And Then There's This

There was something I intentionally left out of yesterday's post about the book donation and the birthday of our twins. I didn't want to get too off-course or somber. But this has been pulling at me ever since.

As I shared, we did visit the original room where I birthed the twins. LDR16.

But I left out a picture I took as we were leaving. The room board. You know the one. The board where they write down your nurse's name, pain levels, approved meds, etc.

I had taken a picture of it when we left the hospital two years ago. Just one of the details of the room I wanted an image of. This was ours, the morning we left, on Jan 28, 2014.

Almost as a reflex, I snapped a picture again yesterday, before even really looking at the board. And as I lowered my cell phone to see the board, I felt sick -- out of breath -- as these words jumped out at me under Today's Plan:

"Mementos. Burial plans."

(blacked out section had a name in quotes, and not knowing if it related to the child/family in a specific way, 
I opted to black it out)

My heart sank as I immediately knew so much about the mother that had just left this room. Her baby, or babies, weren't going home with her either.

And our children shared this single room as their place in the world.

I wanted to find her. To validate everything she was feeling. To give her a look of understanding. To reassure her. To tell her, "You are not alone."

When you left this room numb and in shock. Glancing in the back seat looking for your child -- you were not alone.

When you got home and just stared at your own arms... the arms that held your child, and you imagine them still there. And you touch your belly, feeling so empty, wishing you could feel just one more kick -- you were not alone.

When you curl up in bed, silently screaming and crying from the depths of your soul, hoping that nobody would awaken to see you like that -- you are not alone.

When you blame yourself or your body, and go over a million what-ifs -- you are not alone.

When you fall apart without any warning.. collapsing in the shower, or needing to pull over on your way to work.. and you wonder if the tears will ever stop -- you are not alone.

When you pour yourself into the memorial/burial plans, thinking to yourself how this is the only event you'll ever get to plan for your child -- you are not alone.

When people awkwardly stumble their words around you, and you ignore nearly everyone that offers to "help," -- thinking to yourself that they can't, because they'll never know what this feels like -- you are not alone.

When you struggle to answer questions from strangers, such as, "How many children do you have?" -- you are not alone.

When you get upset at people for asking how you are, but just as upset when they act like you should be over it -- you are not alone.

When you see other children, especially those the same age as yours should be, and wonder if they would sound the same or look the same, or what their favorite cartoon would be -- you are not alone.

When, one day, you have your first genuine laugh since you lost them, and you feel a mixture of hope and guilt -- you are not alone.

I've been there. And some days, I still am.

We belong to the worst club. Mothers that didn't get to know their children. That never got to read to them, calm their fears, teach them about kindness -- to encourage them to dream. We never got to show our children what "home" should feel like.

Ours is a loss of everything that could have been.

But I know, on some level, what you wished for them. What you wanted to tell them. How you ache to hold them again.

You won't recognize me at the grocery store, or in line at the bank...
But you are not alone.

This Your First?

That is the question that has haunted me this entire pregnancy. From the ER to Urgent Care to well-meaning strangers. And now hospital tours.

As soon as I hear those words, my insides collapse.

"Is this your first?"

No matter how I answer, the conversation scrapes away at those wounds. On the rare occasion I've said "Yes," to avoid the awkward conversation, hoping the other party will just drop it, it turns into a weird blend of condescending cheer. "Oh, just wait. You'll see."

And then there are the times when I say, "No." Then I'm left wondering if they'll ask follow-up questions, or if I'm bound to explain my heartbreak all over again.

It hit me really hard last night.

My husband and I went to take a tour of the maternity/birthing area at the hospital. It was looking like we'd be the only people on the tour, but about 30 seconds before it started, another pregnant woman and her husband walked in.

As soon as we approached the tour guide, an older woman who seemingly had more trouble walking than either of us preggos, she immediately asked, "So, is this your first?"

I swallowed abruptly and simply said, "No."

She glanced back at me inquisitively. I knew she was used to mothers going on and on about their previous children. So, my grief and avoidance made me seem anti-social and/or rude.

She turned to the other woman, "No. This is our third, so we're excited."

We all head up in the elevator, and the tour goes as expected. Short and to the point. But as we go to leave, our tour guide starts picking away again -- even though I knew it was her version of casual conversation.

"So, where did you deliver your other children?"

The other woman answered first, "Well, one was in China. The other in Australia."

I took my cue and tried to make it seem funny, "Oh, ours were just in Indianapolis."

Was she going to drop it there? Of course not.

