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.

Two Years

The sun has set on your birthday once more.

The candles are lit next to your urns.

Two years ago we met you, and we lost you. Some days, it seems like a lifetime ago, or a fuzzy dream. Others, I relive every detail. Every feeling. Every sound. Every tear.

But your birthdays are always the latter. I can't help but to recall that day with such focus. Knowing you were coming. Not expecting to meet you alive. Holding you in my arms. Saying goodbye. And leaving without you the next morning. Every so often, I even go back and read your birth story -- because I don't want those details to ever fade from me.

At the same time, just like last year, we didn't want to sit home and drown in grief. We need this day to have purpose. So I arranged to, once again, deliver books to the maternity ward at IU Methodist in your memory. Last year, we took just 6 books, all from me and your dad. This year, several people joined our efforts and donated, allowing us to take 20 books.

Last night, as I prepared the books -- wrapping each with ribbon and adding a tag with your names -- it struck me.. "It's almost like I'm wrapping their birthday gifts."

And I'd give anything for that.

When we arrived today, I only had one thing I needed to do at the hospital. Since your little brother is experiencing this trip for the first time, I decided to take his copy of Goodnight Moon with us. As I explained to your dad, "I want to read it to him there... so it can feel like I'm reading to all my children." I didn't even care where it was. I just knew I had to do it somewhere in the hospital.

Immediately upon arrival, we were met by three women who graciously accepted the books, and talked about loss and grief with us. We shared a bit more of your story -- and our story. And proudly gave them the books to hand out to whomever they felt would benefit or enjoy them.

That gesture -- that gift -- was my comfort. Perhaps my only comfort. Knowing that up to 20 other children will have those moments of bonding and quiet with their parents that you were robbed of -- and that they'll have that, in part, because of how much we love you and how much you meant to the world.

During our meeting, I mentioned how much it meant to us last year when were able to visit the labor and delivery area where you were born. Immediately they responded, "We can absolutely do that again." They even asked if I knew the room number where I delivered.

I did. "LDR16"

"I think that one is available."

My heart felt heavy, but I wanted to go in that room more than anything. So we did.

And there was no place more fitting to read Goodnight Moon. I sat on the very couch where your dad had slept (until he crawled in next to me in the hospital bed to comfort me) that night. Not three feet from where you entered, and exited, this world.. I held your baby brother and read. Each page bringing me closer to tears.

Paxton closed the book as I gave him a big kiss. That kiss was for all of you.

And as your dad sat down beside me, reminiscing about that day, I looked around that room -- and every moment came flooding back. I gave myself a minute to cry. But soon, your brother was looking up at me and smiling, making sure I didn't lose myself in grief. But as we left that room, I still felt like I was leaving without you. Like some part of me will always feel like we should be taking you home.

All in all, it was a good day for us. It feels empty to say "Happy Birthday." Yes, it was the day you were born. But it was also the day you left. And the day you made me a mother, and your dad a father... And the day my heart was shattered, but grew tenfold, all at once.

So, I'll just say, I hope we made you proud. Gave our love for you justice. This day was just for the two of you.

We miss you.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.

Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.

- Your mother

And if by chance, one of the parents that received a book has found their way here to read this.. be my substitute. My voice. Hold your child and read with them. It helps to make up for the all the chances I've missed. And without ever meeting you, you are helping to heal me, and giving purpose to the lives of my children <3

Goodnight Moon - Continuing to Remember

We're quickly approaching two years since the birth, and loss, of our twins.

As you may recall, last year, we donated a couple sets of board books to the maternity ward at IU Methodist (where they were born). The hospital was especially gracious. We met several members of the staff, were able to tour the ward and visit the room adjacent to where I delivered, and to share the story of our babies. They even interviewed us for their website.

We plan to do the same this year. Though we expect it to be much more low-key -- no interview or tour. Brad and I discussed how important it will be over the years to continue to honor and celebrate Bodhi and Jasper, especially doing so with our two youngest boys. We hope it will foster a chance for their brothers to get to know them and feel just as proud of them as we do.

Last year, several family and friends expressed interest in being involved, but since it was our first time trying such a thing we weren't organized or prepared for that. We now have several options for anyone that would like to honor Bodhi & Jasper in remembrance of their one day on earth.

