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.

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)

Candlelight Memorial

We held the memorial service last night. I'm unsure how I feel in light of it. I don't mean that as a negative though. We had an overwhelming amount of support there, and it was heartwarming to know that people cared enough to brave the weather, or drive from 3 hours away, just to be there for us.. and for our babies.

But when I say I'm unsure how I feel, I mean that I was hoping for a sense of closure or added peace. Brad and I both agreed, however, that even during the memorial.. there were moments when it didn't even feel like we were there.

That said, it went as well as I possibly could have hoped. So many prayers, wishes, and candles lit in memory of my two beloved children. So much love in one room. I will never forget that.

And I know that grief happens in its own time. There's no 'end date.' I'm no stranger to death, from my own father, to grandparents, to dear friends. I've always had a sense of peace about death -- an acceptance of it. But when it's your own children, robbed entirely of their limitless potential, it's a whole new ballgame.

I was also surprised at the moments in which I got emotional. It came in waves, as it always does, but I found myself falling apart most when speaking with or embracing other mothers. Perhaps a part of me knew that they were the only ones who could even begin to understand my pain.

Overall, there was lots of loving support, along with a lot of not knowing what to say. And I get it. There is nothing to say. Nothing feels right, or like enough. But the attempt to try was appreciated.

There were also some awkward statements, asking when or if we're going to try again, or jokes about how we at least don't have to worry about dirty diapers anymore. I'd be lying if I said those things didn't sting, a lot. But I get that first, people are trying to fill the silence and trying to be a little bit of distraction from the heartache. Sometimes the words that come out don't land as you intended them.

I also get that everyone is wondering whether we'll try again. I can't say we haven't thought about or discussed it. But we're far from making any conclusions. We have to heal emotionally, and me.. physically, before we can plan for anything. I also don't want it to look or feel like I'm trying to replace my children. But seeing Brad hold our babies, and the overwhelming amount of love and attachment we felt in just those brief minutes with them, makes me want to birth and raise his children more than ever. But will it be possible? We have no idea. Financially, we'd be back at square one, and it took help from our friends and family to get our twins. That's the kind of opportunity you really only get once.

Then there's the fact that the treatment nearly killed me, and the doc was uncertain of what else we could do. In light of the complications from last time, Brad is weary about me trying again. That's understandable. If something had nearly taken him from me, I'd never want him to do it again.. no matter how much I longed for the possible outcome. He also shared with me that when they took me off in an ambulance on Monday, that while he was concerned for his children.. he knew that if I was going into labor, they wouldn't survive, and nothing could change that. What scared him more than anything, was that something would happen to me, and he'd lose everything. The fear and sadness he felt driving alone to the hospital must have been palpable. I'm not sure if I can put him through that again.

At any rate, it's something that will take a lot of thought and more emotional stability than I can muster right now. So while I couldn't really compose much of an answer last night when asked, it should have been, "We hope we get another chance, but for right now, we need to focus on being parents to these babies.. and healing from their loss."

No question that my emotions were building during the service. Whether it was from watching others mourn, or simply from trying to stay composed for a couple hours, I'm not sure. But by the end of the service, I could feel myself about to lose it; something I'm still not comfortable doing in front of so many people. Though grateful for every person who attended, I felt this burning impatience. I needed time to grieve with just my husband. To feel safe enough to fall apart.

Luckily, my brother understood completely, and gathered the last of my immediate family to give us some alone time.

I immediately fell into a full gut cry.. that ugly cry you only do when you're alone. Brad and I just held each other for a few minutes before I pulled him over to the urns. With tears dripping across my lips, "Those are our babies." His chin was quivering, "I just love them so much."

And though we hired a photographer, knowing that it would all be a blur to us later, I still wanted a few pics. This was the only thing I would ever plan and set up for my children. No birthday parties, graduations, or weddings. This was the only thing I could ever do right by them, and I wanted to remember it. So we took some quick cell phone pictures.

Then it was time to extinguish the candles. We had it set up so that there were always 27 candles lit, for being born on the 27th. So we put them out together, one by one. Stopping every so often to embrace or hold each others hands.

Finally, there were just two candles left -- the ones sitting right by the urns. So we each stood in front of one, reached out for each other and held hands, as we simultaneously blew out a candle.

And then it was over. Leaving was hard. It felt like I was supposed to put it all behind me.. but I knew I couldn't. I'm supposed to go back to normal day-to-day living, but I can't. Because at least once a day, I touch my stomach, and weep because I can't feel them anymore. And at least once a night I wake up crying. Last night was no different, as I crawled over to Brad in tears, "Can you just hold me for awhile?"

"If you dream of me
like I dream of you,
in a place that's warm and dark,
in a place where I can feel the beating of your heart...

Remembering
your touch
your kiss
your warm embrace
I'll find my way back to you..

if you'll be waiting."

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.