"Indianapolis? What hospital?"

Eh..

And just as we're about to leave, she turns to us again, "So how long were your labors last time?"

I feel like I can't catch my breath -- my pause allowing the other woman to answer first. I couldn't even muster a real answer and basically repeated what she had said.. then walked away.

I know I should be elated to be pregnant, and I am. But the very state of being pregnant causes a barrage of questions that hurt immeasurably. And it all feels like it's coming to a head as we approach the holidays. I can't tell you how many times the grief has flooded in so fast I felt like I was drowning.

My nephew's birthday party. Shopping for their Christmas gifts. Hanging up our stockings, but leaving Jasper's and Bodhi's in the box. The pain is so thick as I ponder what should have been their first Christmas.. just a handful of weeks away from their tragic birthday.

It's becoming increasingly hard not to lose myself in all those thoughts and things I had hoped for.

The only saving grace to last night was being able to cuddle with my husband, as he wrapped his arm around me and felt for our son's kicks, talking about the twins as we fell asleep.

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.

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.

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

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)

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...

Bringing Our Babies Home

We finally got the call yesterday -- that our babies were ready to come home.

As I anxiously waited for Brad to get off work so we could go together, I wasn't sure how I was feeling. Was I relieved? Was I going to fall apart as soon as I saw the urns? Maybe both?

I got into Brad's car and immediately noticed there was some terrible rock music on from the 90s. I don't know exactly what you're supposed to have playing for such an event.. but that certainly wasn't it. So I quickly searched the channels for something that felt right.

We pulled into the parking lot and then lingered in the car for a few seconds longer than we needed to. "You ready for this?" I took a deep breath as we got out.

As we made our way towards the office I was becoming more nervous and anxious.. not knowing how I was about to feel.

A couple of women greeted us and then went in search of the gentleman who had called us. We took a seat while we waited. He then suddenly emerged from the staircase; both urns in hand. I instantly felt like I had been punched in the gut, but at the same time, I wanted to run towards him and take them from his hands.

As he made his way over, he asked if we wanted a box to carry them in. "No. No way. I'll carry them." was all my brain was thinking.

He carefully placed one into each of my hands, and as I sat there, I gradually lowered them to balance one on each leg. I couldn't take my eyes off of them.

So many things struck me all at once. The first being, this was the only way I would ever hold my babies again. The urns were roughly the height of my son and daughter.. and I was somehow comforted by that. As if it would always remind me what it felt like to hold them on the day they were born.

But as I noticed myself gently moving my thumbs around the curves of each urn, the way one would gently stroke the cheek of an infant.. my eyes started to become blurry with tears again. Still, I sat there trying to remain composed as Brad finished up all the paperwork and billing.

We exited out into the blistery cold, yet very sunny, day.

And I just stared at them the whole way home. My heart was feeling a little lighter with each passing second.

I had already cleared a spot on the mantle, so we immediately placed them there when we arrived home.

Brad and I hugged, as we both just took in the moment. I asked him if he felt any better or any different. He too felt a little better, adding, "I don't have to wonder where they are now." A couple more minutes passed and I noticed tears in his eyes. So, I asked him what he was thinking or feeling. He took a deep breath and said, "Pride."

And he said it in a tone I'd never heard from him before; just barely carried out from his lungs on the last half of a breath. It was the voice of a grieving father.

He hugged me a little tighter and added, "We made them."

So we cried together and talked for a minute about the day they were born -- and how we did the best we could with the short time we had. I whimpered out, "This just isn't how I wanted to bring them home." I then set up two candles by the urns and let them burn for the rest of the day.

After just looking upon them for awhile, I didn't have the urge to cry again. They were home.

And I know we're reaching the point in the road where others will grow tired of me talking about them or that day. The world is moving on. That's the thing with grief. To everyone else, this was an event that has ended. Life goes on.

But for us, it is life itself. Our wishes. Our plans. Our future. Our son and our daughter. Not a day will go by for the rest of our lives when we don't think of them and all that they taught us.

We didn't know we could feel so much love and so much heartache in such a short amount of time. We didn't know that their names would fit them so perfectly as soon as we saw their little faces and touched their tiny hands. We didn't know the depths at which we could miss someone that we barely got to meet. We didn't know what it was to be a parent.

They taught us that.

Things that used to matter so much, mean nothing anymore. And people we barely knew, mean everything.

So as it turns out, the two best teachers I've ever had, taught me more about life, values, and love than anyone else ever has.. and each of them weighed just around 8 ounces.

