Peanut Butter Jelly Time

If you were expecting something in a banana suit singing "Peanut Butter Jelly Time," I apologize.

This is a post about healing -- about a quirky hint even.

My husband and I wanted desperately to find a holiday tradition that would honor and remind us of Jasper and Bodhi. If it could include "Garby," all the better.

So I came up with this idea of getting an ornament each year that represents them to me. Angels aren't my thing. Birds would work, but it didn't feel quite right. I wanted something that reminded me of childhood, as well as each child individually. Something Garby would get excited about putting on our tree. Something he could understand without needing to grasp some overly deep symbolism.

Nobody will really 'get it' until Garby is born. But this is the ornament I just ordered (no tree to hang it on this year, but wanted it ordered by what would have been the twins' first Christmas). The goal is to find a similar one each year. :)

This Your First?

That is the question that has haunted me this entire pregnancy. From the ER to Urgent Care to well-meaning strangers. And now hospital tours.

As soon as I hear those words, my insides collapse.

"Is this your first?"

No matter how I answer, the conversation scrapes away at those wounds. On the rare occasion I've said "Yes," to avoid the awkward conversation, hoping the other party will just drop it, it turns into a weird blend of condescending cheer. "Oh, just wait. You'll see."

And then there are the times when I say, "No." Then I'm left wondering if they'll ask follow-up questions, or if I'm bound to explain my heartbreak all over again.

It hit me really hard last night.

My husband and I went to take a tour of the maternity/birthing area at the hospital. It was looking like we'd be the only people on the tour, but about 30 seconds before it started, another pregnant woman and her husband walked in.

As soon as we approached the tour guide, an older woman who seemingly had more trouble walking than either of us preggos, she immediately asked, "So, is this your first?"

I swallowed abruptly and simply said, "No."

She glanced back at me inquisitively. I knew she was used to mothers going on and on about their previous children. So, my grief and avoidance made me seem anti-social and/or rude.

She turned to the other woman, "No. This is our third, so we're excited."

We all head up in the elevator, and the tour goes as expected. Short and to the point. But as we go to leave, our tour guide starts picking away again -- even though I knew it was her version of casual conversation.

"So, where did you deliver your other children?"

The other woman answered first, "Well, one was in China. The other in Australia."

I took my cue and tried to make it seem funny, "Oh, ours were just in Indianapolis."

Was she going to drop it there? Of course not.

"Indianapolis? What hospital?"

Eh..

And just as we're about to leave, she turns to us again, "So how long were your labors last time?"

I feel like I can't catch my breath -- my pause allowing the other woman to answer first. I couldn't even muster a real answer and basically repeated what she had said.. then walked away.

I know I should be elated to be pregnant, and I am. But the very state of being pregnant causes a barrage of questions that hurt immeasurably. And it all feels like it's coming to a head as we approach the holidays. I can't tell you how many times the grief has flooded in so fast I felt like I was drowning.

My nephew's birthday party. Shopping for their Christmas gifts. Hanging up our stockings, but leaving Jasper's and Bodhi's in the box. The pain is so thick as I ponder what should have been their first Christmas.. just a handful of weeks away from their tragic birthday.

It's becoming increasingly hard not to lose myself in all those thoughts and things I had hoped for.

The only saving grace to last night was being able to cuddle with my husband, as he wrapped his arm around me and felt for our son's kicks, talking about the twins as we fell asleep.

The Easiest Choice

When you're about to get married, everyone tells you, "Marriage is hard work."

Four years ago, today, I was staying in a hotel room all by myself, with eager butterflies in my stomach.. wondering how our big day would go, how he was feeling, and desperately missing him.

These years have flown by, and I have to say "hard work" has not been my experience. We've been through some of the most difficult things a couple can go through -- that parents can go through. Life has been so hard in recent months. The kind of "hard" that steals your breath, keeps you awake at night, and changes you at your core. But the marriage was never hard, or even 'work.' Being married to this man is probably the easiest thing I've ever done.

Every day, the choice to love my husband is the easiest decision I make. So simple that it feels like a reflex.

Have we argued? Sure. About the best way to paint a room or what to have for dinner. Our "fights" last less than 10 minutes. And I can't recall a single time that I've left the house or gone to bed angry. And for us, that hasn't been difficult to accomplish. It's just who we are together.

What it comes down to is this. When you have a husband like mine.. who supports you, never doubts you, and will practically do anything to make you smile.. it's not hard to love him. It's nearly impossible not to.

To my husband,

This has undoubtedly been the most trying year of our lives. You have seen me at my absolute lowest -- too weak to move, and moments when I can barely breathe. You were the only thing that got me through those times. You never tried to stay on the fray of it -- supportive from the outside. You walked into the despair with me, and carried me out. Over and over again.

I will never be able to express how profoundly I felt the depth of your love during this journey.

On our wedding day, I told you, "I choose you. Every second.. of every day." And now that you've held our twins, and lovingly spoken to my 'baby bump' -- to our unborn son, it has never been so easy to choose you.

And just as I ended my vows, I say this again to you, "I'm not standing here to tell you how much I love you today.. I'm here to tell you how much I'll love you tomorrow... and to promise you all of my tomorrows."

It doesn't feel like four years have passed since our wedding day, but at the same time, it feels like I've known you -- like I've loved you -- forever. <3

Age of Viability

For someone who has never had to say goodbye to a child born too soon, "viability" is not a milestone they usually think of during pregnancy. But today marks 24 weeks, which is considered by most hospitals to be the "age of viability."

That means, that unlike with the twins -- where we just had to hold them and watch them pass on -- this little bean would feasibly stand a chance. They would intervene. It wouldn't be easy. There'd be steroid shots and lots of NICU time, but they would try. And the survival rate climbs steadily from this point on.

It's very hard to think that a few short weeks makes such a difference. That our twins were so close to being "viable" -- and yet so far away.

Because we've reached this critical milestone in the pregnancy with no problems, next week will be our last regular visit with the high risk doctors. They're doing a growth scan, and then sending me on my merry way, because as the last doctor put it, "There's no emergency procedure to be done now. Your measurements have only gotten better and better."

As elated as that makes me, it's also bittersweet. In a weird way, I was hoping for a definitive 'problem' to fix. I wanted a reason for why I lost the twins. A reason my body failed. I wanted something to blame. "Oh, you definitely have an incompetent cervix." or "Your uterus is hypersensitive."

Instead, nothing has been indicated as a clear problem. And it all goes back to what the doctor told me the morning after the twins died. "Sometimes this just happens with multiples."

"Just happens," is nearly impossible to accept. My babies died, just because. And I can't blame.. I can't fix.. "just because."

And I look now in the nursery closet, filled with supplies we had purchased for the twins. Sad that Jasper and Bodhi aren't here to use them, yet hopeful that "Garby" will give it new life.

24 weeks and counting, little guy. <3

We Adopted

No, not a human.

We adopted another dog.

As soon as I posted the news to Facebook, I could hear the sighs of "Are you nuts?!"

Yes, we already have one dog at home. My baby girl, Bristow. Anybody who knows us knows that we fully consider her our first child. We raised her from 8 weeks old, and have spoiled her rotten. She has full run of the furniture, drinks only filtered water, we whisper to not wake her when she's sleeping, and only turn the lights on when she's decided to get up for the day.

