Grief

Grief is such an appropriate word. It feels how it sounds. The way it churns in the back of your throat -- almost from the gut. It starts to flow out with a sigh, but gets caught up and trapped at the very end.

Two years ago, June 21st was the due date for my babies. And this week, the grief has been hitting me like colossal waves. Leaving me struggling to catch my breath.

Had my first pregnancy gone as planned, I would have my little girl and little boy here. We would be celebrating their second birthdays. A big party with family, I'm sure. Tearing into gifts and eating cupcakes to their hearts' content.

They'd end up with their toys strewn about the living room. I'd have one on each knee, or laying in bed with one on each side, as I read them a goodnight story. But they'd be wired from their big day, so I'd be using my 'mom voice' to tell them to stop picking at each other or to stop giggling and go to sleep.

And damn it, it hurts that it's not that way.

I wish I could say it's gotten easier. It hasn't.

Oh, my babies... I still fall apart in the shower, drowning in thoughts of you. I choke back tears every time I see a set of twins. I have to hold my breath if I hear your names. I often find myself wrapped in a feeling of emptiness -- like the day we went home without you.

Nothing can fix a mother's grief.

I see you in your brothers, but they can't replace you, nor will they ever be burdened with that impossible task. Having them doesn't make me hurt any less. It doesn't unbreak my heart. I just love them with all the pieces I can muster.

I was forever changed the day we saw two heartbeats on that screen. And nothing could have prepared me for holding you just long enough to say goodbye.

I remember.

I remember not expecting to be able to even meet you.
I remember the nurse carefully handing each of you to me, after her amazement that you both had a heartbeat.
I remember weeping.
I remember staring down at your tiny faces and translucent skin -- still too young to open your eyes.
I remember your mouths opening as you tried so hard to keep breathing.
I remember your arms and legs squirming as I held you.
I remember the tears on your father's face.
I remember, out of nowhere, feeling a sense of calm. That I just wanted you to feel safe and loved during those minutes with me.
I remember the last time the nurse put her stethoscope to your chests, and told me you were gone.

I wanted to go with you.

Now, I do my best. I try to keep your memory alive for others. I try to share the strength that you had. I try to help other grieving parents -- so they don't feel so alone. But that day... I wanted to go.

My dear Jasper and Bodhi... I miss you. I ache for you in a way that words can never describe. You are always deep inside me -- my memories of you are as much a part of me as the marrow in my bones. I carry you with me.

Thank you for making me a mother.
Thank you for your strength to meet me -- to stay with me awhile.
Thank you for those minutes. Too short, but long enough to let me love you with all of mine.

You are never forgotten.

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

What Lies Ahead

Right after losing Jasper and Bodhi, the high risk doctor came in to speak to me. Along with all the information about the birth, and how none of it was my fault (medically speaking), he went on to briefly explain that we should ideally wait 6 months or longer to try to conceive again.

"Some women are just so eager to get pregnant again very quickly. I have to advise against that."

He didn't really explain further, perhaps because I was just shaking my head "no," implying that it was the last thought on my mind. Truth was, I was just terrified that we wouldn't even be able to try again. After the hyper stimulation and hospitalization at the beginning of this pregnancy, I wasn't sure there were any options for us other than IVF -- which was a financial non-starter.

After all, the last time we saw our fertility specialist, leaving from an ultrasound, he shook our hands and said, "I'm so glad you ended up with twins because I didn't know what we would have done next."

That was a very honest thing to say. The injections nearly killed me, after all. Even if similar medications were an option, was I up for that? And I knew my husband was terrified that I'd go through that again.. or that the complications could be even worse.

But over the next few days, I was aching to speak with the specialist. On the other hand, I was terrified to even bring it up to Brad. We were both still having breakdowns on a regular basis. I didn't want him, or anyone else, to think I was just trying to move on. Still, I was overwhelmed thinking about it and questioning our future. I couldn't keep this to myself.