Thank you, sweet Jasper and Bodhi, for letting us be your mother and father -- and your students.

The Days Are Passing So Slowly

I keep wanting to post updates, but my thoughts are beyond scattered.

I've spent every second of the last few days impatiently waiting for the funeral home to call, letting us know we can come and get our babies... but every single day, we get told something needs to be signed or something just got signed.. and it should just be just 'one more day.' We just got told the same thing a few hours ago. And while I know it's just their ashes, I'm longing to have them here.. to finally bring them home. Because the truth is, every night I still wake up looking for them -- waiting to hear one of them cry. And the silence, the lack of them here, just breaks my heart all over again. And for awhile, the urns might make it worse, but I'm hoping they'll provide some closure and comfort in the long run.

Otherwise, this week has so far been a ride of ups and downs. Mostly downs.

I was scheduled to return to work on Monday. I didn't feel ready at all.. but there were things that needed to be done in the office that only I know how to do. And Brad had already been back to work for several days, so I felt bad for complaining. But within ten minutes of my arrival on Monday, a coworker came in and said, "Listen, we've all talked it over. Finish whatever you need to, and we'll cover you for the rest of the day." I could barely express my appreciation without crying.. because I knew I wasn't ready for a random client to ask me how the pregnancy was going, or to see yet another pregnant woman abusing drugs. The latter was emotionally trying enough when we were just trying to conceive. Now, it would just push me over the edge.

So, I gladly accepted their offer, scheduled myself off for the rest of the week, and made my exit.

On my way home, I decided to stop at Target for a few things we needed. My first outing into the public other than for the memorial service. And of course, I noticed every last child in the store. But I managed to not linger on it.

The last thing I picked up at the store was a fabric covered storage box. I decided we'd need a larger one for all the mementos we kept from their birth, memorial service, and pictures. But as I was checking out, one of the metal corners popped off as the cashier put it in the bag. Great... I just wanted to get out of there, but now I had to go return it at the service desk.

As would be my luck, there were two people in front of me. The one being helped apparently didn't have a receipt and the person working was taking forever to look it up. And the woman right in front of me was standing with her son -- around 6 years old. For some reason, he stood right next to his mother's leg, but turned around and stared at me the entire time.

And all I could think about were my kids. What would they have looked at 6 years old? Would Bodhi have had his dad's eyes? Would Jasper have my laugh? What toys would be their favorites? Would they be more drawn to science or music?

"Who were my son and daughter supposed to be?"

I felt my eyes welling up with tears as I just looked at this little boy, asking myself a million questions about the people my children would have grown up to be.

And those are the questions that haunt me the most. After all, I mourn for their potential. Their promise. The wide open future that they should have had. We so badly wanted to see that unfold for our children.

Perhaps that's why, in my gut, I can't give up on trying again. Not to replace what we've lost. Nothing ever could. But it's a nagging voice in my head -- a tugging at my heart.. It's just that refacing all those same hurdles, especially the financial part, feels so daunting. Nearly impossible, actually. And as I've said before, we have a lot of healing to do before exploring that road. I just wish I knew that the option was there.

But for right now, I'm still working through all the guilt and the questioning of every little thing that I did. Was it that last root canal? Did it cause an infection that went to my uterus? Did I just drink a little bit too much caffeine? What if I had gone in the night before? Could I have done anything to prevent it? I wish it wasn't the case, but many times I've sobbed while telling Brad, "I feel like it's my fault. I'm the reason they're not here."

I know, logically, that it's not fair to do that to myself. The truth is, I was super cautious. Never missing a prenatal vitamin, taking naps almost daily, never exceeding the recommended threshold for caffeine, refusing to walk on ice without spikes strapped to my feet, eating a balanced diet, calling my OBs office about every little thing, medicine, or procedure... I did everything right.

And every single doctor and nurse that saw me in the hospital that day expressed to me that there was nothing I could have done. There were no signs of complications or an explanation of why it happened. It just did. Unfortunately, that lack of a definite cause leaves you to question every decision you made. It's going to take a long time for me to let that go.

But I'm trying...

I know living in that guilt, no matter how unfounded, will only weigh me down, and won't change anything. For now, I need to be the person that Bodhi and Jasper would be proud to call "Mom." And that's not a person wallowing in guilt. That's a woman that's trying her damndest to stay optimistic, hoping there will be another chance in our future. The woman who is a support for her husband during moments of unimaginable pain...