We knew adding a new human in a few months was going to be a huge change for her. Mom and Dad won't be able to spend every hour snuggling with her. The house sure won't be quiet. Things were about to change.

Now, for quite some time, we wanted to adopt a second dog. But that has especially been true since moving into our new home. Even though it's a fairly nice neighborhood, I'm often home alone.. including overnights when my husband is working. I find myself hearing all sorts of noises and convincing myself that someone is within seconds of busting in the door. I inevitably end up turning on all the outside lights and peering out into the yard for several minutes.

Oddly, I lived alone for years, and I never got nervous or scared. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I'm now preggo and feeling the need to nest and make my home the safest it possibly can be, but it was a second dog or a security system. The option to rescue an animal won out (and saves us some money).

And as a bonus, we thought/hoped our new girl may help Bristow cope with those only child issues before a baby comes home.

So in terms of security, size, loyalty, and family-friendliness, I found myself drawn to either shepherd or lab mixes. I had been browsing several rescues in the area, and none really jumped out at me. For weeks, I searched pages. And in the last few days, I started filling out applications to meet some possible contenders. But I wasn't sold on any of them. Then I decided to peruse the Almost Home Humane Society page once more... and there she was. I saw that face online and my gut was screaming, "That's your girl!"

I sent Brad a text with a picture and a link. "We have to meet her. She's soooo pretty. And those eyes. Can you get off work by 5pm? I'll meet you." He agreed, though not nearly as excited as I was.

We walked into the rescue, and they led us back to her. My heart hurt as we passed all the other barking dogs in their cement and chain link pens. One very handsome basset hound and beagle mix really tore away at me. It didn't help when I glanced back and saw Brad had stopped to look at him briefly. But I had to keep my eye on the prize.

They pulled Nori (named Hannah at the shelter) from her pen and took us to a visiting room. She was still very puppy-like, nipping to play and jumping up on us. But still, very mellow, in that she didn't bark at anything. Nor was she timid around us. They also told us that she passed all temperament tests with flying colors. By the end of our short visit, she was showing her belly and trying to hop up on the bench in between us. I was sold.

Brad was nervous. "I'm just worried about Bristow. She's my baby."

My thought process was that she can either deal with change now, and have a buddy to occupy her when the baby arrives. Or she can deal with it all at once, by herself, in a few months. And for me, at worst, we give Nori a few weeks outside the shelter as a pseudo foster family. Any break from the constant barking and cement floors has got to be a good thing. (And we would exhaust all options, including bringing in a trainer, before ever considering returning her.)

Hubby agreed, and we prepared ourselves for a very uncomfortable introduction. First, we had them meet on neutral ground outside the home. But Nori, with her puppy ways, was full of excitement and jumping. Bristow didn't care for such quick movements, especially around her parents, and let out a few good growls while lunging. But eventually they both got so worn out that they fell asleep on the couch together, with Brad sitting in between. I was so glad, at that moment, that we didn't wait til we had a 1 or 2 year old in the house while trying to bring two dogs together.

From everything I've read, and been told by other fur parents, it can take quite some time for the established dog to really accept the newcomer. And we're doing all the obvious things... Letting Bristow have her 'sacred' space where she can get away, keeping food/water bowls separate, etc. So we're eager and hopeful moving forward. But if any of you have tidbits of advice, we welcome it.

The rescue identified Nori as a "lab mix." She definitely looks mostly lab (in body and snout shape), but Brad and I think she might have some pit bull in her -- based on her ears and coat. Still, at 14 months old, she looks to be a smaller "medium" breed.

My mother asked, "Where did you get Nori?" Yes, most people know it as the seaweed.. but it also means belief, rule, or ceremony. It was actually a contender if we had conceived another girl. But instead, we adopted one :)

As a final note, consider donating or gifting to your local humane society/shelter as you consider all the countless causes seeking your support this season. There's even an app (Walk For A Dog) you can download, and all you have to do is log your dog walks, and it makes a donation to your local shelter. <3 And PLEASE... Adopt. Don't Shop.

19 Weeks

Several weeks ago, when I was about 13 weeks along, a friend of the family said, "Well, you've made it further than you did with the twins," as a she gave me a smile.

The look on my face was probably one of dismay; possibly even annoyance.

For some reason, I think people around us only had a vague idea of the previous pregnancy, and the assumption has been that the twins were born, and lost, much earlier in our pregnancy than they were. Which also leaves me to wonder if they realize that my children were born alive.

Yes, by far, most pregnancies are lost in the first 12 weeks. But that was not the case for us. We were nearly halfway through the pregnancy -- 19 weeks, 2 days -- when I delivered.

Today, as I write this, I am 19 weeks, 1 day in this pregnancy. And there are so many moments when I can't seem to catch my breath. I can still feel those first contractions. I still see the look on my doctor's face when she realized I was in labor. And of course, I'll never forget having to say goodbye. I find myself reliving that day with near constant frequency as we approach that milestone in this pregnancy. I'm equally anxious that something will go wrong again.

These fears have not been eased. A week ago, I found out I needed to get a dental procedure done. It is the same procedure I had done three days before I went into labor with the twins. Then, a few days ago, I started getting heart palpitations, that started getting more severe and frequent as we headed into the weekend (which I got checked-out, and were apparently due to low potassium).

Things were just feeling "wrong" all over again.

In fairness, this entire pregnancy has been one of trepidation. I found myself, especially early in the pregnancy, saying things to my husband like, "If this pregnancy goes well..." and "Assuming this baby makes it..." I couldn't let my verbiage portray confidence -- because I wasn't.

I hate that my framework for pregnancy has changed so much that I can't feel or sound like a 'normal' excited mother-to-be. I know too much about how badly it can go, and I'm forever trying to prepare for it -- pretending that it will somehow make me 'ready' for whatever may go wrong.

But instead, I still cry. I cry in the shower. I cry when I'm falling asleep. I cry when my husband hugs me. And I plead, in every moment of silence, with grieved desperation in my voice, "Please stay in there little one. I really want to bring you home."

Today, 19 weeks and one day, marks the day I went into labor with the twins, and tomorrow would be the day I delivered them. This will be, unquestionably, the hardest couple of days for me.

As it turns out, October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I didn't really post about it (here, or on Facebook). I'm not big on "awareness months." I live with that awareness every moment of every day. I don't need a month, or a day, set aside to talk about my children. I'll be doing it for the rest of my life.

And I hope -- so hope -- that one of those people I'll be telling will be Jasper and Bodhi's little brother. <3

It's A Boy -- Coping With The News

So, if you aren't a friend/follower on Facebook, you might have missed our announcement. Shilor Bean, as we've so affectionately called our baby this entire pregnancy, is a boy.

But now, I'm going to talk about something that will surprise some folks -- maybe even offend them.

Gender disappointment.

I've decided to talk about it, because I've been soooo open about both pregnancies. This isn't something I want to keep secret. So many mothers and fathers experience it. Gender disappointment is very common, very real, but seldom discussed. It's taboo, and we feel guilty for even having these feelings. So allow me to explain for those that may not understand.

