our family.

Let me go back to the day I found out because it is crucial to understand who I am, or rather, who I was that particular day. After lunch, I told some of my teachers who had always been close friends since I began teaching in that school twenty years ago.

I was now administration. That didn’t matter.

This miracle was happening, and I needed to share with the people who shared my life, the ups and downs, the good, and the not so good.

That afternoon, I met with the principal. She was not a warm person, and I entered with my notebook in hand. I wouldn’t miss anything she had to say, even though my mind was already dancing around crocheting booties and hats and baby blankets. Two of each. Identical. Perfect little bundles of joy.

The principal stopped telling me what she expected with teacher evaluation, saying, “I have never seen you smile like this, Mrs. Flagg.”

I bit my lip. “My daughter is pregnant. She is expecting twins.” Saying the word out loud to her felt strange, but mostly, freeing.

“Twins,” she said, and then smiled.

“I can’t believe it! I am thrilled beyond belief,” then adding full of pride, “I am going to be the grandmother of twins!” As expected, she didn’t respond. We continued our professional discussion.

Don’t ask me to recall the rest of the meeting. It is impossible. In my head and my heart, I knew this didn’t matter to her. And once again, as I had done so many times before in the seven years we had worked together as administrators, my personal feelings were tucked down deep, even though it tore at my soul.

Outward composure resumed. Our workday did not miss a beat.

A month later, now three months into my daughter’s pregnancy, another sonogram was done. The twin boys were identical and believed to be in separate sacs. This was not the highest risk pregnancy, but it was, nevertheless, more dangerous than most.

My daughter continued to work and to plan her new life with the babies’ father. Everything was going well, but she was not particularly thrilled with her gynecologist. This doctor had delivered my daughter. The doctor’s practice was solid, and my daughter would deliver in an excellent hospital.

During the fourth month, my daughter, up to now having just a small baby bump, suddenly popped! Both babies were active. She couldn’t sleep comfortably. She couldn’t maneuver in this larger body very well. Work was getting more difficult as she could no longer pick up any of the animals to prep them for their treatments.

I continued to beam with pride at work. The school year finally ended, and although I worked through the summer as an administrator, I now had the time to crochet.

Month five began. It was time to plan a baby shower for October. “I want a Halloween theme,” she said. And so, this grandmother-to-be wrote a poem about ‘two little pumpkins in a patch,’ booked a classy place for this exciting event, and even went so far as to have a cake ordered by a creative baker, based on my daughter’s favorite Halloween movie.

Yes, I started buying baby clothes, two of each, and cute baby sneaker-booties as well.

Yes, I smiled all the time and searched the internet for the best twin carriage-stroller sets. Two weeks into my daughters’ fifth month of pregnancy, I created the invitations and ordered them. Forget about a big wedding – this baby shower in October would be a masterpiece!

I was finally on vacation for three weeks. It was late July. My daughter was ready to take a picture and post it to all her friends. She was a few weeks shy of her third trimester. She looked wonderful; felt wonderful as well.

August rolled around, hot and humid. Two identical baby blankets were well on their way to being completed. Then I would start on matching hats and booties. My daughter was ready to slow it down with work as maneuvering now much more difficult. She tired easily. She was also less pleased with her doctor, who now wanted amniocentesis performed, stating concern for one of the babies. My daughter complied.

The procedure went off without a hitch. All was well while we awaited the results. I started back at the school building mid-August. My days were short, often finished around noon.

I was grateful to finish my work at home, and then to have the time preparing, crocheting, shopping. In short, doing all the things a grandmother does.

Two days later, everything changed.

A frantic call came from my daughter, who was still working full time. “Mom, I think my water broke. I left the building, and I’m driving.”

“No!” I screamed into the phone, “Where are you? Get off the highway and pull over in a safe place!”

“I’m by the shopping center, by the food store,” she replied through her sobs. “Just stay calm. I’m on my way,” I replied as I ran out of the house. I got into my Jeep, hit the 9-1-1 button (Thank the good Lord for this feature), and quickly gave my daughter’s location to the police. I was on route as well.

We met in the parking lot just as they were putting my daughter on a stretcher and into the ambulance. I was so turned around that I could not find the hospital; then, I could not find the parking lot. Once I saw my daughter in the hospital room, I knew something was very wrong.

“This is not your daughter’s hospital,” they informed. I already knew that, and by no means did I want her to deliver there. But as fate would have it, any hospital was a blessing.

But then I heard, “It doesn’t look like they will survive. We would prefer you to take her to her hospital immediately.” Her boyfriend was there, looking as pale as a ghost. His eyes were hollow. My daughter was crying. My heart was sinking.

He drove her the few miles to the medical center. She was placed in a wheelchair – my baby girl, my second-born, my most precious daughter – and brought up to the maternity ward. My watch registered 10 p.m. Where had all the hours gone?

Nearly nine hours from her frantic call to this very moment. And I knew. The next morning, they allowed both me and the babies’ father to accompany my daughter for a detailed ultrasound.

One sac had collapsed. Both were still alive. Both were over a pound. One was perfectly healthy. The other was struggling inside her. Their lungs were not developed enough to save, the doctor informed.

One week more would have been a different story. Would have led to a different outcome. Baby B, the smaller one, may have had a chance. The sonogram lasted well over an hour.

The silent technician gave me pictures of both boys. They gave us time alone. The doctor remained somber and gently stated he was sorry. There was nothing to be done except induce labor.

My daughter sobbed. The babies’ father nodded with little emotion. I cried. And I cried some more. The next morning my daughter delivered twin boys. Archer James’s sac had fully collapsed, and he was not breathing. May he rest in peace. Frances Michael struggled to breathe. He was pink all over, and he passed in his father’s arms.

My daughter was rushed to surgery. Her afterbirth would not detach. She lost a lot of blood. She was close to sepsis. With the greatest of attention and concern, my twin grandsons were washed and carefully clothed in little kimonos with matching hats. They were placed in a small bassinet with twin frogs at their sides.

A priest came. He baptized them, blessed them, and said the Catholic Prayer for the Dead. I cried. My daughter survived surgery and met her twin baby boys. I was not there. It was a moment she needed to share with her babies’ father.

I sat alone in another room, and I cried.

It was almost three years ago. The grief never leaves. I pray for my grandsons every night. Not a day goes by that I do not think of them, miss them, want them in my arms.

My daughter is no longer in a relationship with the babies’ father—too much sadness. Too many dreams denied. She still grieves, just like I do, in the quiet space and time of every single day.

Alone.

She cries.

I cry. It doesn’t go away. It never should.

“Look how big you’ve gotten.”

“How I love visiting my grandson.”

“Grandchildren are God’s gift.”

These are sentences I don’t get to say. These are feelings I don’t get to share. Neither does my daughter.