10 Years

10 years.
10. years.

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

10 years full of 'what could have been.'

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

I never knew you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that's what we did.

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

We knew we were on the right track.

Happy Birthday, my babies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then the strangest thing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it keeps tugging at me.

I just keep looking at them. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Would Be 7

Today, you would be 7. First graders.

And that is how we celebrated you..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grief is just like that.

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

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

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

You left, but it didn't.

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

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

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

I knew I had to go. 

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

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

I will go to remember you. 

I will go to read to you.

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

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

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

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

You are loved.

Has It Been 6 Years?

Today would be your 6th birthday.

It's taking me awhile to move past the pain of that sentence. The sorrow of a life missed out on -- where we would be having a party today. Last night, I should have been making cupcakes and wrapping gifts. And I will forever wonder which flavor you would have wanted. What gifts would have been on your lists.

It always hurts more today.

But underneath, it's that same ache you can never really numb. The grief. The price I pay for loving you.

We visited your room -- LDR 16. Sometimes we get to go in. But sometimes it's occupied and we just get as close as the hallway.

Today, as we approached -- and I could see it was unoccupied -- my throat began to tighten. Our liaison actually asked how it feels when we see the room right as it was happening. I touched my neck in reflex as I said, "It hits me right away. Like it just happened."

I suppose that could be interpreted as a 'lump in my throat,' 'choking back tears,' or 'losing my breath.' But that's not it. It feels like my body is squeezing down all those raw bellows that I've kept in since the minute we lost you.

A curdling scream that wants to come out as I crawl.. and cry.. scratching at the floors until my nails bleed.. and ripping sheets from the bed. Searching for you, even when I know you're not there.

I can never fully explain what that feels like. The primal instinct for a mother to cry out for her young.

It never leaves.

We stood in your room, mostly unchanged over the years, and remembered. Remembered that day. Remembered you. Remembered saying goodbye.

We donated dozens of books in your honor. Always the highlight of this day. Knowing how many people come together and donate because YOU inspire them. Knowing how many parents will read to their children and create memories -- because you existed.

And I imagine you there. Every time one of these books gets read in a NICU. Or pulled from the shelf in the nursery. Or set on the coffee table before bed.

I see you everywhere. It is my solace.

And, as per tradition, we read to your little brothers in the lobby. One day, they'll understand why.

To those walking by, we were just a family of four having a moment. But it will always be six.

Then off to WB Pizza for the garlic bread you both seemed to love when I was pregnant. Your brothers both ate some today too.

But.. I still wish it was cupcakes.. with you.

You Would Be 5

You would be five today.

Five. Five.. Five.

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

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

Everything would be different... had you survived.

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

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

It haunts me that I'll never know.

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

So, we celebrate you. We celebrate your life.

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

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

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

I know that look well.

There is no other reaction to a story like ours.

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

I am your mother... everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I watch for the lonely.

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


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

Today, it was full.

For that, I am grateful.

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

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

You are worth it.

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

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

-- Your mom and dad

Four Years

There are just minutes left in the day.. what should be your 4th birthday.

It's a strange feeling each year, as if at midnight, I have to say goodbye again.

Today.. we remembered you. We celebrated you. And, as always, we missed you.

Today.. we delivered so many books, kindly donated by family, friends, and strangers, to the place where you were born. The only place you ever knew.

Though we didn't get to take your brothers to the room this year, because of flu restrictions, your father and I got to go up alone. They specifically saved the exact room where you born, so we could have a moment there.

It is hallowed ground to me.

Walking into that room -- Labor & Delivery Room 16 -- is like entering the holiest of churches.. the most peaceful of monasteries.. the most beautiful of cemeteries.

Crossing that threshold takes my breath away every time. It is the air you so powerfully and unexpectedly breathed.

I want to crumble to my knees at the weight of it. But I feel like you're keeping me standing. Like you're holding me together. It is the same way you gave me strength when I had to say goodbye to you.

But make no mistake.. I cried for you today. Without your brothers in the room to distract my attention, the memories came like snapshots. Like a Polaroid spitting out images that would start blurry and then come into focus.

My chin would quiver and I couldn't stop it.

But I didn't crumble.

I took all those Polaroids and added them to album I visit every so often -- tucked safely away in my heart.

They won't get lost there.

So, happy birthday.
Goodnight.
And goodbye for now.

Thank you, as always, for making me a mother, first.. and a better person, second.
You changed me.
You changed the world.

And a thank you to the staff at IU Methodist that allowed us to come and make our donation, even on a Saturday and in the midst of a flu restriction. We are grateful they allow us to celebrate our babies every year.

And lastly, thank you to the donors. It wouldn't be possible to touch so many families, in the legacy of our children, without your help each and every year. <3

Three Years -- Still Proud

Over three years ago, when we found out we were expecting twins, Brad began his search for a second job. We knew I'd be staying home with them, and one full-time job just wasn't going to cut it for a family of four.