When we got pregnant with our twins, my husband and I both expressed a desire for it to be at least one (and we'd be happy with two) girl. But I joked the entire time, "With our luck, since we want a girl, it'll be two boys." Sadly, we didn't find out til moments before her passing that we indeed did have a little girl.

After our boy/girl twins died, we decided to try for one more pregnancy. Again, I hoped for a girl. My husband did too.

I understood his dream. Daddy's little girl. In fact, just a month or so ago, he saw a picture of my brother and my niece going to a father-daughter dance, and he commented, "I hope I get to do that."

As for me, I don't even know why my desire for a girl was so strong. I didn't grow up a super girly-girl. Sure, I liked make-up, but I also liked running around in the woods and playing Army with my brother and his friends.

Still, I wanted the experience of raising a girl. Sharing wisdom only another woman would know.

Again, when we got pregnant, both of us still hoping for a girl, we joked, "It'll be a boy." So, when we went into the ultrasound last week, I casually mentioned, "If you spot any genitals, let us know." The tech went looking and paused the screen. Before she could even say anything, I saw that it was, in fact, a boy.

I did what all mothers do, and smiled. But inside, I was a bit crushed.

And let me elaborate. I wasn't mad that we were having a boy. But I felt a loss, a mourning, for the girl we had wanted. I also knew that this was our last pregnancy, so there was no thinking, "Well, maybe a girl next time." I, in that moment, had to say good-bye to that idea forever. And it was difficult.

It's hard, especially when I know that I've carried two boys, and one girl. But (fingers crossed) I'll only get to raise one boy. That's a lot of loss to take in, during that split second, when the tech and doctor expect you to be overjoyed with the news. And I felt that loss, not just for me, but for my husband as well.

Sure, it didn't help matters that literally 15 minutes before spilling the news, they shot me up with a good dose of progesterone. So for the next 24 hours I was weepy. Crying that it wasn't a girl. Then crying from guilt that somehow the baby in my stomach was already feeling my disappointment.

Finally, my husband got home from work, and asked why I was having a hard day. I whispered, "Just having a hard time with the gender." He asked me why, and I immediately had to turn around.. facing away from him. He wrapped his arms around me while I cried.

"I knew you wanted a girl too," I muttered.

"Yeah. But there's all kinds of things I look forward to with a boy," he replied.

And as only he can, he managed to make me laugh. "Don't worry. I'll let you put him in dresses and buy him dolls."

I cracked a smile and could finally explain my feelings. "I'm not upset that it's a boy. I love our son already. I think I'm just struggling to accept that we had one of each, but I don't get to raise them. All the dreams of raising a girl are completely gone. And I can't talk about it, because people will assume I'm ungrateful."

Thankfully, he understood completely. And I've felt better about it since letting it off my chest. That's why I decided to share it here. So other mothers (or fathers) struggling with this feeling, can know it's okay to acknowledge it. You're not a bad person, or a bad parent. We all have dreams that we have to adjust when life decides otherwise.

And what I know is, if my second born son is anything like his father, he's going to make me smile every single day. So, whenever I get stuck on those "girl dreams," I look at pictures of my husband as a child, and I so look forward to raising someone like that <3

Getting in the boy blue theme.

16 Weeks - A Long Update

Figured I should post an update. We have so many followers now.. Hate to leave them in the dark.

As far as the pregnancy is concerned, we've had a whole lot of worry, but very little activity. At about 12 weeks, I went for a visit with my OB, on a Friday morning, because I was feeling some "heaviness" after moving items around the home. So, to be on the safe side, just wanted to get checked out.

She felt my cervix and said, "It feels like 2 cm. I think you'll need a cerclage. I think you'll be fine over the weekend, if you want to wait, or I can send you to Indy right now for a consult."

Knowing that if I waited the weekend I would completely panic myself about every little thing, I opted to go to Indy that day to meet with the high risk doctors. Before I left the office, my OB said, "Next time I see you, you'll probably have a cerclage."

At that moment, I truly was overwhelmed with emotion. And I was trying to get ahold of Brad, who was at work, to tell him we needed to leave NOW in order to make it to Indy on time -- and to tell him I was about to have surgery.

I went to pick him up in his work parking lot, and I had already moved to the passenger seat by the time he emerged from his building. By the time he reached the car, tears were streaming down my face. I just muttered, "I don't want to go through this again." He just responded, "I know," and took my hand. Off to Indy we went.

I had calmed down by the time we arrived, but I was still going over all the possible complications. A cerclage is not without risk, and can cause infection, miscarriage, etc. It was hard not to worry about doing a 'preventative' procedure that could actually cause the thing you're trying to prevent.

But they called me back to the exam room to do an ultrasound. Doctor says the results aloud, "You're about 2.8 to 2.9 cm. You can either do a cerclage now, or wait til Tuesday to see if there are any changes. I'm comfortable with doing either."

When given the option for surgery or not, when the "not" is a viable option, I'm always choosing not. So, I told him I'd like to wait and see. That was the weekend I was on strict bedrest. The specialist actually told me it wasn't necessary medically, but it would keep me from blaming myself if something went wrong. I truly appreciated that a doctor would recognize the possible guilt involved in such decisions.

We went back on Tuesday, and lo and behold, I was measuring a 3.2 cm. Strong improvement. Whether it was the strict bedrest, or it would have happened anyway, I didn't much care. But given the improvement, doctor no longer deemed a cerclage necessary, and instead recommended weekly monitoring.

I saw the same doctor for several weeks in a row, so the visits got more humorous and relaxed, occasionally joking about his long fingers or how he has the biggest hands in the office (not sure how Brad felt about that conversation.. lol). Each week, I measured around 3.1 to 3.3. So everything was holding steady...

Until..

One week I laid down, and I hear the ultrasound tech whisper to the doctor, "She's contracting. Do you want me to wait a minute?"

My heart rate probably tripled that very second. Contracting?! I was actually too scared to even ask if I was in labor, and instead watched the doctor's face for a clue as to whether this was the end. He seemed completely unphased, so I was relieved, but still anxious for an explanation.

Finally, after much squinting at the screen, he turned to me, "Well, part of your uterus is contracting.. which is completely normal.. but it makes it really hard to get a measurement. Still looks okay though."

Whew!

I went a couple more weeks with different doctors seeing me. Last week, I got, "Everything looks about the same, but there is some slight funneling."

Ugh. For those that don't know, it's exactly what it sounds like. It means the cervix is opening up from the inside out, and it looks like a funnel on the ultrasound. It's not good. But this doctor, again, didn't seem concerned. I truly didn't understand why this wasn't concerning, as funneling -- to me, indicates labor is about to start. But I tried to let it go. If the high risk folks aren't worried, I probably shouldn't be.

Bean, sleeping on their stomach, during the "funneling" ultrasound.

Luckily, today, I saw my original long-fingered doctor. Still measured a 3.2 cm. And I asked about the funneling.

His response: "Yeah... I don't think that's actually funneling. In early ultrasounds, the uterus and cervix are sometimes hard to tell apart. And the softening of your uterus can look like funneling. But given your measurements, I think everything is completely fine."

:) Why couldn't the other guy have just said that?

And this week, per usual protocol, they've started me on progesterone injections. Theoretically, it makes your body feel "super" pregnant, and will hopefully prevent any preterm contractions and can help the cervix stay longer.

