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."