And in the most painful of coincidences, he landed a job at Payless (the grocery store), and was scheduled to start on February 2nd, 2014.

As it turned out, that was just 6 days after our babies passed away in our arms.

But he went on that first day anyway. He knew we'd have hospital bills. And we hadn't decided if we were going to do more treatments. So just days after losing his children, he took on two jobs..

I remember how lonely I felt those first few weeks. I was drowning in grief, alone in our apartment most nights.

And I remember him coming home looking exhausted and defeated. I'll never forget when he looked at me with tears in his eyes, "It's so hard going there. I got this job for them, and now they're not here. I think about it all the time when I'm working."

We hurt for each other, but did what we felt like we had to do.

Soon, we decided we were going to try again. So, he kept that job. To support us. To help get us closer to another child.

And 5 months later we bought a house and we found out I was pregnant.

So he worked both jobs.

I got put on bed rest and had to essentially quit my job. So he worked.

I stayed home with Paxton. So he worked.

I (against all odds and plans) got pregnant again. So he worked.

I stayed home with Paxton and Greyson. So he worked.

I felt guilty that all the financial burden was on him. He felt guilty that I was stuck at home doing "mommy" things all day, every day.

I watched him get more and more drained. He watched me get more and more drained.

It's hard.. on both of us. But what we both dislike most is that he misses so much time with the boys. Half the week, he's only home long enough to feed them dinner, then leave again for his second job -- not getting home until 1:30am.

He hasn't had a vacation, as in, more than 3 days off both jobs... in three years. Which also means, I haven't been able to really relax either.

But maybe, that's all about to change.

Brad has been offered a position as a CVS manager-in-training.

And I'm so proud of him. I'm proud of him for applying, as he's been looking and applying to jobs here or there for quite some time. You don't hear back from most. And the rest just didn't pay enough to afford him to leave either job to pursue it.

After so many years doing the same thing, getting worn down, you start to feel a little stuck -- wondering what will come next -- and feeling like it may never come.

And I worried, as I saw the toll it took on his personality and physical body doing mostly repetitive, physical labor for 14 hours some days.

So, I'm proud that he saw his way out, and pursued it. Despite being nervous, anxious, and unsure.. he did it.

Nothing is ever that simple though. Then we found out the insurance would cost more and cover less. As in, his pay would be about the same as his two-job income, but he'd be paying more for insurance. So we'd be losing money.

I felt sick to my stomach. And I broke down. I didn't want him to see it, but I did. I hated that he might be this close, but we'd have to turn it down because of family expenses. That we'd be sentencing him (and all of us) to months or years of the physically demanding, sometimes crushing, two-job schedule.

I said, crying, "You can't keep doing this forever (referencing his current schedule). It's wearing you down. You're always exhausted. And I wanted this for you so bad. I just know you can do it.. and I know where you're at now is bothering you. It's weighing on you."

His face turned sad, but he tried to muster reassurance that he'd be okay.. "But I've never complained."

I felt punched in the gut.

I knew he'd never complained. And he never would.

"Just because you don't say it, doesn't mean you don't feel it." I paused, "I know you wanted this. And I wanted it for you."

He started to get teary-eyed.

We took a day to think things over, really crunch numbers, and make sure we made the right decision.

So, while he was at work, I thought of all the positives. The physical reprieve. The fewer hours for the same pay. More time with the boys.

I also knew that insurance plans change every year, and we're at a point where we have no idea what will be happening in the next year or two anyway (in terms of government regulation/market changes). It was a gamble, but after I weighed all the positives to just the cost of insurance, I knew.

I texted him, "I think you should take it."

I wanted him to do something he wanted to do, instead of what he had to do. It was just time.

But I was even more elated, and proud, when he told them his concerns about insurance, and they offered to pay more to make the difference more manageable. They wanted him bad enough to do so.

So, in a couple weeks, he'll officially be an employee of CVS. Training to be a store manager. And I'm so proud.

I know I've used the word a few times already, but I don't feel like I can say it enough.

Proud of him for getting back to the career he wanted. Proud of him for applying, despite the rejections or offers he had to turn down. Proud of him for doing so well in the interview that they wanted him so much that they were anxious about him not taking the offer right away.

But I'm most proud of him for starting that second job three years ago. Taking it for his unborn children. And deciding to still go, in the midst of our grief, for the hope of future children. And going -- week after week -- for three years now, to take care of his family. And when you'd think he was totally drained, he'd be going to mow someone's yard for a little extra cash.

Because that's who he is.

Doing whatever he could to take care of us.

And never complaining. <3

From your children.. and me.. Thank you. And, congratulations!