We're 3 weeks away from when we lost the twins (19 weeks, 2 days), so I feel myself getting more nervous by the day. But, I'm trying desperately to stay optimistic.

Coming Soon..

We have thanked those that contributed to and shared our fundraiser a few times over. But now we get to thank them in maybe the best way. We are thrilled (and a bit terrified) to announce that another baby Shilor is on the way.

Amazingly enough, the treatments worked again, on the very first try. What is even more of a breathtaking kismet type of thing is that we actually conceived on the twins' due date (6/21). Anybody who has done any sort of fertility treatment knows it would be impossible to plan such a thing.

We had originally planned to announce at the housewarming, but the house came along far slower than expected (we STILL don't have a functioning microwave.. lol). When we had to push that back, we knew there was no way we could hide the pregnancy for another month. Figured we'd go ahead and announce now :)

We have had two ultrasounds already (6 week and 8 week), and are quite relieved that this pregnancy is a singleton, which means much less chance for later complications. However, I will be monitored closely, and there might be a procedure or two along the way.

This is sure to be another whirlwind journey for us. So keep your fingers crossed and knock on wood that everything goes smoothly.

Baby is due 3.14.15 (Hey nerd friends, that's Pi Day.. to the fourth decimal! --if you don't round up of course--)

Six Months

Today marks exactly 6 months since I held you both for the first time.. and the last time. All at once, time seemed to halt, yet pass in the blink of an eye. It's truly still hard to believe that it happened at all. But the lingering ache reminds me that it did.

The grief has changed. It's more subtle most days.. like imagining your voices in the wind as it gently rustles through the trees. Or standing in the doorway to our spare bedroom -- knowing that two cribs should be in there by now. It's different, but not any easier.

This one is very short, as far as blogs go. But it's not for lack of feeling. It's just that I've used nearly all the words I have, to share so many moments of guilt, pain, and grief.

All that is left, and will ever be, is to say that we still miss you.

Due Date

Today, June 21st of 2014, was your due date. Sure, we expected you to arrive weeks ahead of schedule, as twins normally do. But 6/21 will forever be the date marked in my heart as the one when you were supposed to arrive.

I'll probably receive a slew of automated "Congratulations" from all the websites I made registries on. And it will sting -- just like all the reminders I've gotten to buy a stroller, or the samples of formula I've found waiting in our mailbox. These companies don't know that we met you months ago.. or that we already had to say good-bye.

And we're going to spend this day moving into our new home. A home you were supposed to be raised in -- with a nursery that was supposed to be yours. I know exactly where the cribs would have gone. I can picture you both in the bathtub splashing around right before bedtime. I can imagine you playing in the back yard. I can hear your laughter (and fighting) as you chase each other up and down the hallway. I will always feel your life in this place.

But the best I can do today, is to move your ashes there. To place them on the mantle above the brick fireplace. So I may ache, and I may cry, but I will be happy for one thing. --- That even though you didn't arrive into the world today, you will be coming home.

Father's Day

Just as Mother's Day has come and gone, Father's Day has become an equally raw and uncertain day. My husband and I have to wade through the murky waters of these holidays, with no idea how to be, and definitely not feeling as if we can truly celebrate anything.

We have just begun meeting with the fertility doctor again, hoping that my body and my hormones will be ready for another go around in a month or two. As anticipated, a baseline ultrasound was required, to make sure all my innards are still where they are supposed to be and functional. The problem was that it was done in the exact same room in which we first learned we were having twins, and where we first heard their heartbeats. As I laid there staring at the ceiling, tears were silently falling from my eyes. The tech was completely unaware, since they thankfully keep the room fairly dark.

But afterwards, as I made my way down the hall to sit in another office to wait on the nurse to go over results/costs/etc, I felt like I couldn't breathe. Being back in this place where it all began, knowing that their due date was only two weeks away, and that Father's Day was looming.. was just too much for me to hold in.

So I sat in this brightly lit office trying to pull myself together, taking a deep breath as the nurse popped in. But as soon as she asked innocently, "How are you doing?," I lost all composure.. blurting out "Not good at all," as tears burst from my eyes like a leaky dam. This breakdown went on for several minutes, with me apologizing and the nurse attempting to assure me it was okay. "You've been strong for too long. Eventually you have to let it out," she said.

She was right, but it didn't make me feel any less embarrassed or weak at that moment.

As we left that day, I started to question why I fell apart to such a degree. Sure, the location was a huge trigger. But something was clearly still lingering. A constant burdening ache just waiting to bubble over.

And sure enough, it still comes back to the guilt. The feeling that the whole situation, from beginning to end, was my fault. I was still overwhelmed with the feeling that I'm the reason my husband doesn't get to celebrate Father's Day in the way he should.

If all had gone according to plan, my husband would have two newborns at home today. And it breaks my heart, because he so deserves that experience.

For his part, though.. he has been amazing as a husband -- and a father. From sharing in the excitement of every appointment to the moment that he held them, he was is a dad in every sense of the word.

Ever since he gently supported our son and daughter in his hands, I have seen him in a new light. There is something markedly different about someone being my husband and someone being the father of my children. I didn't know at the time that we could be any closer or grateful for each other, but this year has been one of great loss.. and subsequent growth.

So to my husband, thank you for the support and comfort. Thank you for our beautiful babies. And thank you for loving them and caring for them in every way that you could. The man you were in those moments will be the man I forever see and love.

Happy Father's Day.

A Terrible Friend

Yes, I've been a terrible friend this year. The reasons for that might be obvious to some, but I still feel like I should apologize for it.

I haven't been able to set-up a dinner date with a girlfriend, or feel excited about bridesmaid duties. Hell, I haven't even been texting my friends to check in. I've also avoided nearly every family gathering. Mostly because I still feel too emotionally crippled to take on being social or helpful. And I do feel bad for it.

So, to every friend that has texting me and gotten no response, or a very short one, I appreciate the attempt. To friends that are relying on me to share events in your life, from weddings to pregnancies, I'm trying. Please be gentle, and know that I'm excited for you even if I can't seem to show it.

You see, within the next week or two, we were told to expect the twins' arrival. Their due date was June 21st, but twins usually come a few weeks early. In fact, I had befriended a woman who had the exact same due date as I did, and she was also pregnant with twins. Her two girls were born on May 13th, and are doing well. I can't even type that without feeling pangs of jealousy and sadness -- despite my happiness for her.

So, as you might imagine, this month will be especially hard. It's not uncommon for me to break down the instant I'm alone somewhere.. whether it's the shower, driving to work, or laying in bed the instant that my husband leaves for work. Knowing that they would have been home with me now is heart-crushing in a way I haven't felt for a few months.

And soon, we will be starting treatments, leaving more secluded.. due to nausea, fatigue, and general discomfort.

So, I'm asking you all to stick it out. Sooner or later, I'll return (at least mostly) to the friend you knew.

My Baby Birds - Mother's Day (and Tattoos)

To my children,

I knew this day would come, but I had no idea it would arrive without you. Tomorrow, mothers everywhere will be waking up to breakfast in bed, made with the helping hands of their children, even if that means burnt toast or misshapen pancakes. They'll be receiving handmade cards, written in crayon. Or they'll get calls from their grown children that now live hours away.