1) You can donate physical copies of the board book Goodnight Moon -- either delivering to us in person, or buying and having it shipped via Amazon (email me on FB or at carollorton@alumni.purdue.edu for shipping address).

2) You can donate funds to us via Paypal (same email as above), that we will use to buy more books ourselves.

or

3) You can make a monetary donation directly to Methodist Health Foundation in their name.

As their mother, I just keep thinking about how awesome it would be to show up at the hospital on their birthday with 10 to 20+ books -- knowing that so many families/children will have something tangible in their daily lives because of Bodhi & Jasper. A chance for them to matter in the world that they didn't get to visit for very long.

2015

Oh, 2015...

You've been one crazy year.

Truly, the most difficult, trying, emotional, surprising, exhausting, draining, exciting. Did I mention exhausting?

As this year heads to a close, with our excitement for Pax's first Xmas and new family traditions, this year feels bittersweet.

It has been an emotional whirlwind of ups and downs. The exhaustion of being new parents. The diagnosis of needing a surgery (being delayed until after pregnancy). The emotional stress in our home from revisiting the past (you can read Brad's blog from earlier this year to get a better understanding). The financial burden of me being a stay-at-home mother. The constant tears that came with Adele's new album ;)

But then there were the surprises (hello, third pregnancy!) and blissful moments. Paxton's birth, Nori and Bristow becoming pals, watching Paxton grow and learn each day -- getting to hear his giggles and ba-ba-bas every morning, our fifth wedding anniversary, and planning so many 'firsts' and new traditions.

And like each year that has come before (and we've obviously had some doozies), it has served as a reminder that we can get through most anything -- as individuals, and as a family.

Undoubtedly, the holidays last year were rough. Nearly all I could think about was how the twins should be there. I won't miss them any less this time around. In fact, watching Paxton makes me think of them often. Would they have the same laugh, or the same nose? Would they smile the same way? So as we plan to always do, their ornaments will be displayed. Their candles will be lit. They will be honored and remembered.

This year, the holidays will be much more sweet though. The best gift under the tree this year will be a very special little boy that has brought an abundance of love into our home. To see him spend his first holiday season with our families is something I'm beyond grateful for. And I want everyone out there that helped us along the way -- from the initial fundraisers to the showers -- to know that we cannot thank you enough. Without you, we wouldn't be making these memories.

So, I end this year, more at home and more in love.

And now we look forward to 2016 -- fearful and excited. We'll have to see how Pax does as a big brother in just a couple of months :)

'Expecting' The Unexpected

First, a little back story for those that haven't been following along..

After a couple years of not trying, but not preventing, we actively started trying to conceive. That involved a lot of tests, medications, and trips to a reproductive endocrinologist. My body simply did not work like it should.

Tried three rounds of Clomid. No response. Tried three rounds of Femara. Barely responded once. Moved on to injections, and conceived the first try (Sept '13). But I was immediately hospitalized with hyperstim and nearly died. I recovered and found out we were expecting twins. Everything was great until I suddenly went into labor at 19 weeks (Jan '14). They both passed away in my arms.

We decided to try injections just one more time (Jun '14). Again, I conceived on the first try -- a singleton that is now just 4.5 months old (born Mar '15).

That catches you up to today -- well, yesterday.

Since the pregnancy, I've been having gallbladder issues, and surgery was recommended. It was scheduled for July 24th.

As a "just in case" precaution, I took a pregnancy test yesterday. And this happened....

Shock doesn't begin to cover it. I'd had some nausea and hot flashes, but chalked it all up to the gallbaldder. I had set the test on the floor barely paying it much attention, as I expected nothing. I glanced over and immediately couldn't breathe. The second line was there almost instantly. No need to wait three minutes. I felt my pulse racing and an instant lightheaded feeling.

I made my way out to the kitchen where Brad was washing baby bottles. I took the time to swallow and my mouth felt so dry it was like sand. "Brad," I said in a shaky voice.

He turned and saw the look on my face, pregnancy test in hand. His face turned to, "No... Are you serious?" He came over and looked at it.

I started to hyperventilate and Brad immediately grabbed me into a hug. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

A million emotions were blowing through me all at once...I hung my head and cried. This wasn't supposed to be possible. I'm infertile. We only ever planned to have one child. Can we afford another kid? That's two kids under 13-14 months old. Two in diapers? Can I physically go through another pregnancy? How far along am I? I drank a Bloody Mary last week. How the hell did I ovulate on my own when I don't even respond to 'moderate' medication? I have a surgery coming up. What if something happens during it? Do we have room/time/resources for a second? How does my husband get me pregnant EVERY time I ovulate?