The woman who will forgive herself for breaking down, while knowing that she's strong enough to recover.

Recovery, Memorial Preparation, and Emotional Triggers

I've decided to blog a bit about my (and our) recovery, since I find it cathartic and I know so many people are reading this blog now. I sincerely hope that sharing these experiences will help or prepare others that have gone through, or may face, a similar situation.

Physically, the recovery has been easy. In fact, feeling 'normal' has been emotionally difficult. I yearn to feel the 'fluttering' and heaviness in my stomach. Now I literally and figuratively feel empty.. and it's still so hard to wrap my head around that.

Emotionally, well, that's another matter. People keep asking us how we're doing. The truth is, it changes by the minute.

There are times when we're falling apart, in full sobs, and then there are others when it doesn't even feel like any of it really happened. When for a fleeting moment it doesn't even feel like the pregnancy was real. But I've decided to share some of the former moments with you all.

First breakdown occurred when we arrived home from the hospital. No surprise since I was emotionally dangling by a thread to begin with. But I expected my trigger to be the diapers we had already purchased, or the Babies R' Us catalog sitting on the coffee table. But I was numb to all of that. Instead, it was when we were returning the car seats to the store.

Yes, I know, it's asking for trouble to do anything baby related the day after losing your babies. But I felt that having two huge car seats sitting in my living room would be far worse in the long run. So, I asked my brother to bring his SUV into town.. giving us one less thing to worry about later.

We loaded them up into his SUV, and originally, Brad was just going to follow him to do the return while I stayed at home. My gut kept telling me that wasn't fair to Brad. I needed, and should, go with him. By the time we got to the first stoplight, behind my brother's vehicle, tears were already falling. Everything inside me was saying, "I don't want to return this stuff. I want to USE this stuff. It belongs to my babies..."

By the time we arrived to the store, I could barely breathe. Brad held my hand, and gave it a squeeze that said he'd be right back. Clearly, I couldn't go in. As I sat there in the car, my face turned away from the store, the car door suddenly opened. I hear my brother's voice, "Are you okay?"

The flood gates immediately opened. We hugged until I stopped crying...

The next hurdle would come later in the evening, and it took me by complete surprise.

Brad had already fallen asleep, and I assumed I would take a shower.. like I do every evening. But I was suddenly paralyzed, crying as I sat on the bed, unable to even approach the bathroom. Of course, Brad woke up to this, trying to decipher what was going on...

I struggled to explain the depth of the emotion I felt, so worried that he wouldn't understand. That he couldn't grasp that I hadn't showered since I delivered our children. Tears streaming down my face, in near fetal position, I explained that I still felt them on me. That I didn't want to wash them off. That I didn't want to wash that day off of me.. That I just couldn't.

He implored me to just wait, and try in the morning. "You'll sleep better if you just wait."

So I did.. But the morning proved no easier.

Before even going into the restroom, Brad offered, "I'll come in and sit while you shower if it helps." But I assured him I could do it. It wasn't fair to him to make him take care of me. I should be able to shower on my own.

I was wrong.

I made my way to our bathroom, removed most of my clothing, and then froze again. I started to cry from deep within my gut. Blood dripping down my legs. I admitted defeat and called out for my husband.. who made me look at him as he told me repeatedly that nothing ever could wash away our babies. That moving on from that day doesn't make me a bad mother. All the things that I had been trying to tell myself, but I only start to believe when my husband says it.

Sure enough, he sat in the restroom for my entire shower, which I cried my way through. But once I got out, I wrapped a towel around me, and Brad just held me until some sense of normalcy returned.

A few hours later, we were off to the funeral home to pick out urns and plan a memorial service. (If you were wondering, we've decided to do an informal candlelight memorial.) Strangely enough, neither of us were emotional there. It was just too businesslike to elicit anything. But I also knew that it would mean planning some things at home, like music selection, that would get me a few times. But all in all, the planning has actually given me something to focus on, instead of allowing me to dwell too much.

That was until tonight. We had just finished dinner, and suddenly my breasts HURT. And I just happened to have one arm pulled back and realized that my breast looked like I had a rock implant in it. So I touched it, and sure enough, the rock implant description was even more accurate. I was taken aback.

I turned to Brad, "You have to feel this. What is this? This can't be.... I'm making milk."

Right on time. Three days after delivering, I was engorged. I remarked bitterly, "Sure. THIS my body can do when it's supposed to."

