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)

What Lies Ahead

Right after losing Jasper and Bodhi, the high risk doctor came in to speak to me. Along with all the information about the birth, and how none of it was my fault (medically speaking), he went on to briefly explain that we should ideally wait 6 months or longer to try to conceive again.

"Some women are just so eager to get pregnant again very quickly. I have to advise against that."

He didn't really explain further, perhaps because I was just shaking my head "no," implying that it was the last thought on my mind. Truth was, I was just terrified that we wouldn't even be able to try again. After the hyper stimulation and hospitalization at the beginning of this pregnancy, I wasn't sure there were any options for us other than IVF -- which was a financial non-starter.

After all, the last time we saw our fertility specialist, leaving from an ultrasound, he shook our hands and said, "I'm so glad you ended up with twins because I didn't know what we would have done next."

That was a very honest thing to say. The injections nearly killed me, after all. Even if similar medications were an option, was I up for that? And I knew my husband was terrified that I'd go through that again.. or that the complications could be even worse.

But over the next few days, I was aching to speak with the specialist. On the other hand, I was terrified to even bring it up to Brad. We were both still having breakdowns on a regular basis. I didn't want him, or anyone else, to think I was just trying to move on. Still, I was overwhelmed thinking about it and questioning our future. I couldn't keep this to myself.

So, the day after the memorial service, I did as I usually do and just blurted out, "I need you to promise me.. that you'll do whatever it takes to try again, if we can. I know you're scared, and I know we may not even have any options left.. but if we do, I need you on board."

He was confused, and taken aback by the abruptness. He definitely wasn't 100 percent on board yet.

"I don't want you to go through that again. It scares me."

I went on with a speech about how I could die from anything at any time. But going my entire life and never again feeling the way I felt when I first held my son and daughter.. or when I saw my husband become a father -- that's what scares me.

"Brad, I need you to know this isn't about replacing them.. or pretending it didn't happen. I love them so much, and I miss them more than I thought possible. But I need a plan... All of our plans were about them or for them. Buying a house, picking colors for a nursery, birthing classes, quitting my job... I have nothing to plan. Everything is up in the air, and I need something.. anything.. to feel grounded right now. I need to know if we can try again, or if I need to accept that it's over."

That, he got. "Then let's meet with the doctor to see if we have any options left."

Monday, one week after delivery, I called the specialist. As the nurse answered, I started to explain who I was.. "This is Carol Shilor.. I had gotten pregnant back in September.. with twins.." I felt my voice start to shake.

Oh man, I was about to fall apart on the phone. Deep breath. "But I went into preterm labor and.. and we lost them both."

She simply responds, "Oh hon. I'm so sorry."

I continue, "I know we can't try anything for awhile, but I wanted to meet with the doctor to see what our options are."

To my amazement, she responded that he could see us Wednesday. I paused for a moment. No. Two days from now? I barely made it through this phone call. So I scheduled it for two weeks out instead.

Of course, a few days later I was kicking myself, as I was growing so impatient.. wanting to know one way or the other.

Finally, the day had arrived. Our appointment wasn't until 3 pm, and I felt uneasy as each hour slowly ticked by.

Brad and I both left work early, and rode together from our home. As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, I felt my eyes conjuring up tears. I was simply thinking to myself, "I cannot believe we're going back there. That we might be going through this all again; or that we might be told we're done, and that it's time to give up."

I took a deep breath and pulled it together before Brad could notice I was unraveling.

As we arrived to the office, every step down the long hallway to his door filled me with anxiety. This waiting room was filled with pictures of babies, and memories of my pregnancy. This was going to hurt.

We walked in and the nurse immediately asked, "How are you?"

I sighed, "Well, not good.."

She popped up, arms outstretched, "You need a hug."

So there I was, hugging a nurse as she leaned over the reception desk. So not my style. But she was probably right. I needed it more than I hated it.

As we sit in the waiting room, I turn to Brad, "I guarantee he forgot we said no IVF before. He's going to recommend it."

Moments later, we get called back. We're left to wait for 5-10 minutes, but it felt like 30. The doctor finally emerges as the office door opens slowly. He walks in looking almost as depressed as I felt. He looks up at me and outstretches his hand for a handshake.

