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)

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...