Page 80 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
The next twenty minutes pass in a haze of sensations I can feel but not fully understand from the tugging of sutures, the pressure of hands on my abdomen, and the quiet efficiency of the surgical team working to repair what they’ve opened. Meanwhile, in the next room, cordoned off by a glass wall that allows me to see the babies the whole time, six warming stations glow with heat lamps while medical staff works on them.
“Can I see them?” My voice sounds desperate even to my own ears. “Please, I need to see them.”
“Give them just a few more minutes to stabilize everyone,” says Dr. Kozlova. “I still need to finish up here. You can be sure they’re all doing remarkably well for thirty weeks, but the NICU staff will need to make sure airways are clear and temperatures are regulated.”
Tigran stands, moving to where he can see the babies better through the glass while staying close enough for me to maintain contact with him. His face transforms when he looks at each warming station in turn.
“They’re perfect.” His voice breaks slightly on the words. “All six of them. So small, but perfect.”
The door separating the rooms opens as Patricia moves away from the operating table. Clearly, Dr. Kozlova no longer needs her assistance. She pauses in the doorway to confer with the staff in the NICU room, leaving the door open when she turns back to us. “Weights are coming in. Baby A is three pounds two ounces. Baby B is two pounds fifteen ounces. Baby C is three pounds even. Baby D is two pounds twelve ounces. Baby E is a whopping three pounds four ounces, and Baby F is three pounds one ounce.”
The numbers mean our children are small but appropriate for their gestational age. They aren’t tiny enough to cause immediate alarm but premature enough to require the specialized care for which we’ve prepared.
“All done.” Dr. Kozlova steps back and smiles down at me over the draped partition. “The surgery went perfectly. Blood loss is minimal, and the uterus is contracting well with no complications. That’s going to hurt for a few days though, since it was expanded well beyond normal limits.”
I nod, recalling reading about that in a book I bought about multiple pregnancies. “When can I hold them?” I’m desperate for contact and proof that they’re real, mine, and safe.
“Very soon.” Dr. Romano calls that out from the NICU room, and it carries through the open door. He appears to be finishing his assessment of Viktor. “We need to get them into their incubators first and get CPAP masks on a few who need respiratory support, but then we can bring them to you one at a time. After you’re recovered enough, you can sit in here with them.”
The transfer from operating table to recovery bed happens smoothly, and my numb body gets moved by skilled hands while the medical team continues working around us. The room we’re wheeled into is the recovery suite adjacent to the NICU. The space also has a large glass wall designed specifically for this moment, allowing me to see the babies while still receiving post-surgical care.
This perspective offers a different angle from the OR, and I can see more of the babies now. Six incubators line the far wall, and each one is a high-tech cocoon of warmth and monitoring equipment. Nurses move between them, adjusting oxygen levelsand checking vital signs while the babies adjust to their new environment.
“Mikhail first.” Dr. Romano carefully lifts our oldest son from his incubator, supporting his tiny head while navigating the tangle of monitoring wires. “He’s on CPAP for respiratory support, so you can’t hold him against your chest, but you can touch him.”
He places Mikhail in the crook of my arm, this impossibly small person with dark hair and features that are unmistakably Tigran’s. The CPAP mask covers most of his face, delivering pressurized air to help his premature lungs, but I can see his little closed eyelids moving and his tiny fingers curling reflexively.
“Hi, baby.” I touch his hand with one finger, marveling at how complete he is despite being so small. “I’m your mama. You’re safe now.”
Tigran leans over us both, and his finger joins mine against Mikhail’s palm. Our son’s hand closes around our fingers with surprising strength, causing my chest to ache.
“He knows us.” Tigran’s voice carries wonder. “He’s been listening to our voices for months.”
“He’s been waiting to meet you.” Dr. Romano smiles while monitoring Mikhail’s oxygen saturation. “They all have.”
One by one, the medical team brings each baby to me for brief visits—Anastasia with her delicate features and surprisingly strong grip, Viktor who’s the smallest but most active, Natalia whose cry is the loudest despite her size, Claude who opens his beautiful dark irises to study my face with startling awareness, and finally Isabella, our youngest, who seems the most peaceful.
“They’re all stable.” Dr. Kozlova reviews the monitoring data with satisfaction a few minutes later. “We had to provide respiratory support for four of them, but that’s expected at thirty weeks. There are no signs of major complications for the moment. There’ve been no brain bleeds on the preliminary scans, hearts are functioning well, and digestive systems are immature but developing appropriately.”
“What happens now?” I ask while nurses settle each baby back into their individual incubators.
“They grow.” She gestures to the sophisticated monitoring equipment surrounding each baby. “They’ll need to stay in NICU care for at least six weeks and probably longer. They need to reach certain milestones, including breathing without assistance, maintaining body temperature, feeding consistently, and reaching four pounds minimum weight before they’ll be out of here.”
The reality of the next several weeks settles over me. Our children will be confined to this room by medical necessity, growing stronger in their artificial wombs while we wait anxiously for each small milestone that will bring them closer to getting out. At least we have the blessing of the NICU here at the house.
The afternoon grows dimmer outside the windows, as I recover in the post-op room before being moved to a fourth room adjoining the whole suite. This one is a bedroom with a hospital bed and other items I might need during my recovery, again with a window that lets me watch my tiny babies inside their incubators. Each one gets monitored by equipment that tracks every heartbeat and breath. They’re so small and vulnerable, these six people who will change everything about who we are.
“What are you thinking?” Tigran asks from his position beside my bed, his attention split between me and the babies.
“First, I’m amazed how quickly you made everything happen, from buying this place to renovating this wing to be the medical suite, to hiring the staff. You thought of everything, including windows in each adjacent room so we can always see the babies.”
He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “I was motivated to make things happen quickly since I didn’t know exactly when they would arrive.” He takes my hand. “I didn’t want us to spend weeks or months in the hospital when I had the means to make this possible at home.”
I squeeze his hand. “Thank you for everything.” I lapse into silence again.
He frowns after a moment. “What else are you thinking? Your expression is suddenly sad.”
“I’m thinking about how close we came to losing this.” I watch Anastasia’s chest rise and fall with the assistance of her CPAP machine. “They’re going to be okay, right?” The question carries all my fear and hope. “All six of them?”
