Grief

Grief is such an appropriate word. It feels how it sounds. The way it churns in the back of your throat -- almost from the gut. It starts to flow out with a sigh, but gets caught up and trapped at the very end.

Two years ago, June 21st was the due date for my babies. And this week, the grief has been hitting me like colossal waves. Leaving me struggling to catch my breath.

Had my first pregnancy gone as planned, I would have my little girl and little boy here. We would be celebrating their second birthdays. A big party with family, I'm sure. Tearing into gifts and eating cupcakes to their hearts' content.

They'd end up with their toys strewn about the living room. I'd have one on each knee, or laying in bed with one on each side, as I read them a goodnight story. But they'd be wired from their big day, so I'd be using my 'mom voice' to tell them to stop picking at each other or to stop giggling and go to sleep.

And damn it, it hurts that it's not that way.

I wish I could say it's gotten easier. It hasn't.

Oh, my babies... I still fall apart in the shower, drowning in thoughts of you. I choke back tears every time I see a set of twins. I have to hold my breath if I hear your names. I often find myself wrapped in a feeling of emptiness -- like the day we went home without you.

Nothing can fix a mother's grief.

I see you in your brothers, but they can't replace you, nor will they ever be burdened with that impossible task. Having them doesn't make me hurt any less. It doesn't unbreak my heart. I just love them with all the pieces I can muster.

I was forever changed the day we saw two heartbeats on that screen. And nothing could have prepared me for holding you just long enough to say goodbye.

I remember.

I remember not expecting to be able to even meet you.
I remember the nurse carefully handing each of you to me, after her amazement that you both had a heartbeat.
I remember weeping.
I remember staring down at your tiny faces and translucent skin -- still too young to open your eyes.
I remember your mouths opening as you tried so hard to keep breathing.
I remember your arms and legs squirming as I held you.
I remember the tears on your father's face.
I remember, out of nowhere, feeling a sense of calm. That I just wanted you to feel safe and loved during those minutes with me.
I remember the last time the nurse put her stethoscope to your chests, and told me you were gone.

I wanted to go with you.

Now, I do my best. I try to keep your memory alive for others. I try to share the strength that you had. I try to help other grieving parents -- so they don't feel so alone. But that day... I wanted to go.

My dear Jasper and Bodhi... I miss you. I ache for you in a way that words can never describe. You are always deep inside me -- my memories of you are as much a part of me as the marrow in my bones. I carry you with me.

Thank you for making me a mother.
Thank you for your strength to meet me -- to stay with me awhile.
Thank you for those minutes. Too short, but long enough to let me love you with all of mine.

You are never forgotten.