My day will be very different. I won't wake up to your faces. I won't ever see your names scribbled by your own hand. But I don't want this day to be about everything I don't have.

You know, when I was around four months pregnant with you, I started to picture my baby shower. I fell in love with the idea of having everything white and robin's egg blue. In fact, those were the colors I was going to paint your nursery. I had already picked out your bedding that was printed with little birds. And ever since then, I imagined myself as a mama bird.. First, building her nest. Then with two beautiful turquoise eggs just waiting to hatch.

But then you came along. Everything shattered wide open, and nothing went according to plan. But there you were, my two baby birds. So delicate. So powerfully fragile. And I held you that way -- so carefully that I could barely feel you in my arms.

And just like any bird, I knew I'd only have a few moments to watch you.. in all your beauty and grace. Soon, you would take flight, and all I would have was the feeling I had when I held you so gently. And oh, how I remember it. I still feel you there from time to time. So perfectly balanced in my arms.

The day after you left, your father suggested we get tattoos in your honor. He wanted something on himself that represented you. A reminder of holding you so briefly. I knew instantly what it would be. The only thing that felt right... Earlier today, we made that happen.

We got matching feather infinity symbols (my shoulder, his upper arm), and I got a small bird on each arm.. to remind me of when you resided there.. The only perch you would ever know.

 

 

And just so you know, I always see birds in pairs now. Waiting in the bushes when I leave in the morning. Or perched atop the fence at the new house, just outside the master bedroom window, when we first went to look at it (I instantly felt at home).

I see you in their flight, and I hear you in their song. And my heart sinks and soars at the same time. But either way, it sings out for you.

It always will.. because you taught it how.

If you'd like to commemorate Mother's Day with a kind gesture, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund.

His Birthday

Tomorrow is my husband's birthday. And like every 'event' this year, it's emotionally heavy. I had envisioned this day, guessing I'd feel pretty miserable, with twins just weeks away from arrival. And though I'd be bloated and cranky, I'd know I was giving my husband the best gift ever. The one thing he really wanted.

You see, this was supposed to be his last birthday before someone called him "Daddy."

It breaks my heart that I can no longer promise him that. So now, in comparison, nothing feels right -- or like enough. I simply can't make up for losing his gift.

All we have now are birthday wishes. The biggest is that we can conceive again, and to have a successful, full-term, pregnancy.

But a close second is that we simply stay the way we are... so madly in love and closer than ever. This has been, unquestionably, the worst year of our lives. It feels odd to celebrate it. But at the same time, I have to recognize that it was another year I got with my best friend. For that, I have to be grateful.

I found this card I gave my husband on his 30th birthday. Part of it says, "Go along for the ride, and enjoy the surprises... It's all just to make you smile."

That same year, I got him this brick engraved that is right outside of Wrigley Field. It says, "This is our year."

So, to my husband.. Thank you for taking this ride WITH me. I promise to keep making you smile. And every year I get with you.. is our year.

Happy Birthday.

If you'd like to commemorate his birthday with a kind gesture, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund.

Still

Still. It still feels the same as it did the day we lost them...

Taking my evening showers and trying to fall asleep are still the hardest parts of my day. No distractions. Just me and my haunted memories swirling furiously in the evening stillness.

The other night, I found an envelope with scribbled notes.. On it were the times that I felt contractions the night before I went to the hospital. I had been writing them down to try to decipher if they were random Braxton Hicks or true contractions. I was instantly overwhelmed with the memory of how the contractions felt, and calling the doctor that night. Knowing now that I should have rushed to the hospital, no matter how small the chance was that they could have been saved, still eats away at me every single day.

My husband had already gone to sleep for the night, so I found myself in the solitude of the shower, weeping uncontrollably.. thinking all the what ifs and should haves.

I finally made my way to bed, but couldn't stop the tears. It was hitting me exceptionally hard. Eventually, my husband woke up, and through the grogginess asked, "Are you okay?"

I had no words. I just cried as he rolled over to hold me. He knew what was wrong..

Then, last night, it happened again. I was showering as I started to imagine them as children. Their faces. Their laughs. I pictured them fighting over toys and throwing food from their high chairs. I could almost hear it when I imagined how they would have said "Mommy."

I felt so empty as I braced myself against the shower wall, shoulders hunched over, as I cried into the falling water.

This time, though, my husband was awake when I got out. I had stopped crying, but I needed to tell him that this was happening.. with growing frequency and intensity.

I sat down next to him in the dark. "Showers are really rough for me." I knew that was all the context I needed to give.

He sat up to look at me.

"I think about them all the time, and I don't feel like you do," I continued.

"I think about them most days," he replied.

"No. I mean.. all the time. Nearly every minute of my day. I relive that day constantly. I see their faces every time I close my eyes." I paused. "I'm not saying it in a negative way, like you should be feeling how I do.. but I just don't think you can relate to what I'm feeling and thinking."

"Of course I can't," he responded quickly. "I didn't go through what you did. It all happened TO you -- not me. But you need to know I'm here for you."

I continued, "Brad, it's so much guilt. I should have known to go to the hospital. I should have trusted my gut that something was wrong." Individual tears began to streak down my cheeks.

"But the doctors have even told you it probably wouldn't have mattered."

"Probably. But I'll never know for sure. Even if there was only a 1% chance of saving them, I didn't take it.. and that is my fault."

"We didn't know.." he began to explain.

"That doesn't make me feel better. I know the odds were against us. I know we didn't know any better. But none of that makes me feel less guilty. Nothing you say will ever take that away."

Concern spread across his face. "I don't want this to eat away at you."

"I will be dealing with this for the rest of my life," I said matter-of-factly. "I'm just telling you because I don't want to hide it all the time. I hide it all day, from everyone, because they're tired of hearing about it. And I need you to know that it's getting worse instead of better." I continued, "I know I've been more short with you lately..."

"It's understandable," he interrupted.

"It's not fair, and I'm sorry. I just need you to know when I'm being like that.. it has nothing to do with you. I'm just so angry. Angry with everything, but mostly myself."

Why is it getting worse? It'd be a lie if I said I knew for sure. But I have a feeling it's a combination of so many things. Fighting the insurance company, making me relive and describe my pregnancy over and over. Buying a house, which we were doing because we were expecting them. So when I look at rooms I always imagine which one would have been their nursery. My husband is now working some overnights, leaving me to be alone with my thoughts more often. Mother's Day is quickly approaching.. along with their due date. Add all that up, and it's crushing me.

I smile, but I don't mean it. I laugh, but I don't mean it.. not in the way I used to. Joy is so shallow now, and the pain feels like a bottomless abyss. The reality is, I don't have 'good' days anymore.. ever. I just have 'not-as-bad' days. And they are hard to come by.

(If you'd like to help us get our second chance, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund)

Changes

I wish I could say it was getting easier.

I suppose in some ways it is. It is easier to laugh. To smile. To get lost in a tv show. But it's quickly followed by pangs of guilt. Because quite swiftly, my brain begins to question why I'm laughing or smiling. Or the television show will suddenly mention babies, pregnancy, death, or grief... No matter how brief the mention, that's all it takes. That's the moment when it all fades back out; leaving me chest deep in the raw pain I was in the day I lost them.

The only difference is that now I have so many distractions. Some make me feel better. Some make it exponentially worse. Unfortunately, there seems to be a preponderance of the latter.