We sat down.. both trying to absorb this VERY unexpected development. Discussing all our options, fears, pros and cons, budget concerns, crying, laughing. Emotional basket cases, basically.

Finally, after an hour or two of letting it sink in, we agreed our initial reaction was solely based on the surprise factor. We'd only known pregnancy in a "Take this medication. Test this day. Ultrasound this day," kind of way. Planned down to the minute. Anticipated. And we truly didn't think this would EVER happen to us without all that planning..

We agreed to just take it as it comes. One step at a time. Happy, but realistic. Hopeful, but measured.

Ironically, within a week or so of Pax's birth, we had discussed our 'birth control' options. I had ZERO interest in anything hormonal after all the injections and pregnancies I'd put my body through. Brad offered to get a vasectomy, but we decided with how much money and effort it took us to conceive both times, it didn't seem necessary. And though we never planned to try again, the idea of such a permanent solution seemed like overkill. Well... surprise!

Going by my cycles, I'd be 8 weeks tomorrow (July 14). But, we won't know for sure until we get blood work and an ultrasound.

Aren't we supposed to wait til 12 weeks to announce? At least until after an ultrasound? Normally, yes. Eh. I'm not one for good luck or bad luck or "supposed to." (Ironically, 12 weeks, according to my cycle.. will be Aug 11 -- exactly one year from when we announced Paxton was on his way.) Whatever will be, will be. And because this was so NOT planned, we have no expectations. And after we've been on such a journey, we didn't feel like hiding anything at this point was really necessary. If things go well, we'll share. If things don't, we'll share. It could be nonviable or ectopic. We could miscarry. Or everything could go perfectly, and we'll have another child early next year. We're just flying by the seat of our pants, so we figured we'd let everyone in on it.

Our journey continues.

We mostly wanted those around us to understand the absolute whirlwind we've found ourselves in. You now know what we just found out a little over 24 hours ago.

June 21st (Father's Day)

Tomorrow is June 21st -- a date that means so much to us. In fact, I'm posting this a day early just in case I'm overcome with emotions tomorrow. So forgive me for acknowledging you prematurely.

After all, June 21st was the twins' due date. And it was also the exact day we conceived Paxton. I realize that may seem like TMI for outside readers, but when you're doing injections, you pretty much know when you ovulate down to the hour. The fact that we conceived on their exact due date was pretty much a one in a million situation.

And it just so happens that such an important date is marked as Father's Day this year. Not sure it could feel more appropriate.. A date that means something in relation to all of our babies.

This is not your first Father's Day, but it is the first one where you get to hold your son, play peek-a-boo, and "talk" with him all day. It's the first one where you get to really feel like a father with a son to raise. And I am so happy for you.

Still, the importance of being a "father" can't be summed up or adequately celebrated in one day. A relationship as strong as father and son will be ever-changing -- evolving as you go.

I hope, on this special day, you have the time to ponder the years that lie ahead. As hard as I try, and as much as I'll teach him, there are some things a son will take from his father... Things I could never show him. All the lessons you'll teach -- on purpose, and by accident. These are the things that come to my mind this year, if I may make a few requests.

He may listen to your advice, but he'll follow your example. Show him how to be a man. Strong and gentle. Show him how to treat his mother. How to fall in love -- and ideally how to stay there.

Be his friend. Talk about life, sports, and girls. But be his father first. He will look towards you for rules and boundaries. Let him make a mess, but then make him clean it up. Encourage him to take risks, but reassure him you'll catch him if he falls.

Let him see you fail. He will think you're infallible for awhile. It's okay. You're supposed to be his hero. But his role-model will also show him how to stumble, and then recover. Teach him that flaws don't make you weak or define you. Giving up does.

And there are some things I just can't do. My knowledge of football is limited. My knowledge of farming is non-existent. And peeing standing up? Writing his name in the snow? That's all you, dear.

And when you're playing catch or touch football in the yard, and I yell at you both for tearing up the grass or garden... remind me that we're raising a son... not a lawn. I'll get it. <3

I can teach him to say "Dada" -- but only you can show him what it really means...