"What else can happen to you?" he mutters as he sits across from us. "I'm very sorry."

He proceeds to ask me what exactly happened; as in, how labor progressed. Without looking up from his file he responds, "Classic incompetent cervix. You've earned yourself a cerclage."

I remember thinking how much I hate that they call it "incompetent." It just makes it sound as if I could possess an amateur cervix. My cervix is playing T-ball while I'm trying to get into the Majors.

I also began to question this diagnosis after the appointment, since I had contractions for nearly 24 hours before giving birth, and an incompetent cervix is usually symptom free. I also don't have any of the 'risk factors' for the condition. It's really a chicken or the egg scenario. Did an incompetent cervix induce preterm labor, or did I have preterm labor (simply due to twins) that caused my cervix to dilate and shorten as it would in any labor? But I'll get into that at a later date when I speak with the actual OB/doctor that deals with such issues.

He then added, "You'd probably be fine with a single child pregnancy, but they'll likely put one in anyway, just as a precaution."

Now, the idea of a cerclage doesn't appeal to me at all. In the most general of terms, a cerclage is when they put stitches in your cervix to, in theory, hold it closed for the duration of the pregnancy. However, it has a lot of possible complications, such as bleeding, infection, ruptured bladder, ruptured uterus, etc. All of which could end up terminating the pregnancy you're trying to save. So, there's a lot to weigh out there. And to get the procedure, you have to be put under general anesthesia or get an epidural/spinal. You probably recall that I fought against getting the epidural for the placenta removal procedure after delivery. So... eh. But until I talk to my OB or the high risk doctor, who would actually do the procedure, I'm not going to dwell on that part.

What I was focused on, instead, was that he was talking about any form of a pregnancy as possible. But I glanced down at his file that he was scribbling notes in.. and what jumped out at me immediately was "IVF." My heart sank a little. Here it comes...

He looked up, "Okay, the plan would be IVF."

I expected this, and I understood why. With IVF, they could choose to only implant one fertilized egg (basically no risk of multiples), and they could drain the fluid after egg retrieval, which would remove the risk of hyper stimulation. But still, not feasible financially, and so invasive.

I looked at Brad briefly, then turned back to the doctor. "The problem is.. IVF just isn't in our budget," I sighed. "If IVF is the only option.. then unfortunately.." My voice began to quiver as I tried to swallow my pain back down. "We're done trying."

The doctor stared at me for a moment. "Hmmm. Well then.." He began to fidget with his file, flipping back and forth between pages. Then he started to scribble down a new 'plan.'

"Okay. You want to be difficult," he joked. "Then the new plan is to do what we did last time. We'll just lower the dosage, watch you more carefully, and hope we can avoid the hospital."

I could finally breathe again. At least I know I respond to the medication. It's just going to be a balancing act..

But then I wanted details. "Given what happened, I know we'll have to wait awhile."

"Oh no. You can try again whenever you want. Some people come to me the next month and want to start right away. Others need a mental and emotional break. It's up to you," he replied.

"The doctor at the hospital had told us to wait at least 6 months."

The specialist was unfazed, "The uterus heals very quickly. There's really no need to wait." He paused, then added, "On the other hand, I don't want you to worry about getting older. Your ovaries respond like you're 18 years old. You have plenty of ammunition."

I admit, I chuckled at that. Obviously, I had been worried as 35 is quickly approaching. In reality, even with enough "ammo," I'm still hoping sooner rather than later. After 35, risks for a lot of things go up, and obviously.. the odds are never in my favor to begin with.

"Now, will there be a lot of a cancelled cycles? Like, if I have too many follicles?"

He calmly answers, "I don't think so. I'm not worried about you having multiples. They'll be watching and monitoring you a lot closer now. So I won't freak out if you have three mature eggs release. Odds are, they won't all fertilize, and you'd probably be fine, even if they did."

I glance at Brad who now has a shocked look on his face just from the mention of possible triplets. Still, it's reassuring that the specialist isn't going to try to be so conservative that it impedes a positive result.