Within 30 seconds, the tears came again. My body was making milk for the babies I didn't get to bring home. And I have to expect it to last at least a few days. A reminder that I can't ignore, overlook, or distract myself from. Just an 'in your face' statement from my body that I should be feeding my babies.

I felt utterly gutted. And again, grateful to have an understanding husband to console me.

He hasn't had an easy go of it either, but his triggers are completely different. His body isn't sending him cues and his hormones aren't fluctuating.. Just random moments throughout the day are difficult -- a specific post or message we receive, a conversation we're having, or just a quiet time during the day. It starts with a quivering chin, but ends up with us holding each other.

We know it's all "normal" .. but normal isn't easy.

And Then The Hardest Part...

On Sunday, January 26th, in the late afternoon.. I began to feel some contractions. But being as this was my first time through pregnancy, it could have been anything from gas pains to Braxton Hicks for all I knew. By late evening, they were coming about four per hour, but still very randomly spaced and never appeared to get longer or stronger. I decided to call the on-call OB, who told me Braxton Hicks were common earlier in twin pregnancies. She added to drink a bunch of water and rest on my side, and see how it went through the night.

Not much changed, until morning, when a portion of my mucous plug, with blood, had come out. My heart sank immediately. I knew this was bad. I called Brad and told him we needed to go to the OB's office. As I got in the car with Brad, I took his hand, and said "Babe, you need to expect the worst."

First they checked for heartbeats, both there and strong, but any relief was short lived as the pelvic exam showed that I was dilated and one of the sacs was bulging out. I knew by the look on their faces that it was over. But they still decided to send me to Indianapolis, via ambulance, to be in the care of the high risk doctors there. As they wheeled me out of the office, I remember looking at my husband's face.. so shocked and nervous. I wanted so badly to wake up and realize none of this was happening.

About an hour later, I arrived in Indy, and was quickly taken to a labor and delivery room. As they were going over all the standard questions, the contractions were getting much more frequent (every 4-5 minutes). The nurse asked when my husband would likely arrive. I knew in my heart that was code for, "You'll be giving birth soon, and I hope he makes it."

So many doctors and nurses flooded in and out, but the consensus was that there was nothing they could do to stop labor. My babies were coming, and once they arrived, they could do nothing to save them. An impossible pill to swallow.. especially for a first time mother who tried so hard to conceive them. That was the moment that everything became surreal.

Brad arrived, and things progressed quickly. Very quickly. I was near fully dilated and they told us that delivery was imminent. Up until this point, I had been so 'pulled together' and telling the nurses I was okay, and that I knew I just had to go with it. But as each contraction came, and my babies were closer to arriving, I began to fall apart.

I remember, at one point, asking the nurse if there was any way to make sure the babies weren't born alive.. because I didn't want them to suffer. I knew it could sound cold before I even said it. Luckily the nurse knew exactly what I meant and assured me that most babies at 19 weeks don't survive the process of labor and would likely be stillborn. So from that point on, I was expecting to give birth to my deceased children. The emotions that came with that realization are impossible to describe.

Labor was quickly in full swing. I struggled to catch my breath.. as I sobbed my way through each contraction. The nurse kept offering me pain meds, and each time, I declined.. struggling to explain to her that I wasn't crying at all because of the physical pain. It was my heart breaking that they couldn't do anything about..

And soon it was time to push. As I looked at my husband, all I could say was "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," over and over. He kept telling me "It's okay." But he had no way of knowing the depth of my apology. I was sorry that my body wasn't cooperating, yet again. I was sorry that our dream was slipping away from us. But mostly, I was sorry for something he couldn't grasp at that moment. Because I knew that me pushing, meant the death of our babies. Every fiber in my being wished I could will it to stop. To just refuse to push. And I was so sorry that I couldn't.

The first was born, with a gush of fluid (my water had not broken beforehand), and I wept in a way I had never before. My hands were over my eyes. I wasn't ready. I heard Brad ask, "Do you want to see the baby?" I couldn't even look. I just barely got out, "Not yet," as tears streamed down my face.

But within seconds, a nurse came to my other ear and said, "He has a heartbeat." I uncovered my eyes and immediately asked for the baby. I knew the moments were few, and I didn't want to miss any second of their lives.

When the nurse cleaned the baby up a bit later, we found out that 'he' was actually a 'she.' Jasper Kaelyn was my first born. Our baby girl.

As soon as I held her, all my tears stopped.. though my heart was still breaking into a million pieces. Brad held it together until I asked him if he wanted to hold her. As he took her, tears started streaming down his face. He was a father, in perhaps the most unfair way possible, but undoubtedly a loving and protective father.

