10 Years

10 years.
10. years.

I type that with tears in my eyes. Just to imagine you at ten years old.
To imagine all the things -- the cartoons you loved, the homework you hated, the sound of your laughter.

10 years full of 'what could have been.'

It is a weird, gruesome thing -- to grieve only what you had hoped for, and nothing you ever knew.

I never knew you.

But I feel you as an ache in my bones. The kind that never goes away.
A feeling like something is missing. Something went awry. And you just have to live with it.

That last bit - living with it - that's the hardest part.

The only way I can, is to celebrate you. To share your story, over and over. To honor you.
To pour out all the love, for those I never knew.

So, for your 10th birthday, we got back on track. We just did it a little different.

We visited the hospital, like always. But your little brother helped to read the book this year.

We went to get our annual cupcakes. Your littlest brother loved that part. (He LOVES chocolate.)

But then, the new part.
Since the hospital where you were born has shut down the maternity ward, there are no babies there to give books to. And COVID restricted even visiting. So, the book project kind of went on hiatus until we could figure something out.
But, ten years -- we HAD to do something.

At first, we considered opening a free little library in our yard. But, there is one just down the block. And I thought, what if we scatter books all around our city? Leaving books that honor you all around town to spread happiness, joy, and education?

So that's what we did.

But in the middle of our adventure, the most kismet thing happened. I was giving your Dad directions to the next little library, "Then you'll turn right on Jasper."
A kind of silence happened right after I said it.
"Wait..." I said.
"Yeah..." your Dad said.

We knew we were on the right track.

Happy Birthday, my babies.

So, You Wanted Cake Pops For Your 8th Birthday?

I usually write these "birthday" blogs on the actual day. But I decided to just *be* yesterday.
To spend every minute I could with your little brothers -- celebrating you.

But I think it goes without saying that yesterday -- what would have been your 8th birthday -- was painful and beautiful.

Unfortunately, just like last year, many of our 'traditions' are still impossible/unsafe, but we did the best we could.

We still visited the hospital. And we still read Goodnight Moon. It was just outside in the cold...

And we went to buy your birthday cupcakes, and P got to go in with Dad this time.

But then the strangest thing happened.

P needed to go potty on the way home. So, we stopped at a Starbucks.
I tell your dad to go ahead and get me a matcha, but to use my rewards points. As always, P planned to get water too.
A few minutes later, P is at my window handing me my "green drink" .. but then he holds up a bag.
I'm immediately confused and curious -- what did they buy?

And then I hear your Dad say.. "The lady gave us two cake pops." 

He said it as if he was bewildered himself.
So, I wait for them to get situated in the car.

"What do you mean she gave you two cake pops?"
He replied, "When we were grabbing our drinks, the barista quickly handed the bag to P and said, "Here's two cake pops for you and your dad." I thought she said "K cups" at first and was even more confused, then I looked in the bag."
Me, still trying to process, "So you didn't buy them?"
"No. She just gave them to P out of nowhere," he said.

I glance in the bag. Two cake pops with pink frosting and white sprinkles.
And I'm starting to get emotional -- my eyes starting to blur and that anxious feeling in my stomach that feels somewhere between pain and butterflies.

Come on, Carol. You don't even believe in "signs." It's just a coincidence.

But it keeps tugging at me.

I just keep looking at them. 

I knew Starbucks had cake pops. I'd notice them on occasion in the display case. But I never looked at the flavors or paid them much attention.
I then say to Brad, "I'm 99% sure they aren't vegan, unfortunately."
But that 1% leads me to opening my phone to find them on the Starbucks website.

And there it is staring back at me. "Starbucks Birthday Cake Pop."
They gave P the "Birthday Cake" flavor.

So, I don't know.. little ones. What are the odds that on your birthday, we *happen* to stop at Starbucks, and your brother *happens* to need to go inside, and the barista *happens* to give us free food (I've never, ever had that happen before), and she *happens* to give us *two* cake pops, and they *happen* to be the Birthday Cake flavor?
What. Are. The. Odds?

I don't know. But I know you've always been good at beating them -- my babies that survived just to meet us.

But as I would have told you if you were still here, "We already got cupcakes, so we'll share these with someone else."

So there you go, spreading love for your birthday again.

We love you. We miss you.
Happy Birthday, Jasper & Bodhi 

You Would Be 7

Today, you would be 7. First graders.

And that is how we celebrated you..