As we left the office, Brad turned to me, "You feel better?"

"Yeah. I feel like it's at least possible. How about you? Are you up for this?"

"Yes. I'm on board. I want to try again," he responded -- my partner, through and through.

So, that's the plan. Problem now, yet again, is finances.

Last time, we did an online fundraiser, and our family and friends helped us raise nearly a thousand dollars. It covered most of the medication for that cycle, and gave us the chance to conceive and hold our twins. We are forever grateful for that irreplaceable moment in our lives.

But now, we're still paying for my hospitalization last October and we're about to be billed for the delivery of the twins. I thought it felt bleak before, but I'm definitely anxious about money right now.. And while we could do another fundraiser, we both don't want to come across as taking advantage or trying to 'double dip.' It's something we'll have to think a little more about, but we truly appreciate those who have already told us they'd like to donate if we do. It means the world that so many people care about us, our story, and want us to have another chance. <3

Mondays And "How Are You?"

Most everyone has a disdain for Mondays. But few actually feel emotional, and sometimes, literal physical pain from its arrival. But that's precisely what I have now.

Sunday nights start brewing with all the thoughts and guilt of how my labor started on a Sunday, but I was unaware of it. So, true to course, I collapsed in tears while taking my shower last night. Sobbing out apologies to my children as the water poured over me.

Not until the warm water runs out do I convince myself to stand up, dry my now puffy eyes, and put on my pajamas. I then made my way to bed, where my husband had been asleep for an hour or so already. I curled up close to him.. not just because I wanted to.. but because I knew I'd fall apart again, almost instantly, if I didn't.

He woke up for a few minutes as I explained that I fell to pieces in the shower, and that for at least a few minutes, I needed to feel close to him. I stayed in that nook; with my head on his shoulder, until I felt content enough to roll away.

But as usually happens before falling asleep, at random moments, I'll feel an instant weight in my lungs and tightening of my stomach. My whole body will begin to shake as I curl into a fetal position and just cry for a few seconds.

I never have the heart to wake my husband up when this happens.. So, I didn't last night either.

I proceeded to have several dreams about giving birth; waking up each time in tears -- until finally morning arrived.

But Monday is no emotional reprieve. As the hours tick by, I recall the moment I went to the doctor's office, when I arrived to the hospital, glancing at the clock when I began to push, and the moment that each of them arrived in the world -- quickly followed by the moment each of them left. Mondays are now memory minefields.. just waiting to tear me apart without a moment's notice.

I peaked today, when a client asked, "So how are the babies?"

I'd managed to avoid this question for weeks now, but here it was. I struggled my way through an answer. "Well, we lost them 3 weeks ago today. I went into preterm labor..."

"I'm sorry. What a dumb thing to ask," she interrupted.

"It's okay, you didn't know," I replied. "They lived about an hour and then passed."

As she left I felt like I got through it fairly well, but as I made my way back to my office, that familiar sinking tightness in my chest began to appear. I quickly diverted to the employee bathroom, locked the door, and braced myself against the wall. With my arms pushed out in front of me, I looked down at the floor. Watching water droplets fall onto the tile. Drip. Drip. Drip.

I waited for the tears to slow, then dried my eyes.

This is Monday for me.

I'm not sure what is worse, Mondays in general, or when people ask me "How are you doing?" Inevitably, I've been asked this unintentionally loaded question dozens of times.

I know they're unsure and uneasy about what else to say or ask, and it comes from a good place. But the truth is, it rips the wounds wide open again.. because it demands an answer.

So I usually have to lie, saying I'm doing okay or "eh" .. because nobody is prepared for the honest answer. The answer that repeats itself over and over in my head.

"Both of my babies died in my arms. Both of my babies died in my arms. Both of my babies died in my arms..."

That says it all. It says everything I'm thinking. Everything I'm feeling. But it's everything I'm still scared to say out loud unless I'm alone in the shower on a Sunday night. It's like a mantra of pain, built only for one.

So, should you find yourself in such a position, asking someone how they are because you just want them to know you care.. simply say, "I'm thinking about you." Something that doesn't require an answer, a trip down memory lane, or a baring of the soul that they're not ready or willing to do. Something that just says, "I'm here."