So, the day after the memorial service, I did as I usually do and just blurted out, "I need you to promise me.. that you'll do whatever it takes to try again, if we can. I know you're scared, and I know we may not even have any options left.. but if we do, I need you on board."

He was confused, and taken aback by the abruptness. He definitely wasn't 100 percent on board yet.

"I don't want you to go through that again. It scares me."

I went on with a speech about how I could die from anything at any time. But going my entire life and never again feeling the way I felt when I first held my son and daughter.. or when I saw my husband become a father -- that's what scares me.

"Brad, I need you to know this isn't about replacing them.. or pretending it didn't happen. I love them so much, and I miss them more than I thought possible. But I need a plan... All of our plans were about them or for them. Buying a house, picking colors for a nursery, birthing classes, quitting my job... I have nothing to plan. Everything is up in the air, and I need something.. anything.. to feel grounded right now. I need to know if we can try again, or if I need to accept that it's over."

That, he got. "Then let's meet with the doctor to see if we have any options left."

Monday, one week after delivery, I called the specialist. As the nurse answered, I started to explain who I was.. "This is Carol Shilor.. I had gotten pregnant back in September.. with twins.." I felt my voice start to shake.

Oh man, I was about to fall apart on the phone. Deep breath. "But I went into preterm labor and.. and we lost them both."

She simply responds, "Oh hon. I'm so sorry."

I continue, "I know we can't try anything for awhile, but I wanted to meet with the doctor to see what our options are."

To my amazement, she responded that he could see us Wednesday. I paused for a moment. No. Two days from now? I barely made it through this phone call. So I scheduled it for two weeks out instead.

Of course, a few days later I was kicking myself, as I was growing so impatient.. wanting to know one way or the other.

Finally, the day had arrived. Our appointment wasn't until 3 pm, and I felt uneasy as each hour slowly ticked by.

Brad and I both left work early, and rode together from our home. As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, I felt my eyes conjuring up tears. I was simply thinking to myself, "I cannot believe we're going back there. That we might be going through this all again; or that we might be told we're done, and that it's time to give up."

I took a deep breath and pulled it together before Brad could notice I was unraveling.

As we arrived to the office, every step down the long hallway to his door filled me with anxiety. This waiting room was filled with pictures of babies, and memories of my pregnancy. This was going to hurt.

We walked in and the nurse immediately asked, "How are you?"

I sighed, "Well, not good.."

She popped up, arms outstretched, "You need a hug."

So there I was, hugging a nurse as she leaned over the reception desk. So not my style. But she was probably right. I needed it more than I hated it.

As we sit in the waiting room, I turn to Brad, "I guarantee he forgot we said no IVF before. He's going to recommend it."

Moments later, we get called back. We're left to wait for 5-10 minutes, but it felt like 30. The doctor finally emerges as the office door opens slowly. He walks in looking almost as depressed as I felt. He looks up at me and outstretches his hand for a handshake.

"What else can happen to you?" he mutters as he sits across from us. "I'm very sorry."

He proceeds to ask me what exactly happened; as in, how labor progressed. Without looking up from his file he responds, "Classic incompetent cervix. You've earned yourself a cerclage."

I remember thinking how much I hate that they call it "incompetent." It just makes it sound as if I could possess an amateur cervix. My cervix is playing T-ball while I'm trying to get into the Majors.

I also began to question this diagnosis after the appointment, since I had contractions for nearly 24 hours before giving birth, and an incompetent cervix is usually symptom free. I also don't have any of the 'risk factors' for the condition. It's really a chicken or the egg scenario. Did an incompetent cervix induce preterm labor, or did I have preterm labor (simply due to twins) that caused my cervix to dilate and shorten as it would in any labor? But I'll get into that at a later date when I speak with the actual OB/doctor that deals with such issues.

He then added, "You'd probably be fine with a single child pregnancy, but they'll likely put one in anyway, just as a precaution."