Because of COVID, and restructuring of the hospital where you were born, our usual visit/donation was not really an option. Really, we knew for many months that this year would not be the same. But we did the best we could to keep your memory alive.

We started by making a donation to the school where you should be this year. They had coincidentally just started a "closet" at the school for students/families in need. So, we donated clothes, shoes, accessories.. that you would be wearing.

It hit me harder than expected when that clothing arrived on our doorstep. Most notably, a pink tie-dye sweatshirt.

It was so unlike anything your little brothers own, so it was unavoidably 'different.'

Different in a way that hurt. Different in a way that ached, as it reminded me what was missing.

I could hold it up and see my baby girl. How tall you would be. Imagining you picking out your outfit for school. It's like seeing someone through the fog. It's both clear and blurry as your brain fills in the blanks.

But in this case, it was my heart guessing who you would be today.

And it brought me to my knees. Right there on the kitchen floor, I just cried.. holding that pink sweatshirt. I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Grief is just like that.

That gnawing pain of what-ifs and could've beens.

But it is also a gift.. because it means I got to love someone (or two someones) that deeply.

And all I can do, year after year, is find a way to channel that love. 

You left, but it didn't.

So, a few kids in our community will have new jeans, new shoes, and new gloves.. because YOU were, and are, so loved.

After dropping off the clothes, we headed to your birth hospital.

I knew I wouldn't be going inside this year, and I went back and forth on if we should bother. But as the day got closer, the idea of not going was literally painful. It would keep me up at night. 

I knew I had to go. 

It is still the only place you knew -- the only place you breathed air into your lungs. And as long as I am able, I will go. 

Even if I have to sit outside. Even if it's cold and dreary.

I will go to remember you. 

I will go to read to you.

But I don't read because I think you can hear me. I read to remind myself I still have breath in my lungs. That I am a mother with a story to tell -- about that place, and the two people I met -- 7 years ago.

It is crystal clear when I am sitting there with you.

"Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere."

Happy birthday, my babies. 
Goodnight, Jasper and Bodhi.

You are loved.

You Would Be 5

You would be five today.

Five. Five.. Five.

I say it over and over, because it doesn't seem real.

I would be worrying about your first day of kindergarten coming.

Everything would be different... had you survived.

And I think about that life a lot. A stampede of "I wonder" running at me at full speed.

I wonder if you two would be best buddies. I wonder what your favorite movie, stuffed animal, and flavor of lollipop would be. I wonder if you'd sleep alone through the night, or sneak into bed with me.. or maybe with each other. I wonder if you'd be shy, or dance to your heart's content even in a room full of strangers.

It haunts me that I'll never know.

All I'll ever have is that hour. I have to make it enough.

So, we celebrate you. We celebrate your life.

And just like all the years before, we went back to where you were born. Heavy with grief, but light with love -- a near permanent way of being for me.

Unfortunately, we didn't get to visit your exact birthplace today. They tried.

Our liaison had approached the nurses station as we waited in the hall, wagon full of books. And I could hear the whispering. I heard the audible "awww" and read the sad look on the nurse's face when she looked up at us.

I know that look well.

There is no other reaction to a story like ours.

But LDR16 was occupied today, and that's okay. We visited an adjacent room, and later stood inches from the door to take a picture. And while it is powerful to go into LDR16, you are more than just a room. I can both grieve and celebrate you from anywhere.

I am your mother... everywhere.

Then we read Goodnight Moon with your brothers down in the lobby (where they had to stay due to flu restrictions). I revel in this tradition the most -- when I can imagine you sitting on my lap, or on the floor gazing up at me, waiting for the next page of the story.

But it is hard, every single time, to close that book and leave the hospital again. Because I remember that feeling 5 years ago. Leaving you behind. My legs on autopilot, with pieces of me falling away with every step.

I recall that morning clearly, walking through that lobby, passing strangers that would glance at me. Did they think I was rude for not smiling at them? Did they think I was visiting a grandparent or uncle? Did they really notice me at all?

I know for certain that none of them knew I had just said goodbye to my babies. That I had given birth to twins, but was going home without any children.

It was when I first felt the absolute loneliness of this kind of grief.

And now, when I walk through hospital lobbies, I watch for faces like mine. The ones walking -- heart no longer in their chest.

I watch for the lonely.

I wish I could just tell them, "I know."


In my very first post about you, and leaving the hospital that day, I remarked about how it felt like there should be two car seats in the back.. but it was empty.

Today, it was full.

For that, I am grateful.

They will know you. They will be your brothers... everywhere.