With Love

First, I have to share a little story about a very special card we received yesterday. I had gone home for lunch and fetched the mail. I immediately noticed a small manila envelope that was hand addressed from someone within our city. But I didn't recognize the sender's name..

I assumed it was someone my husband knew, sending us a card with their condolences. Still, this wasn't a normal card envelope. So, I opened it to find one sealed card, one open card, and a letter stuffed inside.

I pulled open the card that wasn't sealed and noticed it was signed to someone else. For a few seconds I was confused, "Why would someone send us a card made for someone else?"

But I kept reading...

"I was so sorry to hear of the loss of your son. Steve and I lost 2 boys of our own 2 years apart of different complications. We were so thankful that we already had Brad in our life. It does get a little easier as the years go by. The holidays and special days are the worst..."

I skipped to the signatures to confirm what I had just figured out. This was a card that my husband's, now deceased, mother sent to one of his classmates when they lost a child.

My eyes began to well up with tears. These were the words his mother would have told us if she was still here. I still wish, desperately, that I had gotten to meet her. But my husband and I were just coworkers and acquaintances when she passed. I knew, as I read her words, nothing would be more impactful for my husband. I was filled with happiness for the comfort I knew he'd find in his mother's words.

I then made my way to the letter, written by Rachel, who sent the package. She explained the whole story of how they lost one of their twins and received this card from my husband's mother. She went on to say that she was reading these blogs and found them true to her experience as well.

Of course, I texted Brad to warn him. "We just got something in the mail that will make you cry."

He quipped, "A bill?"

As soon as he got home that evening, I pulled him over to the counter where the card was. I had repackaged it all back into the larger envelope just as I received it. He too, opened the card from his mother first, but unlike me.. he recognized her handwriting immediately. I just stood there, watching him read -- his eyes filling up with tears.

He didn't say anything.. just pulled me in tight for a hug. A long, silent hug.. which is husband code for "If I talk, I'll cry."

He took a moment to reminisce about his mother, how kind she was, and how he remembered visiting his two younger brothers' gravesites with her.. and how she'd always cry.. but he didn't really ever understand her pain until now.

Long after her death, her words and her legacy are teaching my husband life lessons and bringing him peace. I am forever grateful to Rachel for saving the card and thinking, so generously, that she should forward it along to us.

So with love, I say thank you.

Which leads appropriately to the fact that today happens to be Valentine's Day. Though, not at all like the one I had pictured and hoped for. This day was supposed to arrive with my two greatest loves still growing inside me; with my husband spoiling me as the soon-to-be mother of his children.

But that's not what I'm getting.. and it stings.

The unwavering bright spot in all this is my husband. I had said to him on the day our babies were born that their gift to us was that they brought us closer and even more in love. I have no doubt in that statement, and it seems to be even more true by the day.

In fact, I recall just a few days after coming home from hospital, as we got into bed.. I said, "I love you." And I felt everything sort of pause. Those words felt entirely different. It wasn't a phrase of habit or just a way to say goodnight. It was something, that now, I felt down in my bones. Even on the most ordinary of days in the most ordinary of moments -- the love I was claiming felt extraordinary.

I cuddled up next to him, looked up at him and asked, "Does that feel different to you when you say it?"

He responded, "Yeah. It means more..."

Happy Valentine's Day, my dear..

My partner in all things; good and bad. Our love created two very special people. And because of that, we'll never be the same. I love you.

Time-Stamped

A probably normal phenomenon with grief seems to be expanding with each passing day. Items, places, and even shows have become time-stamped solely in reference to my children's birth.

This was the last shirt I wore before delivering them.

This was the bottle of orange juice I drank from that morning.

This was a show that aired that day.

All manner of things that would otherwise go unnoticed have become reference points for my children. I think this is amplified by the fact that their lives were so unbelievably short. In the span of a full life, a few things.. trinkets and mementos.. become very significant. With a life only hours in length, every little thing has to be significant.

