The Three Amigos

This story is by Sheilah Ward and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

The Three Amigos by Sheilah Ward

“I think I see three,” the ultrasound technician said as she moved her head to gaze close to the screen. I laid there, not knowing what she meant, but knowing what she meant. Three?

I was almost five months pregnant with twins; we’d found that out on the first ultrasound last month, but three? Three babies? My mind stopped thinking for a moment, then my thoughts went back to my wedding reception a little over a year ago. In his father of the bride speech, my dad had ended it with, “Now bring us some grandchildren!”

Well, Dad, I thought now, here are your grandchildren. All at once.

It was Christmas night. Harrison and I were at my parent’s house in Andersonville, New York. My mom and dad lived in the same house where my three younger sisters and I grew up. We’d just finished dinner and there was a slight lull in the conversation, which was unusual, and I remember looking around at my mom’s recent redecorating efforts. Even though it was the same house, it was so different from the cozy, dated décor I’d known as a child.  I got up to help my mom with the dishes and I felt a mild cramp. I was scared, but I knew it was probably nothing, so I kept quiet as I walked the dishes into the kitchen.  I looked back and smiled. Harrison’s head was tilted back, and he was laughing hard in response to something one of my brother in laws had said.

Then I felt the wet.

In the car, Harrison was calm. Too calm. Quiet too. On the short drive to the emergency room, he’d said nothing other than “we’re almost there” when we turned a corner. I looked at his face. I couldn’t see very well because it was dark. The roads were slick with recent snow and ice from a storm a few days prior and Harrison’s driving was noticeably careful. When we drove past a streetlight, I noticed his tight facial profile. His jaw was clenched, and I watched as a single tear slid slowly down his cheek. He lifted his hand from the steering wheel and wiped the tear away with his Northface jacket sleeve. He stared solidly straight ahead, seemingly unaware of me looking at him.

The nurse at the triage desk in the emergency room of the local hospital was compassionate. She put her arm around me and escorted us back to an exam room. It was intended for expectant mothers, I’d guessed. An ultrasound machine with a frozen screen that showed a recent scan was in the corner.  I could see a little peanut in the right lower section of the screen. I smiled and cradled my belly with shaky hands. I felt the bump where my two babies lived and prayed that they were ok. My mind was numb with fear, and I couldn’t think of anything to pray except “Please, please.”

The doctor came in and examined me. He patted my knee. “It’s okay, just a little bleeding. Totally normal, especially with multiples.” He removed his gloves, then poked his head out the door and called the nurse who came in with the technician. “Go ahead and get a scan, so we can have a baseline,” he said and left the room.

During the ultrasound, I strained to see the screen. She moved the cursor in a circular motion. “Look at this. Do you see? There’s one, two, and look, there’s another one.” She looked at me. “You’re having triplets! Hold on, I’ll be right back.” Watching her leave, I felt like we were being abandoned.

I looked at Harrison. “Triplets? We’re having triplets?”

His ashen complexion and widened eyes said more than any words could.

I began to giggle, then graduated to a hysterical laughter.

The nurse entered and raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright, honey?”

“I don’t know, am I? I’m having triplets!”

“That’s good, right?” she asked as she removed electrodes from my skin.

“Yes, as long as they’re okay. Are they okay?” My hands cradled my belly again, this time picturing three babies.

“Doc says all is ok.” She smiled and winked.

Three weeks later, we went for another ultrasound. This time with a specialist for multiple pregnancies. She frowned as she moved the ultrasound probe along my belly. She looked at me, then Harrison. “Heartbeats are there, hear them?” she said. We could hear the rhythmic thwamp thwamp from the machine.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her. Something in her face. Concern?

“Get dressed and we’ll talk.” She walked out and I began to cry. Harrison’s large arms encircled my shoulders as he helped me to sit up.

“It’s ok,” he said, and helped me get dressed.

In her office, we sat across from her as she ruffled through the papers on the desk.
“Here’s the thing,” she said, not looking at us yet. “The third one, here,” she slid the picture across the desk. “There’s very little blood getting through the umbilical cord. If this continues, we will have to reduce the pregnancy.” She looked at us this time, her look stony and cold.

“Reduce?” Harrison and I both said at the same time.

“Yes, very common with triplets.” She scurried more papers around and sat back in her chair. “When this happens, the best thing to do to keep the other two healthy would be to abort the one with the decreased flow.” She looked at us, the same blank look from before.  “I know this is hard, but I would advise that you both consider it quickly. If the flow doesn’t increase by next week, and you don’t reduce, you may lose all of them.”

My world crashed. In the three weeks since we’d found out about the third baby, we’d planned for three. They were growing fast. We picked out names for boys and girls; we’d decided we wouldn’t find out their sex until they were born.

My mind, now in overdrive, kept thinking “No. No I will not reduce.” Harrison said, “Abortion is not an option. Not open for discussion.” He stood, and the doctor stood. Her gaze softened and she slumped a little in stature.

“I’m sorry, I know this is a blow. It happens a lot and the last thing we want for you is to lose the other two. Please consider this. That blood flow, to the third one, will not sustain life. If it decreases at all, there will be severe consequences.” She walked around the desk and stood near my chair. “I can put you in touch with other parents who’ve gone through the same thing.”

I shook my head. “We will not abort any of these babies,” I heard myself say. “We won’t.” I stood, my legs shaking so hard I had to lean on to the chair for support. Harrison’s arm encircled my waist and I leaned heavy against him.

Research. Phone calls. Talks to our pastor. Calls to other moms. More research. Talking to other doctors. Connecting with another mom on Instagram who’d just given birth to triplets two weeks ago and who had been told the same thing during her fifth month. She and I had formed a bond in the past few weeks, and she didn’t tell me about the “reducing” because she didn’t want to scare me, hoping I wouldn’t face the same thing.

The following week was scarier. The flow didn’t decrease, but it hadn’t increased either. The pressure we’d felt when first presented with the information increased a hundred-fold. The doctor was telling us that we needed to take care of this within the next forty-eight hours. “You need to save the two with normal blood flow,” the doctor said. “Your life could be in danger, too, if you don’t reduce.” Reduce. I hated that word.

Harrison and I walked out of the doctor’s office. Both of us were silent. The shade of doubt began to form in our minds. How do we decide about this? How do we even try to begin? I looked at him as he opened the car door for me. He smiled.

During those forty-eight hours, we cried, we’d sleep, then we’d cry again. I could feel my babies. They were three. Then my blood pressure went up and I was admitted to the hospital on complete bedrest. When that ultrasound technician came in, I wanted to run away from myself. But we watched, as the doctor stood and watched. And I saw that doctor smile. A thin-lipped smile, then full-tooth. She turned to us. “It’s full flow,” she’d said.

My three boys are one year old today. Genetically identical, they are each a handful on their own; the three of them together, I can’t even describe. But Harrison and I are up to the challenge. My parents, cousins, and friends form the village we need to care for them. They are all miracles, but Charlie, the smallest of the trio, the one they wanted us to “reduce”, is the strongest of them all.