So again, on this day, I must thank you for making me a mother. To you, and to them. The journey you took me on, and that sorrow, has enlarged my soul. The pain is the price I pay for loving you -- and it is worth it.

You are worth it.

And every year, your lives touch more and more people. They learn your story, or take home a book because of you. You matter... everywhere.

Happy birthday, my babies. Jasper and Bodhi, you are loved.

-- Your mom and dad

Three Years

Another birthday has come to pass. And every year, I grasp for the words to explain how I feel.

This year was definitely different -- for so many reasons.

First, we decided to make the book donations a 'thing.' A non-profit 'thing.' And considering we didn't decide to really pursue it until autumn, and set a goal of collecting 50 books, I'm so humbled and thankful that we got to deliver 84 books today -- in your names.

Forming this charity has given me something to focus my grief into -- from drawing the logo, to brainstorming fundraising ideas, and establishing our 'mission.'

But at the same time, it means that losing you is on my mind nearly all the time. I think that's why this year, especially this last week, has been so hard. I spent days drowning in my grief, guilt, and what-ifs. Waking in the middle of the night to immediately feel like I just lost you. Every second of that day playing over and over. Unable to catch my breath. Other days it would sneak up. Breaking down in tears, randomly, while brushing my teeth or making lunch, because I just kept saying in my head, "I miss you. You should be here... I'm so sorry I didn't save you."

Your father didn't always know what to say when he would find in me in such despair, telling him that I knew it was my fault.. and that he should blame me. But every time I go through this, or close to it, I find my way out. Your father has helped many times over to talk me down, but the common thread each time is just remembering how much love you ignited in me. The depths of which I didn't know were possible. And you got me there within seconds of meeting you.

I know, that if I can love you that strongly.. and just keep loving you.. it will last. It will carry me. It will light a fire in me to do better and be better. That there will be enough for me to share with the world -- and it will multiply. The love you gave me, and uncovered in me, will grow.

People often tell me that I'm strong. But I'm not. Not exceptional. Not extraordinary. I get lost all the time.. I just focus on you to find my way back.

So, though the week was harder than I expected, today was much like last year. Bittersweet.

I had put all the books into a Radio Flyer wagon, and your father remarked, "I'm happy we have so many books that we need a wagon. But I also just imagine the kids riding around in it."

And that is the burden we bear. Always imagining how things could be different. Who you would be now. The lifetime we missed out on. An ache that never stops.

But we arrived to IU Methodist, and I felt a sense of calm. Dramatically different than these last few days.

Again, we were greeted by several staff members. And babies, they remembered you and your story. We talked about you even more, which as a mother, fuels me. I love every chance I get to mention your names.

And then we talked about the charity, and how we arrived at the name.. PB&J Books Project (for those that don't know, peanut butter and grape jelly accounts for the initials of all four of my children -- Paxton, Bodhi, Greyson, and Jasper).

We talked about who we wanted the books to go to. I explained that people suffering a loss, or imminent loss.. like we did.. were at the top of our list. I explained further, "That time with them was mostly a blur. I barely remember the things I said to them. And I think now how it would've helped to have something tangible like a book to read. Something I could take home, hold onto, and know.. these are the words I said to my babies. That I could read it any time I wanted to go back there."

Next on the list were NICU parents. They go through so much, and just long for normalcy and bonding -- sometimes when they're not able to even hold their children. Reading to them is a chance for calm and bonding.. despite any obstacles.

And then, anyone they felt it would benefit. Low income. Previous loss. Or just anyone that expressed interest in reading to their baby on day one.

After we handed over all the donations, they again offered for me to visit one of the rooms. This time, it wasn't the exact room I had delivered you in -- so it didn't hit me as strongly to the chest as last year. But the layout was identical. And it brought me back almost immediately to laying in that bed, waiting for you to arrive, while knowing you wouldn't stay.

But this time, I didn't cry. Maybe I was all cried out. Or maybe it was too hectic with both your little brothers in tow. Or maybe.. just maybe.. it was the same calm that came over me the very second you were born. A feeling that I knew I didn't have much time, so I just wanted to breathe it in. To never forget.

I sat with your brothers and read Goodnight Moon. Every Shilor in one place -- the only place you ever knew. 

And as we left, I felt like I just had visited hallowed ground. I knew that as long as there was breath in my lungs, I would return here year after year, just to feel close to you.

So I will. Your father will. And when we can't, your brothers will.

This project will continue in your name, one way or another.

I owe you that.