And to be honest, it breeds fear and guilt. You find yourself unable to throw out old groceries, because they were the last thing you bought when you were still pregnant. Removing a show from your Hulu queue makes you teary-eyed, simply because it aired on their birthday. You don't want to finish that last bit of toothpaste, because it's the tube you took to the hospital that day.

Perhaps most significantly, I am forever time-stamped. There's a definitive before and after in my life; and the two couldn't be more different.

In some ways, though it stings to even say it, I am grateful to hurt so much. It affirms, for me, how very much I loved my son and daughter within an instant of meeting them. That's something I desperately need as I battle the overwhelming guilt I have.

Now this next bit, is about me being completely honest. I'm not writing it to get sympathy, or told how I shouldn't feel this way (I know I have to continue to work through it). I'm sharing it because it's my reality, and I'd bet a million dollars that other mothers in my situation have felt the exact same way.

I had mentioned in the original post, chronicling their birth, about telling my husband how sorry I was for letting him and our children down. I still feel that way. Every. Single. Day.

I can't really explain the depths of the guilt.. the brokenness.. I feel. I have broken down many times in my husband's arms, unable to explain it. He tries to comfort me, but doesn't really know how. Nobody could.

Yesterday, I was so overwhelmed by it that I spent a good hour of my day convincing myself that I should leave him.. so he could be with someone else. And I knew that I needed to tell him that, simply so I could stop doing it.

Being that it was date night, I set up Hulu in the bedroom so we could just eat chinese take-out in bed and have some quality time. All was going well until I abruptly paused the show we were watching, laid down next to him.. laying my face on his chest.. and quietly shared what I had been thinking about.

"I've been thinking about how I should leave you."

As expected, it was met with confusion. "What? Why?"

Tears began to fall. "So you can be with someone that can give you a family.."

I sat up as he was trying to console me, crying even harder. I paused to breathe when all my guilt came out -- one brutally honest statement -- burning it's way out of my lungs. "I killed your kids."

I couldn't even look at him. I gazed away as he said all the obvious things. "It's not your fault." and "You did nothing wrong."

Each statement just bounced off me. I loved him for trying, but nothing was going to make a dent in this feeling. So I explained further..

"I know I didn't do it by choice, or with any intention. But I DID kill them. I didn't get to decide.. but my body killed them. That's just the reality. They were both perfectly healthy; halfway to their due date. You clearly have no problems having kids. It's my body that doesn't work how it should, and it's my body that rejected them. I need you to just understand that I have to live with that every day. I'm trying to let it go, but it eats away at me.. second by second. That's why I cry each night as I blow out their candles.. because I'm telling them that I'm sorry. So very sorry."

He started to reply, moving closer to me, "I told you from the beginning that you were enough. Children or no children...."

"But I saw how much you loved them," I interrupted. "I saw it with my own eyes. You were so in love. You would be happier with children. And I'm the reason you don't have them here."

He understood as best as anyone not in that position probably could. He just held me and said, "I get it. I just wish you didn't have to feel that way. I know that it's all harder for you. I was just a bystander, but you actually went through it. I can't imagine."

We just sat there for awhile, and decided to go to sleep. I got up to go blow out the candles by their urns, as I do every night. And as always, tears started rolling down my cheeks.

I met Brad in the hallway on the way to the bedroom -- I reached out for a hug. As I cried into his chest, I explained how hard it is because I don't only have a mental memory of them; but a physical one. I remember what it felt like to carry them. The flutters. I remember what it felt like to push; to deliver each one before staring into their perfect little faces. "Whenever my mind forgets, my body remembers."

Finally, I let out a sigh and asked, "You know how much I loved them, right?"

I needed him to know what I never got to show my son and daughter...

Bringing Our Babies Home

We finally got the call yesterday -- that our babies were ready to come home.

As I anxiously waited for Brad to get off work so we could go together, I wasn't sure how I was feeling. Was I relieved? Was I going to fall apart as soon as I saw the urns? Maybe both?

I got into Brad's car and immediately noticed there was some terrible rock music on from the 90s. I don't know exactly what you're supposed to have playing for such an event.. but that certainly wasn't it. So I quickly searched the channels for something that felt right.