Stressing about money.. Astronomical medical bills, fertility treatments, dentist bills, a windshield repair, buying a house. Oh, and did I mention we OWE on our taxes this year? Seriously. All while knowing that I won't be able to work full-time during treatments.

My husband and I have gone over this dilemma at every angle. To make this a little less abrupt, he did pick up a second job. Luckily, and surprisingly, it pays nearly the same amount per hour as his full-time job. Though it seems like a lot to deal with, and it is.. this really was the plan all along. He actually had applied to this job before we lost the twins. After all, in less than 3 months, I was planning on delivering twins and staying home with them, and it was going to be on him to make ends meet.

But still, I've felt a lot of guilt about it. I hate putting nearly all of the financial burden on my husband, when all of these bills are essentially mine -- even if it all is for a goal we share. On the other hand, I have to use my body as a lab experiment. He doesn't have to get poked and prodded day after day. I'm not sure which of us will have it worse.

Also of note, I feel like I need to explain this whole scenario since so many people are donating to our cause. I imagine folks asking themselves, "Why are they buying a home if they're so tight on funds?" (Answer: Our house payment will actually be $300 less per month than our current rent.) I want people to know that their generosity is not being taken lightly, and that it weighs heavily on me. I simply worry that people will see me as being 'lazy' or taking the easy way by accepting help from others, while at the same time, reducing my hours at work. So I hope the following explains it.

The reality is that when I start treatments again, I'll have doctor appointments and ultrasounds 3 or 4 times per week and I'll be taking injections daily. Not super conducive in a Monday thru Friday office job. And then, if/when I become pregnant, I'll have stitches in my cervix and likely will be put on bed rest. So one way or another, it became obvious that me working full-time just wasn't going to pan out. And this is all just logistics. It speaks nothing to the emotional toll that I pay daily at my current job.

All day, every day.. I deal with criminals and drug addicts who are all too eager to talk about how "Yeah.. I'm pregnant again. I'm hoping to keep this one," or "My woman is pregnant. I'm excited. I mean, I have a 13 month old, but this time it's with my fiancé.."

It's one thing to 'know' that these people are having children. It's another to watch it every day while you are struggling to conceive.

There were so many times I wanted to quit when we were going through treatments. Every time another person brought in their child to witness them taking a drug screen as if it were a normal errand, or said, "Just found out I'm pregnant. Grr. That wasn't supposed to happen again so quickly," I felt a deep fury of anger and sadness. But then, finally, I got pregnant, and nothing they said or did could bother me at that level anymore.

As I said, it was hard to manage when we were just trying. Now that I've held my two children and watched them slip away from me, I just can't anymore. I can't pretend that it doesn't gut me each and every time.. That more often than not I feel a cloud of depression following me home from work each day. Something had to give.

So, I've decided to drastically cut my hours and hire a replacement. Once I have my replacement trained, I'll mostly only be working weekends. I'm hopeful that reducing my contact with such individuals will allow me to be in a better headspace to conceive and carry another child, as well as allow me to cope with our loss in a more healthy way.

As much as I'd love to just walk away completely, financially I think it's wise to gradually adapt and see how we do. With so many variables swirling around, there is balancing to be done between financial responsibility and doing what is right for my emotional wellbeing.

I also need to thank my husband, who works long hours at two jobs to make this possible. He doesn't know how often I think of him with overwhelming gratitude and love. This has been, and will be, a stressful and uncharted journey for both of us.. just in very different ways. At first, he took on this challenge to take care of Bodhi and Jasper. Now, we can only hope it's to eventually take care of another son or daughter.

If you'd like to help us get a second chance, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund

Happy Pills?

Today made the third OB/midwife appointment since the delivery; all three with different physicians. And I've discovered a phenomenon that I can't say is unexpected, unfortunately.

Each and every doctor has taken the opportunity to look at me with pity, slowly reaching out to touch one of my knees, "How are you doing?" No sooner does the question come out do they then offer me antidepressants and/or anti-anxiety meds. Mind you, this is without them seeing me drop a single tear, and in fact, often cracking jokes with them.

It happened again this very morning. "How are you? You seem to be in good spirits."

Little did she know I had nearly cried a half-dozen times since entering the building. In the waiting room, there was a couple joyfully flipping through their brand new ultrasound pictures.. along with four very pregnant women waiting for their appointments. Then I was taken to an exam room with pregnancy information and a poster of preemie twins laying next to each other with the caption "It May Seem Hard, But You're Not Going Through It Alone."

I mean, seriously. This whole thing was emotional torture. But I didn't break down, and I can have normal conversation.

She continued, "Postpartum depression can last for up to a year," she uttered as if diagnosing me with such. "It can be worse with infant loss. So if you feel like you need any medication.. antidepressants.. just let us know."

I just nodded politely as I thought to myself how bizarre it was that they were basically asking patients to self-diagnose and determine treatment. Had I even muttered that I was having a rough time or that I cry everyday, I have no doubt that I would have left that office with a shiny new prescription.

Don't get me wrong. Antidepressants have their place and time, and serve an important function for many people. But the idea that they should just be practically thrown at anyone who is grieving seems so sad to me (no pun intended). Nevermind the fact that they weren't offered in conjunction or even as a secondary option to counseling. Just, "You feel sad? Here's a pill."

It's OKAY to grieve. It's OKAY to cry. It's even okay to have a few days where you don't feel like doing anything or talking to anyone.

I would never want to be numb to that kind of loss -- that kind of pain. That extraordinary pain reminds me how much I loved them and always will.


If you'd like to help us get a second chance, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund

Complications

I'm not a believer in bad luck, but this year.. just a few months in.. is making me reconsider.

Despite being told that I have a "perfectly shaped uterus" and that my "ovaries respond like those of an 18 year old," I was the 1 in 100 who got severe hyperstimulation and required hospitalization. Then I was one of the minority that conceived twins, which in part, made me one of the minority that suffered from pre-term delivery. Then I was part of the minority that needed a procedure afterwards to remove tissue. Then, after a very uncomplicated recovery.. even after my 6 week check-up.. I end up being part of the minority that ends up having some sort of postnatal hemorrhaging completely out of nowhere.

I won't get too much into the 'icky' stuff. I will just say that I'm amazed my husband doesn't have post-traumatic stress from the things he saw that afternoon.

As we made our way to the emergency room, that old familiar feeling came rushing back in. This was all too familiar. This was the emergency room where we first found out I was pregnant. This was the emergency room where they checked on them at 14 weeks when our dog landed on my stomach -- the first ultrasound where they looked like perfect little people.

From the check-in desk, to the orderly, to the nurse, then finally the doctor, I had to tell my brutal story repeatedly. "I gave birth a little over six weeks ago to twins, but they were preterm. They didn't survive."

When I told the orderly and nurse, they were each apologetic. But when I started to tell the doctor.. "I delivered a little over six week ago at 19 weeks, two days.." He interrupted, "Oh. I hate to ask this, but was it planned termination -- an abortion, medical necessity, or..?"

I felt my heart recoil in bitter grief, my face scrunched up in disgust. "No. No. They lived for an hour before they died."

"Oh," he replied.