To me, each and every book represents a piece of my love for you. Infinite and full of hope. Sending them all out into the world is the best way I know to be your mother. To help you live on and reach the world you didn't get to see -- and to help the world that didn't get the chance to see you.

We miss you.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.

Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.

- Your mother

If you are one of the parents that received a book, and you found your way here, please reach out. We would love to hear your story or see photos of you reading to your baby. You can find more on the book project on Instagram (@PBJBooksProject) and Facebook (www.facebooks.com/PBJBooksProject).

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.

19 Weeks

Several weeks ago, when I was about 13 weeks along, a friend of the family said, "Well, you've made it further than you did with the twins," as a she gave me a smile.

The look on my face was probably one of dismay; possibly even annoyance.

For some reason, I think people around us only had a vague idea of the previous pregnancy, and the assumption has been that the twins were born, and lost, much earlier in our pregnancy than they were. Which also leaves me to wonder if they realize that my children were born alive.

Yes, by far, most pregnancies are lost in the first 12 weeks. But that was not the case for us. We were nearly halfway through the pregnancy -- 19 weeks, 2 days -- when I delivered.

Today, as I write this, I am 19 weeks, 1 day in this pregnancy. And there are so many moments when I can't seem to catch my breath. I can still feel those first contractions. I still see the look on my doctor's face when she realized I was in labor. And of course, I'll never forget having to say goodbye. I find myself reliving that day with near constant frequency as we approach that milestone in this pregnancy. I'm equally anxious that something will go wrong again.

These fears have not been eased. A week ago, I found out I needed to get a dental procedure done. It is the same procedure I had done three days before I went into labor with the twins. Then, a few days ago, I started getting heart palpitations, that started getting more severe and frequent as we headed into the weekend (which I got checked-out, and were apparently due to low potassium).

Things were just feeling "wrong" all over again.

In fairness, this entire pregnancy has been one of trepidation. I found myself, especially early in the pregnancy, saying things to my husband like, "If this pregnancy goes well..." and "Assuming this baby makes it..." I couldn't let my verbiage portray confidence -- because I wasn't.

I hate that my framework for pregnancy has changed so much that I can't feel or sound like a 'normal' excited mother-to-be. I know too much about how badly it can go, and I'm forever trying to prepare for it -- pretending that it will somehow make me 'ready' for whatever may go wrong.

But instead, I still cry. I cry in the shower. I cry when I'm falling asleep. I cry when my husband hugs me. And I plead, in every moment of silence, with grieved desperation in my voice, "Please stay in there little one. I really want to bring you home."

Today, 19 weeks and one day, marks the day I went into labor with the twins, and tomorrow would be the day I delivered them. This will be, unquestionably, the hardest couple of days for me.

As it turns out, October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I didn't really post about it (here, or on Facebook). I'm not big on "awareness months." I live with that awareness every moment of every day. I don't need a month, or a day, set aside to talk about my children. I'll be doing it for the rest of my life.

And I hope -- so hope -- that one of those people I'll be telling will be Jasper and Bodhi's little brother. <3

Six Months

Today marks exactly 6 months since I held you both for the first time.. and the last time. All at once, time seemed to halt, yet pass in the blink of an eye. It's truly still hard to believe that it happened at all. But the lingering ache reminds me that it did.

The grief has changed. It's more subtle most days.. like imagining your voices in the wind as it gently rustles through the trees. Or standing in the doorway to our spare bedroom -- knowing that two cribs should be in there by now. It's different, but not any easier.

This one is very short, as far as blogs go. But it's not for lack of feeling. It's just that I've used nearly all the words I have, to share so many moments of guilt, pain, and grief.

All that is left, and will ever be, is to say that we still miss you.

Due Date

Today, June 21st of 2014, was your due date. Sure, we expected you to arrive weeks ahead of schedule, as twins normally do. But 6/21 will forever be the date marked in my heart as the one when you were supposed to arrive.

I'll probably receive a slew of automated "Congratulations" from all the websites I made registries on. And it will sting -- just like all the reminders I've gotten to buy a stroller, or the samples of formula I've found waiting in our mailbox. These companies don't know that we met you months ago.. or that we already had to say good-bye.

And we're going to spend this day moving into our new home. A home you were supposed to be raised in -- with a nursery that was supposed to be yours. I know exactly where the cribs would have gone. I can picture you both in the bathtub splashing around right before bedtime. I can imagine you playing in the back yard. I can hear your laughter (and fighting) as you chase each other up and down the hallway. I will always feel your life in this place.