We pulled into the parking lot and then lingered in the car for a few seconds longer than we needed to. "You ready for this?" I took a deep breath as we got out.

As we made our way towards the office I was becoming more nervous and anxious.. not knowing how I was about to feel.

A couple of women greeted us and then went in search of the gentleman who had called us. We took a seat while we waited. He then suddenly emerged from the staircase; both urns in hand. I instantly felt like I had been punched in the gut, but at the same time, I wanted to run towards him and take them from his hands.

As he made his way over, he asked if we wanted a box to carry them in. "No. No way. I'll carry them." was all my brain was thinking.

He carefully placed one into each of my hands, and as I sat there, I gradually lowered them to balance one on each leg. I couldn't take my eyes off of them.

So many things struck me all at once. The first being, this was the only way I would ever hold my babies again. The urns were roughly the height of my son and daughter.. and I was somehow comforted by that. As if it would always remind me what it felt like to hold them on the day they were born.

But as I noticed myself gently moving my thumbs around the curves of each urn, the way one would gently stroke the cheek of an infant.. my eyes started to become blurry with tears again. Still, I sat there trying to remain composed as Brad finished up all the paperwork and billing.

We exited out into the blistery cold, yet very sunny, day.

And I just stared at them the whole way home. My heart was feeling a little lighter with each passing second.

I had already cleared a spot on the mantle, so we immediately placed them there when we arrived home.

Brad and I hugged, as we both just took in the moment. I asked him if he felt any better or any different. He too felt a little better, adding, "I don't have to wonder where they are now." A couple more minutes passed and I noticed tears in his eyes. So, I asked him what he was thinking or feeling. He took a deep breath and said, "Pride."

And he said it in a tone I'd never heard from him before; just barely carried out from his lungs on the last half of a breath. It was the voice of a grieving father.

He hugged me a little tighter and added, "We made them."

So we cried together and talked for a minute about the day they were born -- and how we did the best we could with the short time we had. I whimpered out, "This just isn't how I wanted to bring them home." I then set up two candles by the urns and let them burn for the rest of the day.

After just looking upon them for awhile, I didn't have the urge to cry again. They were home.

And I know we're reaching the point in the road where others will grow tired of me talking about them or that day. The world is moving on. That's the thing with grief. To everyone else, this was an event that has ended. Life goes on.

But for us, it is life itself. Our wishes. Our plans. Our future. Our son and our daughter. Not a day will go by for the rest of our lives when we don't think of them and all that they taught us.

We didn't know we could feel so much love and so much heartache in such a short amount of time. We didn't know that their names would fit them so perfectly as soon as we saw their little faces and touched their tiny hands. We didn't know the depths at which we could miss someone that we barely got to meet. We didn't know what it was to be a parent.

They taught us that.

Things that used to matter so much, mean nothing anymore. And people we barely knew, mean everything.

So as it turns out, the two best teachers I've ever had, taught me more about life, values, and love than anyone else ever has.. and each of them weighed just around 8 ounces.

Thank you, sweet Jasper and Bodhi, for letting us be your mother and father -- and your students.

The Days Are Passing So Slowly

I keep wanting to post updates, but my thoughts are beyond scattered.

I've spent every second of the last few days impatiently waiting for the funeral home to call, letting us know we can come and get our babies... but every single day, we get told something needs to be signed or something just got signed.. and it should just be just 'one more day.' We just got told the same thing a few hours ago. And while I know it's just their ashes, I'm longing to have them here.. to finally bring them home. Because the truth is, every night I still wake up looking for them -- waiting to hear one of them cry. And the silence, the lack of them here, just breaks my heart all over again. And for awhile, the urns might make it worse, but I'm hoping they'll provide some closure and comfort in the long run.

Otherwise, this week has so far been a ride of ups and downs. Mostly downs.

I was scheduled to return to work on Monday. I didn't feel ready at all.. but there were things that needed to be done in the office that only I know how to do. And Brad had already been back to work for several days, so I felt bad for complaining. But within ten minutes of my arrival on Monday, a coworker came in and said, "Listen, we've all talked it over. Finish whatever you need to, and we'll cover you for the rest of the day." I could barely express my appreciation without crying.. because I knew I wasn't ready for a random client to ask me how the pregnancy was going, or to see yet another pregnant woman abusing drugs. The latter was emotionally trying enough when we were just trying to conceive. Now, it would just push me over the edge.