I mean, it was a valid question, but I remember thinking how bizarre it was that he didn't ask about preterm delivery first. But I couldn't dwell for long. Within seconds, he said they were going to do a pelvic and an ultrasound. My body clenched up from the emotional desire to just flee. This was going to hurt in a way I wasn't at all prepared for.. and I knew it.

As soon as the gel hit my abdomen, the tears started to pool. I wanted so badly to just let it out, but I knew the technician would think she was hurting me physically. So I just kept breathing. Breathing through all the thoughts of my children, and how I felt so totally empty now. There was no pressure or firmness deep within my abdomen. Another unnecessary reminder that they were truly gone.

After all the tests were done, the doctor came back in. At this point the bleeding had slowed down dramatically. "It definitely doesn't seem to be a normal period. With it being so sudden and then relatively quickly slowing down, it's possible that you still had a piece of placenta or tissue in there.. causing clotting. Sometimes this will cause it to pass, but you may end up needing a D & C."

I sat there sarcastically thinking, "I'm so glad they charged me $7k for my placenta removal procedure for them to not get it all anyway."

He interrupted my bitter thoughts, "So let's hope this took care of it. I'll just want you to follow up with your OB, since this isn't my specialty. Today, we're going to give you some Cytotec. It'll make your uterus contract but should stop the bleeding."

I was familiar with this drug. It's what they gave me after delivery to try to get my body to pass the tiny piece of placenta naturally. It didn't seem to cause any contractions at the time -- hence me needing to have it manually removed. (Which despite being put under for half an hour and told that it went perfectly, didn't seem to work anyway.)

Apparently, what they gave me this time was much stronger, or my body was much more sensitive to it. Within 20-30 minutes, it felt like the height of labor. The nurse chimed in, "The bleeding will probably get worse before it gets better."

Lovely.

"Here's your script. We want you to take this in intervals for the next 24 hours."

So here I was, essentially being told that I'll have to go through the labor process again. I'm truly amazed that I didn't have a complete emotional breakdown right then and there.

But instead, I chose to be grateful for my husband who left work to be there for me. He then had to take the rest of the day off to keep an eye on me. He then told me, "I'll have to make up these hours somehow. I guess I'll have to work on one of the days I took off to watch March Madness."

I broke down in tears immediately. Yes, I'm aware that sounds like an overreaction. But at this point, it was everything just piling on top of what had come before.

"You can't do that! No. Please don't. I can't take another thing away from you."

He looked blankly at me, stuck between wanting to console me and, I think, realizing it was true.

I continued, "It's always my problems, my medical bills.. I just keep taking away from you instead of adding to your life."

Even my husband didn't have a good response this time. He just sat there, holding my hand. The dutiful husband. He feels like it's his job to support me in every way. I just wish he didn't have to do it so often and to such extremes.

Luckily, the weekend was uneventful once the medication was over and contractions finally stopped. But just to top it all off, as I backed out of my garage this morning, there was a large crack across my windshield. Apparently, a rock or something must have hit it, then with the weather changes over the weekend, it just split.

*sigh*

All of this on top of being denied for my hospital stay by insurance... When can we get one thing to work in our favor? I feel like I need an entire field of lucky clovers right about now..

 

If you would like to help us get our second chance, please visit gofundme.com/shilorfund

Six Weeks

Today was my six week postpartum check-up. A day I had been dreading, but also eager to get past. The last six weeks have been such a rollercoaster.

The memorial. Becoming engorged. Dealing with my own guilt. Meeting with the fertility specialist. Doing our fundraiser. Gaining weight so quickly. Finding out insurance is denying a claim from my OHSS hospital stay. Everything was whirling around so fast that I couldn't ever find my bearings.

But as this day gradually approached, I knew it was going to be one of those days that ripped all my wounds right open. This was, after all, the office where I started that fateful morning. This was the doctor that had the look of dismay on her face -- when she knew it was over, even if she didn't want to tell me so.

I would have to relive that morning...

I burst into tears during the short drive to the office; steaming up my own sunglasses. But I pulled myself together quickly. Upon arrival, I made my way to the elevator. While usually empty in such a small building, I ended up in the elevator with a woman and her toddler son. As the elevator climbed, my heart sank into my gut.

Exiting the elevator, I made my way to the restroom as I felt the tears welling up. Luckily, it was empty, so I took a minute to myself.. to just let it out. I kept thinking, this was the last place where I heard their heartbeats. The precious heartbeats of my two children -- an impossible sound to forget. They were so strong and perfect, but I said goodbye to that sound forever in this building.

Those thoughts were like pinpricks in my heart. I could feel all the pain, loss, and love flowing out of me -- landing on the floor.

As I checked in at the desk, I was instructed to sit on one side of the waiting room, where a father was sitting with yet another toddler. This child was playing with a car on the floor, but was noticeably nervous about getting near me. Little did he know, I was more scared than he was.

Finally, I was called back. The doctor allowed me to ask questions first. And my doctor is the kind of sympathetic person, with a kind, soft voice, that makes you want to cry even when you're feeling fine. So it took all I had to keep my calm as I asked all the questions that had been bothering me.

"Do you think it was a case of incompetent cervix or preterm delivery? The doctors seem to be disagreeing. I had read that an incompetent cervix would have no symptoms and I clearly did."

She replied, "Well, technically, you are correct. An incompetent cervix will dilate without any pain. And you were having pains for hours, so I would be inclined to say it was preterm delivery. That said, at this point, we'd plan on doing a cerclage just as a precautionary measure."

"I know it's impossible to know, but I've really been struggling with 'what if I had come in the night before?'"

"The 'what-ifs' are always going to be your biggest enemy, but I know it's impossible to not question things. You had an unexpected event. No doctor would have expected it, so there's no reason you should have. And in my honest opinion, there's no way to be certain, but I highly doubt coming in sooner would have made any difference in the outcome. Even if we could have stalled labor for a week or two, they still would have arrived too soon."

Then a quick pelvic exam showed all was well. My body is healed. Now I just have to give my heart some time.

If you would like to help us get our second chance, please visit gofundme.com/shilorfund

Shadows

Every evening, I stand in front of their urns casting off shadows from the candles that burn before them.. bending down to look at their picture; truly look. Taking in every angle of their faces -- from their tiny mouths to their perfect little noses. I glance down at their fists, remembering how it felt to gently brush my finger across theirs.

Soon enough, it all floods in. How it felt to hold them and how it felt to birth them. The loss crashes down around me all over again... And I cry.

I cry as I apologize to them, "You deserved more. You deserved a chance. I'm so sorry I let you down.."

I don't talk to them with the belief that they can hear me. I say the words because I need to let them come out. I need to say aloud the things that nobody else could understand.

"If there is a place after this.. if I'm wrong.. know that I'm coming for you. I'll find you."

And it always ends the same way, "I love you.. and I miss you." I feel each name, etched in the cold metal, as I blow out the candles and go off to bed feeling emotionally drained.

My husband and I at the memorial. (cropped photo taken by Erika Aileen Photography)

But we're to the point now where the pain goes unspoken. Friends and coworkers expect us to be 'ourselves' again. So we are. Or we pretend to be. We laugh at their jokes. We nod as they talk about signing up their kids for T-ball. We never let on how badly it still hurts. We never let on that we still cry. We talk in the past tense, never letting on that it is still very much our present.