From Jasper, Bodhi, Paxton (and Bristow and Nori too) -- Happy Father's Day!

Peace - The Arrival of Paxton

On the night of March 2nd (Monday), I was on the phone with my mother, ironically discussing how we would come out and get her in a few days so that she would be at our house when I went into labor. The plan was for her to watch our dogs.

But, as I was sitting on my bed chatting with her (roughly 9pm), I felt a sharp kick and even heard a pop. I sat there thinking, "That was weird." I even wondered for a split second if my water broke. Alas, nothing happened.

Until I got up from the bed to use the restroom. A waterfall erupted. I stopped my mother mid-sentence. "Well.. Um. Mother. I might need you to come to our house tonight."

"Why?"

"Uh.. Cause my water just broke."

She proceeded to exclaim that I needed to call Brad immediately and go to the hospital. She was somehow more nervous/excited than I was.

Brad was working his second job, so I quickly called him, as I was letting the rest of my water fall as I stood in the bathroom.

No answer.

I was immediately (though unfairly) annoyed.

I took all my wet clothes and threw them in the bottom of my shower. I quickly began waddling around the house trying to pack all the random tidbits I had left for last minute. Meanwhile, I tried Brad's cell again.

Luckily, he answered. I told him my water broke. I could almost hear him take a cliché gulp. "OOookay. I'm on my way."

He got home to his pantless pregnant wife, waddling up and down the hallway, still packing.. occasionally dribbling water as I went.

We eventually arrived at the hospital about 2 hours later. Contractions were roughly 8 minutes apart at that point.

But the 'plan' quickly changed upon arrival. I had hoped to labor in water (as discussed with my OB), but the doc on duty was not 'comfortable' with it. So instead, "You can still labor using a birthing ball or bean if you want." I also had planned to just have a heplock in place -- just in case of emergency. But neither option panned out, as baby boy's heart rate was fluctuating with contractions, so they wanted constant monitoring and an IV in place. Then he noticed I had been on low dose aspirin for a superficial blood clot midway through pregnancy, and insisted I needed to have leg compressors on during labor.

So, all my plans to naturally cope with contractions disappeared within an hour of my arrival. I was soon strapped to monitors, leg compressors, IVs in place, and told that I could only labor in the confines of the bed. I was annoyed -- and in pain. But I, perhaps better than most, know that plans change. I just had to deal.

Luckily, by morning, my actual OB arrived and said the compressors were completely unnecessary. So, one annoying thing I could be rid of.

Then things got worse. My labor stalled, so they pushed Pitocin, which made contractions 20 times worse (seriously, not even a mild exaggeration). I debated with myself for hours about getting an epidural or not. Each contraction getting worse and worse. And I knew I feasibly had hours ahead of me, with no other means of coping. Shaking the bed rails just wasn't cutting it.

I certainly don't knock anyone who has gone the epidural route. But avoiding one was a goal of mine. And it crushed me that I was going to 'cave in' to the pain. I literally started crying solely over my decision. Telling Brad over and over that I was sorry, that I felt like a failure, etc. Meanwhile, he didn't care in the slightest. In actuality, I think he wanted me to take the drugs. Every time a contraction hit, I just saw this helpless look come across his face. I could tell he hated seeing me in pain as much as I hated feeling it.

I finally, after about 15 hours of labor, asked for the epidural.

Things did not go smoothly.

As they started it, I shouted out, "That hurts!" The tech was confused, "What hurts?"

"My hip. My right hip. It feels like it's on fire."

The tech went on to explain how the medication may go to one side first, yadda. yadda. yadda.

So, he proceeded along. As they were laying me back down in the bed, it became evident that my right side was numb, but my left side was completely in the land of the living. I went through 4-5 contractions, with only half of my body numb, before they acknowledged something must be wrong -- even at first insisting that if I laid on my side, the medicine might spread 'correctly.' It never did.

So they had to remove the epidural entirely and start over.

Finally, I was numb.

I kept thinking -- when they talk about the cascade of interventions, they sure aren't joking. My current state could not have been much more deviated from my ideal birth plan. But again, one must adapt. It was too late to change anything.. even if I was beating myself up over it.

Fairly quickly, it was time to push. An odd thing to do when you can barely hold your own legs up. (I did have soooome muscle control, so I was at least pleased with that.) Brad held one of my legs. A handsome doc in training held my other. My OB was at the ready.

