I’ve navigated work and life today in a state of complete and utter shock. I’m still absorbing the news yesterday that the twins are probably monoamniotic, and my brain seems incapable of working on much else. An event announcement sent out to the school was loaded with errors I would have otherwise fixed before sending. I walk into closed doors. And what’s more, I am seemingly incapable of focusing on anything.

Even my Halo 2 game is off. And that’s something that should be soaked into muscle memory — my score last night was atrocious.

Tina is much more positive about things. She has an emphatic connection with the twins on some level I just can’t quite understand — a sense of them that seems both mystical and somehow naturally scientific. She knew they were twins before they were diagnosed, and last night had what almost could be called a religious experience, when she suddenly felt a wave of joy erupt from the proto-foetuses swimming around in her womb — a personal message of love and comfort that assuaged her fears.

I wish the twins could talk to me, too. But alas, I’m only a man. My first brief encounter with them was the moment before conception when they were still partly me, and I won’t feel them again until they’re in the world. As much as I try to cast myself as their advocate and protector, they don’t know me, yet. I must connect with them vicariously through their mother.

We have a new appointment scheduled with a doctor at Georgetown — a specialist in a long list of baby-related problems, including high-risk mothers and multiple pregnancies. I’ve Googled him, and some of his papers are pretty damn impressive. I don’t know anything about him as a person, but if he can insure our twins survive, I’ll offer him whatever he wants in return.

No matter what, we are entering a long strech of darkness and terrible, wonderful surprise. This process has found a new shock every corner we’ve turned, and I don’t doubt the trend will continue. I don’t like unpredictability — anyone who knows me, knows I am in complete control of everything around me. But finding myself in a situation where I can do nothing at all, leaves me feeling angry and disconcerted. Yesterday, an aggressive panhandler insisted I give him whatever money I had in my wallet so he can eat, shoving a card in my face that no doubt contained his woeful biography. At first, I gave him a polite, “No, sorry.” When he persisted, I told him I have my own fucking problems and could care less about his, so piss off.

I hate being mean to people, yet when I’m not on my guard, I find it comes too naturally. Thanks, grandpa — I appreciate the inheritance.

I’m reminded of the Arcade Fire song “Une Annee’ Sans Luminee’” (”A Year Without Light”), and its soft, sad beginning. It paints a world where all light, all happiness has been submerged in dark grief. Yet there’s a turning point, a moment of hope that explodes into anthemic joy as the tempo transforms. The message is clear: things can get better. Things will get better. Hold on.

And perhaps that brief communication between Tina and the babies was an omen — it may look scary now, but things will ultimately be okay. We love you! We are happy! Everything will be okay!.

I have faith that they will. What else can I do?