We passed her back and forth, making the most of the time we had. But every time she wiggled or moved her mouth, I couldn't tell if my heart was going to burst from so much love or such unbelievable heartache.

What only felt to me like 10 or 15 minutes, was actually an hour later.. when baby number two made his arrival. No doubting this was a boy. Bodhi Steven emerged, lanky with huge hands. Definitely his father's boy. And again, "This one has a heartbeat too."

I couldn't believe that both were strong enough to survive birth, and that Jasper had survived an hour, waiting patiently for her twin brother to arrive. I remember holding them both, peaceful tears falling down my face, as I took Brad's hand.. "They really wanted to meet us..."

The most bittersweet moment of our lives, breathing in our two babies.. who we had waited so long for.. but knowing it was also goodbye. There would be no baby showers. No pediatrician appointments. No first steps. No shopping for their first school dance. No teaching them how to drive.

This was it. We had to squeeze a lifetime of love and dreams into a few short minutes.

I tried to keep some positive perspective, even as my world felt like it was crumbling around me. Turning again to my husband, "These are our babies. And no matter what, they've made us better and closer. That's their gift to us."

And then they were gone.. within just moments of each other.

They offered to let us keep holding them, but we decided to not see them again. I just wanted my memories to be of those fleeting moments with them, and I was trying desperately to not cling to the idea of what was already gone. So we picked out their clothes, confirmed the spelling of their names, and it was over...

Not long after, I passed most of the placenta, but not all. So they informed me that I would need a procedure done to remove it. The first option for the procedure they gave me was to have an epidural done. I pleaded to not have it. My entire goal was to have a natural birth, and though it was far sooner than planned, I had succeeded in that. To get through the worst of it, only to be told I'd need an epidural anyway, was just not something I could accept after all I'd just gone through. Luckily, I had a nurse that turned into an advocate, and argued on my behalf. In the end, they were able to retrieve it manually (albeit, in an operating room) with me under partial sedation.

I remember as I was laying there, waiting for the sedation to kick in, staring at the lights above me.. tears rolling down my cheeks.. that this all couldn't be real. This couldn't have all just happened within a few hours time. But when I woke up, it was just as cold and lonely as when I went under. And that's when the emotional toll really started to break me apart.

They brought me back to the room, where Brad had been waiting for me. We were both thoroughly exhausted at this point, so we decided to just go to bed. But as I was washing my face, I fell apart. It was the sudden realization that I was no longer pregnant. That I just gave birth to our two babies, but we wouldn't be taking either of them with us when we left.

I made my way to the bed, trying to not wake up Brad, but I was quite unsuccessful. He made his way over in the darkness, and climbed into the hospital bed with me.. holding me as I sobbed uncontrollably. I did pause long enough to remark that he was probably breaking the rules. His reply? "They do it in the movies." But that split second of lightheartedness didn't last.

I remember then telling him that I felt like a failure as a wife and mother.. that I couldn't even protect my own children -- I could do nothing to save them. All I could do was apologize over and over for letting him, and them, down.

But he whispered all the right things, as he always does, and we had a good cry together. But he never left the bed. He slept next to me the entire night until a doctor came to check on me in the morning. She cracked a little smile. Even if he wasn't 'supposed' to be there, she certainly wasn't going to say anything.

By morning, we knew we were going home. That's when it set in for Brad.. He just looked at me and said, "It feels like we're leaving something behind."

And we were. I knew that he and I were the only ones who would ever understand what had just happened, and the emptiness of holding your newborns, but going home without them. My inner voice was screaming, "Where are my babies?! I want my babies!" I knew his was screaming the same thing.

As he went to warm up the car, I stood alone in the hospital room, trying to absorb every minute detail.. about the room, the bed, the equipment. My children spent their entire lives in this room... Every little thing mattered in that moment.

Brad came back in to find me standing in the middle of the room, at the end of the bed where I delivered Jasper and Bodhi, with tears rolling down my face. One half of me wanted to flee .. to just be at home with my husband -- to heal. But the other... oh, the other didn't want to leave without her children.

We both struggled as we left the parking garage, making our way out of Indianapolis, feeling like there should be two car seats in the back... but it was empty.

Coming home was hardly the end of it... The challenge was just beginning.

(Since writing this, so many contacted us asking how they could help. We decided to start a fundraiser in hopes of trying again. If you would like to help us get our second chance, please visit gofundme.com/shilorfund.)