All I could do was have a sense of humor at this point. Joking with the OB how we planned to take an Instagram picture with "#crowning." Brad chimed in after I'd been pushing for probably nearly an hour, "My back and legs really hurt." I mocked him in return, and everyone in the room got a good chuckle.

Then we decided pushing wasn't working because the music was too blah. We had some mellow tunes on, so I told Brad we should get some Iggy Azalea up in this place. Sure enough, Brad turned it to the Iggy Pandora station, and perhaps the most crude song came on. Again, everyone laughed. My OB and her trainee even started jamming a little.

For what it's worth, it did seem to help. Pushing started to make progress.

All the sudden Brad sounded way more eager and encouraging. Clearly he was breaking the "don't you dare look down there" rule. o.O

Finally, our son was born. They placed him on my chest. I smiled and said, "Hey there little guy." But no sooner had the words escaped my mouth, the energy in the room shifted.

They were suctioning him, but there was no cry. That cry that every parent waits for upon arrival. Almost instantly, the doctor took him away from me again and scurried him off to the corner of the room. I was stuck there, unable to walk or even sit up.. trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening with my son across the room.

Everything went still. I flashed back to delivering the twins. My eyes glanced at Brad, with that familiar look of worry and heartbreak -- and quickly, they clamped shut entirely -- right after seeing a swarm of doctors and nurses enter the room.

I brought my hands up to my eyes, as if it were even possible to shield the fact that tears were forming freely. I began to sob.. knowing that each second I didn't hear that cry.. I was getting closer and closer to reliving the worst day of my life.

I started to cry that cry that forms in your gut and painfully regurgitates itself.. erupting from your throat with all the pain that you ever hid there.

I felt Brad put his hand on my head. I knew he was feeling exactly the same way I was. Only the two of us knew the depth of that fear.. of that memory.

Less than a minute had passed, but it felt like an eternity. I opened my eyes again -- watching this team of people gathered around my son. I couldn't even spot him in the middle of it anymore.

A cry. Finally, his cry.

I lost all control. A full bawling took over my body. I could feel the warmth of my tears falling down the sides of my face as I still found myself trapped by the epidural -- staring up at the ceiling. My eyes were still closed when I felt a kiss on my forehead. I could hear the relief in his voice, "He's okay. He's okay, Carol... He's okay."

We grabbed each other's hands and just cried. Brad later told me (since he was standing and could see), that our son had visibly turned blue. I can only imagine how Brad felt while watching this unfold -- complete panic, but still trying to reassure me in any way possible.

So, there I was stuck on the bed.. but I didn't much care about that anymore. I heard my son, and all was okay again. You know, other than when I realize there are three people working on me and my 'wounds.' "She has a third degree tear there. Exposed muscle here..." o.O Thanks, kid.

Then I remember hearing someone from the team of doctors call Brad over, "Do you want to see him?"

Brad had been so glued to my side, still holding my hand. He looked down at me in total confusion. He had no idea what he was 'supposed' to do. Stay with his emotionally and physically wrecked wife, or go see his newborn son.

But I knew.

"Go. Go. I'm fine."

After losing two children with this man, there was no way I could keep this moment from him. Everything inside me was happily saying, "Go be a dad."

I was so proud and overwhelmed to witness that moment with them. I could see and feel everything -- his fear, anxiety, excitement, and utter joy. Finally, I got to see my husband be a father, without limitation.

Greatest gift ever.

I could go on and on about watching him with our son, the annoyance I had with the conflicting advice from each nurse we had, the fact that my "on fire" hip is still in excruciating pain since the epidural, how I never thought I'd use so many Tucks cooling pads in a day, and bringing our son home..

Perhaps another day.

It's all really just a side note to the fact that we got to meet our son, Paxton James Shilor. I can't wait to get to know my little man. <3

And for those that missed it, Paxton was a runner-up when we were naming the twins. Pax means "peace" and Paxton means "place of peace."

And he certainly is that for us.

So, whether you call him Pax, Paxton, PJ, or Garby -- or just the P in a PB&J (Paxton, Bodhi, & Jasper) say hello to our son.

I'll let you know when he's no longer grounded for his little Code Pink (neonatal cardiac/respiratory arrest) scare. ;)

It's pretty impossible to not fall in love. There is Peace in our home.