Now, the idea of a cerclage doesn't appeal to me at all. In the most general of terms, a cerclage is when they put stitches in your cervix to, in theory, hold it closed for the duration of the pregnancy. However, it has a lot of possible complications, such as bleeding, infection, ruptured bladder, ruptured uterus, etc. All of which could end up terminating the pregnancy you're trying to save. So, there's a lot to weigh out there. And to get the procedure, you have to be put under general anesthesia or get an epidural/spinal. You probably recall that I fought against getting the epidural for the placenta removal procedure after delivery. So... eh. But until I talk to my OB or the high risk doctor, who would actually do the procedure, I'm not going to dwell on that part.

What I was focused on, instead, was that he was talking about any form of a pregnancy as possible. But I glanced down at his file that he was scribbling notes in.. and what jumped out at me immediately was "IVF." My heart sank a little. Here it comes...

He looked up, "Okay, the plan would be IVF."

I expected this, and I understood why. With IVF, they could choose to only implant one fertilized egg (basically no risk of multiples), and they could drain the fluid after egg retrieval, which would remove the risk of hyper stimulation. But still, not feasible financially, and so invasive.

I looked at Brad briefly, then turned back to the doctor. "The problem is.. IVF just isn't in our budget," I sighed. "If IVF is the only option.. then unfortunately.." My voice began to quiver as I tried to swallow my pain back down. "We're done trying."

The doctor stared at me for a moment. "Hmmm. Well then.." He began to fidget with his file, flipping back and forth between pages. Then he started to scribble down a new 'plan.'

"Okay. You want to be difficult," he joked. "Then the new plan is to do what we did last time. We'll just lower the dosage, watch you more carefully, and hope we can avoid the hospital."

I could finally breathe again. At least I know I respond to the medication. It's just going to be a balancing act..

But then I wanted details. "Given what happened, I know we'll have to wait awhile."

"Oh no. You can try again whenever you want. Some people come to me the next month and want to start right away. Others need a mental and emotional break. It's up to you," he replied.

"The doctor at the hospital had told us to wait at least 6 months."

The specialist was unfazed, "The uterus heals very quickly. There's really no need to wait." He paused, then added, "On the other hand, I don't want you to worry about getting older. Your ovaries respond like you're 18 years old. You have plenty of ammunition."

I admit, I chuckled at that. Obviously, I had been worried as 35 is quickly approaching. In reality, even with enough "ammo," I'm still hoping sooner rather than later. After 35, risks for a lot of things go up, and obviously.. the odds are never in my favor to begin with.

"Now, will there be a lot of a cancelled cycles? Like, if I have too many follicles?"

He calmly answers, "I don't think so. I'm not worried about you having multiples. They'll be watching and monitoring you a lot closer now. So I won't freak out if you have three mature eggs release. Odds are, they won't all fertilize, and you'd probably be fine, even if they did."

I glance at Brad who now has a shocked look on his face just from the mention of possible triplets. Still, it's reassuring that the specialist isn't going to try to be so conservative that it impedes a positive result.

As we left the office, Brad turned to me, "You feel better?"

"Yeah. I feel like it's at least possible. How about you? Are you up for this?"

"Yes. I'm on board. I want to try again," he responded -- my partner, through and through.

So, that's the plan. Problem now, yet again, is finances.

Last time, we did an online fundraiser, and our family and friends helped us raise nearly a thousand dollars. It covered most of the medication for that cycle, and gave us the chance to conceive and hold our twins. We are forever grateful for that irreplaceable moment in our lives.

But now, we're still paying for my hospitalization last October and we're about to be billed for the delivery of the twins. I thought it felt bleak before, but I'm definitely anxious about money right now.. And while we could do another fundraiser, we both don't want to come across as taking advantage or trying to 'double dip.' It's something we'll have to think a little more about, but we truly appreciate those who have already told us they'd like to donate if we do. It means the world that so many people care about us, our story, and want us to have another chance. <3

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."

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.

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.)