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‘Very bold, refusing a scheduled C-section,’ the nurse said, as he wheeled me, panting and keening, toward the labor and delivery ward. ‘Twins usually arrive early. Better for you, though; no worries there. Don’t worry, mama, they’ll be perfectly healthy.’ His voice was cheerful and impersonal, the sort of voice you might expect to hear from a cashier at the 7-Eleven, collecting $3.30 for a Slurpee.
I nodded, gritting my teeth through the pain, wanting to disembowel this youthful, smug person. For weeks, I’d wanted them out. I’d been assured they’d vacate my body long before term. But here we were, at term, weeks of pacing and squats and castor oil and pineapple core having amounted to little more than dashed hopes and indigestion. It was as if they were hell-bent on torturing me, lat
