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)