So, I gladly accepted their offer, scheduled myself off for the rest of the week, and made my exit.

On my way home, I decided to stop at Target for a few things we needed. My first outing into the public other than for the memorial service. And of course, I noticed every last child in the store. But I managed to not linger on it.

The last thing I picked up at the store was a fabric covered storage box. I decided we'd need a larger one for all the mementos we kept from their birth, memorial service, and pictures. But as I was checking out, one of the metal corners popped off as the cashier put it in the bag. Great... I just wanted to get out of there, but now I had to go return it at the service desk.

As would be my luck, there were two people in front of me. The one being helped apparently didn't have a receipt and the person working was taking forever to look it up. And the woman right in front of me was standing with her son -- around 6 years old. For some reason, he stood right next to his mother's leg, but turned around and stared at me the entire time.

And all I could think about were my kids. What would they have looked at 6 years old? Would Bodhi have had his dad's eyes? Would Jasper have my laugh? What toys would be their favorites? Would they be more drawn to science or music?

"Who were my son and daughter supposed to be?"

I felt my eyes welling up with tears as I just looked at this little boy, asking myself a million questions about the people my children would have grown up to be.

And those are the questions that haunt me the most. After all, I mourn for their potential. Their promise. The wide open future that they should have had. We so badly wanted to see that unfold for our children.

Perhaps that's why, in my gut, I can't give up on trying again. Not to replace what we've lost. Nothing ever could. But it's a nagging voice in my head -- a tugging at my heart.. It's just that refacing all those same hurdles, especially the financial part, feels so daunting. Nearly impossible, actually. And as I've said before, we have a lot of healing to do before exploring that road. I just wish I knew that the option was there.

But for right now, I'm still working through all the guilt and the questioning of every little thing that I did. Was it that last root canal? Did it cause an infection that went to my uterus? Did I just drink a little bit too much caffeine? What if I had gone in the night before? Could I have done anything to prevent it? I wish it wasn't the case, but many times I've sobbed while telling Brad, "I feel like it's my fault. I'm the reason they're not here."

I know, logically, that it's not fair to do that to myself. The truth is, I was super cautious. Never missing a prenatal vitamin, taking naps almost daily, never exceeding the recommended threshold for caffeine, refusing to walk on ice without spikes strapped to my feet, eating a balanced diet, calling my OBs office about every little thing, medicine, or procedure... I did everything right.

And every single doctor and nurse that saw me in the hospital that day expressed to me that there was nothing I could have done. There were no signs of complications or an explanation of why it happened. It just did. Unfortunately, that lack of a definite cause leaves you to question every decision you made. It's going to take a long time for me to let that go.

But I'm trying...

I know living in that guilt, no matter how unfounded, will only weigh me down, and won't change anything. For now, I need to be the person that Bodhi and Jasper would be proud to call "Mom." And that's not a person wallowing in guilt. That's a woman that's trying her damndest to stay optimistic, hoping there will be another chance in our future. The woman who is a support for her husband during moments of unimaginable pain...

The woman who will forgive herself for breaking down, while knowing that she's strong enough to recover.

Candlelight Memorial

We held the memorial service last night. I'm unsure how I feel in light of it. I don't mean that as a negative though. We had an overwhelming amount of support there, and it was heartwarming to know that people cared enough to brave the weather, or drive from 3 hours away, just to be there for us.. and for our babies.

But when I say I'm unsure how I feel, I mean that I was hoping for a sense of closure or added peace. Brad and I both agreed, however, that even during the memorial.. there were moments when it didn't even feel like we were there.

That said, it went as well as I possibly could have hoped. So many prayers, wishes, and candles lit in memory of my two beloved children. So much love in one room. I will never forget that.

