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.