But the best I can do today, is to move your ashes there. To place them on the mantle above the brick fireplace. So I may ache, and I may cry, but I will be happy for one thing. --- That even though you didn't arrive into the world today, you will be coming home.

A Terrible Friend

Yes, I've been a terrible friend this year. The reasons for that might be obvious to some, but I still feel like I should apologize for it.

I haven't been able to set-up a dinner date with a girlfriend, or feel excited about bridesmaid duties. Hell, I haven't even been texting my friends to check in. I've also avoided nearly every family gathering. Mostly because I still feel too emotionally crippled to take on being social or helpful. And I do feel bad for it.

So, to every friend that has texting me and gotten no response, or a very short one, I appreciate the attempt. To friends that are relying on me to share events in your life, from weddings to pregnancies, I'm trying. Please be gentle, and know that I'm excited for you even if I can't seem to show it.

You see, within the next week or two, we were told to expect the twins' arrival. Their due date was June 21st, but twins usually come a few weeks early. In fact, I had befriended a woman who had the exact same due date as I did, and she was also pregnant with twins. Her two girls were born on May 13th, and are doing well. I can't even type that without feeling pangs of jealousy and sadness -- despite my happiness for her.

So, as you might imagine, this month will be especially hard. It's not uncommon for me to break down the instant I'm alone somewhere.. whether it's the shower, driving to work, or laying in bed the instant that my husband leaves for work. Knowing that they would have been home with me now is heart-crushing in a way I haven't felt for a few months.

And soon, we will be starting treatments, leaving more secluded.. due to nausea, fatigue, and general discomfort.

So, I'm asking you all to stick it out. Sooner or later, I'll return (at least mostly) to the friend you knew.

My Baby Birds - Mother's Day (and Tattoos)

To my children,

I knew this day would come, but I had no idea it would arrive without you. Tomorrow, mothers everywhere will be waking up to breakfast in bed, made with the helping hands of their children, even if that means burnt toast or misshapen pancakes. They'll be receiving handmade cards, written in crayon. Or they'll get calls from their grown children that now live hours away.

My day will be very different. I won't wake up to your faces. I won't ever see your names scribbled by your own hand. But I don't want this day to be about everything I don't have.

You know, when I was around four months pregnant with you, I started to picture my baby shower. I fell in love with the idea of having everything white and robin's egg blue. In fact, those were the colors I was going to paint your nursery. I had already picked out your bedding that was printed with little birds. And ever since then, I imagined myself as a mama bird.. First, building her nest. Then with two beautiful turquoise eggs just waiting to hatch.

But then you came along. Everything shattered wide open, and nothing went according to plan. But there you were, my two baby birds. So delicate. So powerfully fragile. And I held you that way -- so carefully that I could barely feel you in my arms.

And just like any bird, I knew I'd only have a few moments to watch you.. in all your beauty and grace. Soon, you would take flight, and all I would have was the feeling I had when I held you so gently. And oh, how I remember it. I still feel you there from time to time. So perfectly balanced in my arms.

The day after you left, your father suggested we get tattoos in your honor. He wanted something on himself that represented you. A reminder of holding you so briefly. I knew instantly what it would be. The only thing that felt right... Earlier today, we made that happen.

We got matching feather infinity symbols (my shoulder, his upper arm), and I got a small bird on each arm.. to remind me of when you resided there.. The only perch you would ever know.

 

 

And just so you know, I always see birds in pairs now. Waiting in the bushes when I leave in the morning. Or perched atop the fence at the new house, just outside the master bedroom window, when we first went to look at it (I instantly felt at home).

I see you in their flight, and I hear you in their song. And my heart sinks and soars at the same time. But either way, it sings out for you.

It always will.. because you taught it how.

If you'd like to commemorate Mother's Day with a kind gesture, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund.

His Birthday

Tomorrow is my husband's birthday. And like every 'event' this year, it's emotionally heavy. I had envisioned this day, guessing I'd feel pretty miserable, with twins just weeks away from arrival. And though I'd be bloated and cranky, I'd know I was giving my husband the best gift ever. The one thing he really wanted.

You see, this was supposed to be his last birthday before someone called him "Daddy."

It breaks my heart that I can no longer promise him that. So now, in comparison, nothing feels right -- or like enough. I simply can't make up for losing his gift.

All we have now are birthday wishes. The biggest is that we can conceive again, and to have a successful, full-term, pregnancy.