And I know that grief happens in its own time. There's no 'end date.' I'm no stranger to death, from my own father, to grandparents, to dear friends. I've always had a sense of peace about death -- an acceptance of it. But when it's your own children, robbed entirely of their limitless potential, it's a whole new ballgame.

I was also surprised at the moments in which I got emotional. It came in waves, as it always does, but I found myself falling apart most when speaking with or embracing other mothers. Perhaps a part of me knew that they were the only ones who could even begin to understand my pain.

Overall, there was lots of loving support, along with a lot of not knowing what to say. And I get it. There is nothing to say. Nothing feels right, or like enough. But the attempt to try was appreciated.

There were also some awkward statements, asking when or if we're going to try again, or jokes about how we at least don't have to worry about dirty diapers anymore. I'd be lying if I said those things didn't sting, a lot. But I get that first, people are trying to fill the silence and trying to be a little bit of distraction from the heartache. Sometimes the words that come out don't land as you intended them.

I also get that everyone is wondering whether we'll try again. I can't say we haven't thought about or discussed it. But we're far from making any conclusions. We have to heal emotionally, and me.. physically, before we can plan for anything. I also don't want it to look or feel like I'm trying to replace my children. But seeing Brad hold our babies, and the overwhelming amount of love and attachment we felt in just those brief minutes with them, makes me want to birth and raise his children more than ever. But will it be possible? We have no idea. Financially, we'd be back at square one, and it took help from our friends and family to get our twins. That's the kind of opportunity you really only get once.

Then there's the fact that the treatment nearly killed me, and the doc was uncertain of what else we could do. In light of the complications from last time, Brad is weary about me trying again. That's understandable. If something had nearly taken him from me, I'd never want him to do it again.. no matter how much I longed for the possible outcome. He also shared with me that when they took me off in an ambulance on Monday, that while he was concerned for his children.. he knew that if I was going into labor, they wouldn't survive, and nothing could change that. What scared him more than anything, was that something would happen to me, and he'd lose everything. The fear and sadness he felt driving alone to the hospital must have been palpable. I'm not sure if I can put him through that again.

At any rate, it's something that will take a lot of thought and more emotional stability than I can muster right now. So while I couldn't really compose much of an answer last night when asked, it should have been, "We hope we get another chance, but for right now, we need to focus on being parents to these babies.. and healing from their loss."

No question that my emotions were building during the service. Whether it was from watching others mourn, or simply from trying to stay composed for a couple hours, I'm not sure. But by the end of the service, I could feel myself about to lose it; something I'm still not comfortable doing in front of so many people. Though grateful for every person who attended, I felt this burning impatience. I needed time to grieve with just my husband. To feel safe enough to fall apart.

Luckily, my brother understood completely, and gathered the last of my immediate family to give us some alone time.

I immediately fell into a full gut cry.. that ugly cry you only do when you're alone. Brad and I just held each other for a few minutes before I pulled him over to the urns. With tears dripping across my lips, "Those are our babies." His chin was quivering, "I just love them so much."

And though we hired a photographer, knowing that it would all be a blur to us later, I still wanted a few pics. This was the only thing I would ever plan and set up for my children. No birthday parties, graduations, or weddings. This was the only thing I could ever do right by them, and I wanted to remember it. So we took some quick cell phone pictures.

Then it was time to extinguish the candles. We had it set up so that there were always 27 candles lit, for being born on the 27th. So we put them out together, one by one. Stopping every so often to embrace or hold each others hands.

Finally, there were just two candles left -- the ones sitting right by the urns. So we each stood in front of one, reached out for each other and held hands, as we simultaneously blew out a candle.

And then it was over. Leaving was hard. It felt like I was supposed to put it all behind me.. but I knew I couldn't. I'm supposed to go back to normal day-to-day living, but I can't. Because at least once a day, I touch my stomach, and weep because I can't feel them anymore. And at least once a night I wake up crying. Last night was no different, as I crawled over to Brad in tears, "Can you just hold me for awhile?"

"If you dream of me
like I dream of you,
in a place that's warm and dark,
in a place where I can feel the beating of your heart...

Remembering
your touch
your kiss
your warm embrace
I'll find my way back to you..

if you'll be waiting."