We even try to fool ourselves. We've returned to our routine -- from work to date nights. Anything to feel "normal" again. But no matter how "normal" the day, the routine, or the façade.. I still have that same moment every evening that is completely devoted to my children.

Some people have family dinner, or bedtime stories. I'm left saying goodnight to their ashes -- tears falling in the stillness and shadows.

(If you would like to help us have our second chance, please visit gofundme.com/shilorfund)

Do You Have Any Kids?

This question seems to get asked of me more at this job than at any other I've ever had. I don't know if it's just the sheer number of women I deal with, or if this women are inclined to make more small talk, but at least twice a week I get asked, "So, do you have any kids?"

That question always hurt a little. The entire time I've been at this job, we have been trying to conceive. Every inquiry was a reminder that we were failing and would reignite my concern that time was running out.

Finally, when I got pregnant, it stopped hurting. I could say with a smile, "Not yet." Knowing inside that soon the answer would be easy and happy.

But life had other plans. Now I'm back to painful -- far more painful than it had ever been. Because now the answer isn't simple. If I say "yes," there are almost always follow-up questions. "Oh, are they in school?" Then it starts to open up the wounds as I explain that they have passed. It also makes it uncomfortable for the asking party. I've even tried on several occasions to explain immediately. "I had twins, but.." Yet I'm always interrupted before I can finish. "Aww. How old are they now?"

When I brought this up to someone recently, they suggested I just say "no".. simply to avoid having to explain further. But the idea of doing that felt like an affront to motherhood and to my children. I do have a son and a daughter. I couldn't deny their existence or pretend that they didn't happen.

I didn't have a miscarriage, or even a stillbirth; I held my breathing and kicking children in my arms. To say I didn't have children was an insult -- a lie -- I couldn't bear.

To say yes opens myself up to all manner of hurtful questions. To say no is a painful refusal to acknowledge Jasper and Bodhi as a significant part of my life. For me, the latter is out of the question.. no matter how much the former makes for awkward conversation.

I have to put their importance, existence, and influence in my life above my own discomfort. So the best I've come up with is to answer immediately, "They're both deceased." 

It leaves no room for interruption, and any questions are then about how they passed or the day of their delivery. I'd much rather answer those questions -- another chance to share their story.

They may no longer be here, but I wished for them. I carried them. I birthed them. I held them. I talked to them.. And I love them.

I am a mother, and I have two children.

(If you would like to help us have our second chance, please visit gofundme.com/shilorfund)

Four Weeks

Tomorrow will be four weeks.. Four weeks since I had my children, and four weeks since I lost them.

Who knew that a month could go so fast, yet so painfully slow at the same time?

I'm reminded frequently that even when I think I'm doing okay, it just takes one question, one crying baby, or one doting mother to rip my insides right out.

Just yesterday, I was on bridesmaid duty. Meeting the bride and the other bridesmaids to try on dresses. I knew ahead of time that it would be trying. I had called the store in mid January to schedule myself for after the twin's birth. But here I was, no longer pregnant. It meant that I was going to try on dresses, repeatedly looking at my body in the mirror. I would be looking at what still feels like a stranger's body. Not pregnant, but still bloated -- deflated.

So, I was planning on being upset, though hoping to not be overwhelmed.

Unfortunately, as the salesperson was talking to us about styles and said she'd be taking measurements, I needed to tell her that I wasn't yet 'back to normal' physically. So instead of giving loads of details, I simply said, "I'm not down to my usual size yet. I gave birth last month."

She took it in stride, and went about doing her job.

But later, when all the wedding party were gathered around, she decided to take my measurements. So as I stood with outstretched arms, a tape measure pulled around my waste, she asks from behind me, "So, what did you have? A boy or a girl?"

My hands went numb, my mouth dried, and my heart fell to my feet. I kept my gaze forward, only to notice the bride was now looking at me with the look of apology. She knew I had just been crushed in that instant.

I took a deep breath and said, "I had twins.."

But before I could finish, the sales girl let's out an "Aww."

I had to swallow back my pain. "But it was preterm. They didn't make it..."

Then, silence. There was nothing left to say.

The bride approached me and gave me a hug as the others just stared, unsure of what to say or do.

I wish I could say it got easier from there, but it didn't. There were groups of flower girls trying on dresses, proudly parading for their wedding parties. I tried so hard not to stare.. wondering to myself what Jasper would have looked like with long curly hair, in a little white dress. How her giggle would have sounded as she ran around a store with her friends. I have no idea, yet I can hear it with my heart.

There was also a woman carrying around her newborn son. Everyone was oohing and ahhing over him. Me? I avoided looking at all costs. Just hearing his babbling and coos, on top of all the women doting on his cuteness and smallness, was too much to bear. I knew I couldn't do anything but keep my back to him if I had any chance for keeping myself composed.

So many times I felt like I was going to cry. For no reason at all. For every reason you can imagine. Each time, I would purse my lips and just exhale..

That is, until I made it back to my car. I fell apart, curled up in the driver's seat.. until finally reaching out to the sun catcher hanging from my rear view mirror -- engraved with both their names. As the sun glinted off each prism, I took another deep breath. "I miss you so much..."

If you'd like to help us get our second chance, please visit our fundraising page at gofundme.com/shilorfund

Grandma Linda

Today is the eighth anniversary of my mother-in-law's passing. Sadly, I never had the opportunity to meet her. What I do know is that she was loved by many.. and adored by her son.

I lost my father too, but at a very young age. My husband and his mother, on the other hand, were very close. And she passed so unexpectedly. I know that the loss is a constant ache in his heart. I watch a piece of him mourn at every holiday, birthday, and even more so on days like today.

As you might imagine, when we finally became pregnant with Jasper and Bodhi, it brought up a lot of thoughts about what his mother, Linda, would think and say. Would she have thrown me a baby shower? Would she have liked their names? Would she have insisted on moving in to help us? ;)

Even without knowing her, I felt so connected to her when I was pregnant. I was carrying her grandchildren, after all.

And then, when we so tragically lost our babies, it connected us even more to her. She too had lost two infants in her lifetime. So again, we wondered, what would she say to us if she could?

I'll never really know what she would have thought of me, or me carrying her grandbabies. But what I do know is that she would have been so proud of her son. How he took care of me and was by my side, every step of the way. She also would have loved seeing him as a father, just as I did.

So...

Linda,

Thank you for raising Bradley to be the husband I love so dearly, and the father to our children that I love even more. I regret that I never got to meet you, but on January 27th, 2014.. you became a grandma to our babies. Our baby girl, Jasper Kaelyn, even has your middle name as part of hers.  

I hope that would have made you happy.

And I hope we get a chance to try again, so I can see my husband raise your grandchildren. To watch him pass down the life lessons and compassion you nurtured in him. You would be so proud of the man he has become.  

You would be proud of the way he lives his life. You would be proud of the way he loves me...

He misses you. And perhaps more surprisingly, I miss you.

We've decided to use this day, in memory of Linda, as the start of our fundraiser for our "Second Chance." Our hope is to have enough raised by Mother's Day to start another cycle of treatment. If you'd like to donate or just share our story, please visit our GoFundMe page. (http://www.gofundme.com/shilorfund)