Has It Been 6 Years?

Today would be your 6th birthday.

It's taking me awhile to move past the pain of that sentence. The sorrow of a life missed out on -- where we would be having a party today. Last night, I should have been making cupcakes and wrapping gifts. And I will forever wonder which flavor you would have wanted. What gifts would have been on your lists.

It always hurts more today.

But underneath, it's that same ache you can never really numb. The grief. The price I pay for loving you.

We visited your room -- LDR 16. Sometimes we get to go in. But sometimes it's occupied and we just get as close as the hallway.

Today, as we approached -- and I could see it was unoccupied -- my throat began to tighten. Our liaison actually asked how it feels when we see the room right as it was happening. I touched my neck in reflex as I said, "It hits me right away. Like it just happened."

I suppose that could be interpreted as a 'lump in my throat,' 'choking back tears,' or 'losing my breath.' But that's not it. It feels like my body is squeezing down all those raw bellows that I've kept in since the minute we lost you.

A curdling scream that wants to come out as I crawl.. and cry.. scratching at the floors until my nails bleed.. and ripping sheets from the bed. Searching for you, even when I know you're not there.

I can never fully explain what that feels like. The primal instinct for a mother to cry out for her young.

It never leaves.

We stood in your room, mostly unchanged over the years, and remembered. Remembered that day. Remembered you. Remembered saying goodbye.

We donated dozens of books in your honor. Always the highlight of this day. Knowing how many people come together and donate because YOU inspire them. Knowing how many parents will read to their children and create memories -- because you existed.

And I imagine you there. Every time one of these books gets read in a NICU. Or pulled from the shelf in the nursery. Or set on the coffee table before bed.

I see you everywhere. It is my solace.

And, as per tradition, we read to your little brothers in the lobby. One day, they'll understand why.

To those walking by, we were just a family of four having a moment. But it will always be six.

Then off to WB Pizza for the garlic bread you both seemed to love when I was pregnant. Your brothers both ate some today too.

But.. I still wish it was cupcakes.. with you.

Two Years

The sun has set on your birthday once more.

The candles are lit next to your urns.

Two years ago we met you, and we lost you. Some days, it seems like a lifetime ago, or a fuzzy dream. Others, I relive every detail. Every feeling. Every sound. Every tear.

But your birthdays are always the latter. I can't help but to recall that day with such focus. Knowing you were coming. Not expecting to meet you alive. Holding you in my arms. Saying goodbye. And leaving without you the next morning. Every so often, I even go back and read your birth story -- because I don't want those details to ever fade from me.

At the same time, just like last year, we didn't want to sit home and drown in grief. We need this day to have purpose. So I arranged to, once again, deliver books to the maternity ward at IU Methodist in your memory. Last year, we took just 6 books, all from me and your dad. This year, several people joined our efforts and donated, allowing us to take 20 books.

Last night, as I prepared the books -- wrapping each with ribbon and adding a tag with your names -- it struck me.. "It's almost like I'm wrapping their birthday gifts."

And I'd give anything for that.

When we arrived today, I only had one thing I needed to do at the hospital. Since your little brother is experiencing this trip for the first time, I decided to take his copy of Goodnight Moon with us. As I explained to your dad, "I want to read it to him there... so it can feel like I'm reading to all my children." I didn't even care where it was. I just knew I had to do it somewhere in the hospital.

Immediately upon arrival, we were met by three women who graciously accepted the books, and talked about loss and grief with us. We shared a bit more of your story -- and our story. And proudly gave them the books to hand out to whomever they felt would benefit or enjoy them.

That gesture -- that gift -- was my comfort. Perhaps my only comfort. Knowing that up to 20 other children will have those moments of bonding and quiet with their parents that you were robbed of -- and that they'll have that, in part, because of how much we love you and how much you meant to the world.

During our meeting, I mentioned how much it meant to us last year when were able to visit the labor and delivery area where you were born. Immediately they responded, "We can absolutely do that again." They even asked if I knew the room number where I delivered.

I did. "LDR16"

"I think that one is available."

My heart felt heavy, but I wanted to go in that room more than anything. So we did.

And there was no place more fitting to read Goodnight Moon. I sat on the very couch where your dad had slept (until he crawled in next to me in the hospital bed to comfort me) that night. Not three feet from where you entered, and exited, this world.. I held your baby brother and read. Each page bringing me closer to tears.

Paxton closed the book as I gave him a big kiss. That kiss was for all of you.

And as your dad sat down beside me, reminiscing about that day, I looked around that room -- and every moment came flooding back. I gave myself a minute to cry. But soon, your brother was looking up at me and smiling, making sure I didn't lose myself in grief. But as we left that room, I still felt like I was leaving without you. Like some part of me will always feel like we should be taking you home.

All in all, it was a good day for us. It feels empty to say "Happy Birthday." Yes, it was the day you were born. But it was also the day you left. And the day you made me a mother, and your dad a father... And the day my heart was shattered, but grew tenfold, all at once.

So, I'll just say, I hope we made you proud. Gave our love for you justice. This day was just for the two of you.

We miss you.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.

Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.

- Your mother

And if by chance, one of the parents that received a book has found their way here to read this.. be my substitute. My voice. Hold your child and read with them. It helps to make up for the all the chances I've missed. And without ever meeting you, you are helping to heal me, and giving purpose to the lives of my children <3

Goodnight Moon - Continuing to Remember

We're quickly approaching two years since the birth, and loss, of our twins.

As you may recall, last year, we donated a couple sets of board books to the maternity ward at IU Methodist (where they were born). The hospital was especially gracious. We met several members of the staff, were able to tour the ward and visit the room adjacent to where I delivered, and to share the story of our babies. They even interviewed us for their website.

We plan to do the same this year. Though we expect it to be much more low-key -- no interview or tour. Brad and I discussed how important it will be over the years to continue to honor and celebrate Bodhi and Jasper, especially doing so with our two youngest boys. We hope it will foster a chance for their brothers to get to know them and feel just as proud of them as we do.

Last year, several family and friends expressed interest in being involved, but since it was our first time trying such a thing we weren't organized or prepared for that. We now have several options for anyone that would like to honor Bodhi & Jasper in remembrance of their one day on earth.

1) You can donate physical copies of the board book Goodnight Moon -- either delivering to us in person, or buying and having it shipped via Amazon (email me on FB or at carollorton@alumni.purdue.edu for shipping address).

2) You can donate funds to us via Paypal (same email as above), that we will use to buy more books ourselves.

or

3) You can make a monetary donation directly to Methodist Health Foundation in their name.

As their mother, I just keep thinking about how awesome it would be to show up at the hospital on their birthday with 10 to 20+ books -- knowing that so many families/children will have something tangible in their daily lives because of Bodhi & Jasper. A chance for them to matter in the world that they didn't get to visit for very long.