But a close second is that we simply stay the way we are... so madly in love and closer than ever. This has been, unquestionably, the worst year of our lives. It feels odd to celebrate it. But at the same time, I have to recognize that it was another year I got with my best friend. For that, I have to be grateful.

I found this card I gave my husband on his 30th birthday. Part of it says, "Go along for the ride, and enjoy the surprises... It's all just to make you smile."

That same year, I got him this brick engraved that is right outside of Wrigley Field. It says, "This is our year."

So, to my husband.. Thank you for taking this ride WITH me. I promise to keep making you smile. And every year I get with you.. is our year.

Happy Birthday.

If you'd like to commemorate his birthday with a kind gesture, please visit GoFundMe.com/ShilorFund.

Still

Still. It still feels the same as it did the day we lost them...

Taking my evening showers and trying to fall asleep are still the hardest parts of my day. No distractions. Just me and my haunted memories swirling furiously in the evening stillness.

The other night, I found an envelope with scribbled notes.. On it were the times that I felt contractions the night before I went to the hospital. I had been writing them down to try to decipher if they were random Braxton Hicks or true contractions. I was instantly overwhelmed with the memory of how the contractions felt, and calling the doctor that night. Knowing now that I should have rushed to the hospital, no matter how small the chance was that they could have been saved, still eats away at me every single day.

My husband had already gone to sleep for the night, so I found myself in the solitude of the shower, weeping uncontrollably.. thinking all the what ifs and should haves.

I finally made my way to bed, but couldn't stop the tears. It was hitting me exceptionally hard. Eventually, my husband woke up, and through the grogginess asked, "Are you okay?"

I had no words. I just cried as he rolled over to hold me. He knew what was wrong..

Then, last night, it happened again. I was showering as I started to imagine them as children. Their faces. Their laughs. I pictured them fighting over toys and throwing food from their high chairs. I could almost hear it when I imagined how they would have said "Mommy."

I felt so empty as I braced myself against the shower wall, shoulders hunched over, as I cried into the falling water.

This time, though, my husband was awake when I got out. I had stopped crying, but I needed to tell him that this was happening.. with growing frequency and intensity.

I sat down next to him in the dark. "Showers are really rough for me." I knew that was all the context I needed to give.

He sat up to look at me.

"I think about them all the time, and I don't feel like you do," I continued.

"I think about them most days," he replied.

"No. I mean.. all the time. Nearly every minute of my day. I relive that day constantly. I see their faces every time I close my eyes." I paused. "I'm not saying it in a negative way, like you should be feeling how I do.. but I just don't think you can relate to what I'm feeling and thinking."

"Of course I can't," he responded quickly. "I didn't go through what you did. It all happened TO you -- not me. But you need to know I'm here for you."

I continued, "Brad, it's so much guilt. I should have known to go to the hospital. I should have trusted my gut that something was wrong." Individual tears began to streak down my cheeks.

"But the doctors have even told you it probably wouldn't have mattered."

"Probably. But I'll never know for sure. Even if there was only a 1% chance of saving them, I didn't take it.. and that is my fault."

"We didn't know.." he began to explain.

"That doesn't make me feel better. I know the odds were against us. I know we didn't know any better. But none of that makes me feel less guilty. Nothing you say will ever take that away."

Concern spread across his face. "I don't want this to eat away at you."

"I will be dealing with this for the rest of my life," I said matter-of-factly. "I'm just telling you because I don't want to hide it all the time. I hide it all day, from everyone, because they're tired of hearing about it. And I need you to know that it's getting worse instead of better." I continued, "I know I've been more short with you lately..."

"It's understandable," he interrupted.

"It's not fair, and I'm sorry. I just need you to know when I'm being like that.. it has nothing to do with you. I'm just so angry. Angry with everything, but mostly myself."

Why is it getting worse? It'd be a lie if I said I knew for sure. But I have a feeling it's a combination of so many things. Fighting the insurance company, making me relive and describe my pregnancy over and over. Buying a house, which we were doing because we were expecting them. So when I look at rooms I always imagine which one would have been their nursery. My husband is now working some overnights, leaving me to be alone with my thoughts more often. Mother's Day is quickly approaching.. along with their due date. Add all that up, and it's crushing me.

I smile, but I don't mean it. I laugh, but I don't mean it.. not in the way I used to. Joy is so shallow now, and the pain feels like a bottomless abyss. The reality is, I don't have 'good' days anymore.. ever. I just have 'not-as-bad' days. And they are hard to come by.

(If you'd like to help us get our 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

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)

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

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...