Beauty In The Greyson

I promised to write about his delivery when I got home, but as I'm rocking him at 4am in my hospital bed, it feels like as good a time as any..

So, I'll go back a little. What follows is pregnancy jargon, so feel free to skip ahead.

A couple weeks ago, I started to show progress/signs of labor after a very uneventful pregnancy. I was 1cm dilated and 50% thinned.

But then, for my next two appointments, nothing changed (unlike last time). So, much to my surprise, my doc briefly mentioned induction. With a history of two severely premature babies, and the other two weeks early, it's just not a conversation you expect to have.

At that same appointment, she offered to sweep my membranes, just to see if it would start something. Since I was still only 1cm, she (and I) didn't have high hopes, but told her to go ahead and try.

By midnight that night, I started my "bloody show" -- which is more mucus than the murder scene it sounds like. Contractions soon followed.

We might be getting somewhere.

But the contractions were 1-2 an hour. It was going to be awhile. So, I tried my hardest to sleep, in hopes that delivery was coming soon.

Morning came, and I started to eat breakfast. Woah. These contractions just kicked up a notch.

"You may want to stay home, dear. I think this is it."

Soon, contractions were 7 min apart, and I felt SURE things were happening. So, we went in.

I felt it was probably on the early side, but you hear about all these uber fast labors that result in a kid born on the toilet at home or the side of the road.

Let's avoid that, shall we?

We got to the hospital around 9am.

"3cm," they said after a quick check.

"Definitely a change from yesterday, but it may just stall. So, walk around and such, and we'll check in another hour."

At this point, Brad left, taking Pax home to the sitter (his cousin). I told him to go ahead because it looked like it'd be awhile..

An hour passes, "3.5 cm. So, a change, but not as much as we like."

They started not-so-subtly suggesting that if things didn't move much faster, they'd be sending me home.

My gut kept saying that was a terrible idea. The contractions were getting quite painful and only 4 min apart. What on Earth was I supposed to wait for if I left?

So, they offered a birthing ball to get things going. I obliged. And while bouncing and rolling, clipboard of consent forms in hand, my water suddenly broke.

Inside, I was thinking, "I tolllld you."

Contractions got intense -- shooting up my thighs and around my back. We weren't in Kansas anymore.

Quick text to Brad. "My water just broke."

Felt like that explained enough ;)

By the time Brad got back, I was a completely different person.

He had left a casual, fun woman -- talking and joking through contractions. He returned to one yelling and taking the deepest breaths possible just to get through.

"You're clearly having a harder time. Let's check you again."

Just 45 min after my last check -- "7 cm."

Whaaaat?! This is happening.

But as I was going through everything in my mind -- "Damn. Still don't get to labor in water," "Am I going to try natural since this went so fast?," and "I'm going to meet my son so soon!" -- everything came to a halt.

"I think he's breech."

This entire time, he'd been perfect on the monitors, and he'd been head down for weeks. But, not today. Not now.

One nurse verified with an ultrasound. Another double-checked.

And with how quickly I was progressing, they worried I'd be at 10cm within 30 minutes. There just was no time to safely try rolling/flipping manuevers.

So, as quickly as my excitement came, it fell out from underneath me.

"You need a c-section, and you need it now."

I immediately cried. I was in shock and utterly terrified.

Everyone around me was running around trying to get lab results and fill out forms. Dressing in gowns. "Would you accept a blood transfusion?" Telling Brad what was about to happen.

I couldn't stop crying as nearly every nurse tried to assure me it would be okay and that I was in good hands.

Brad came to my side, also trying to reassure me. But I saw the fear in his eyes. It was the same fear I felt in my bones.

"If something happens..."  I whispered, "just take care of my babies."

There was silence as a solitary tear fell down my face.

"I love you."

I was starting to get the urge to push as they swiftly wheeled me away. All they told Brad was to put on this surgical attire and that they'd get him in a few minutes.

They wasted no time placing a spinal and raising a sheet to block the view.

I can't adequately describe the battle going on in my head.

"I feel like I'm suffocating (as my chest was numb, breathing didn't feel like a reflex, but a chore)," "Why am I suddenly soooo tired? (found out later they'd given me a good dose of Benadryl to counteract itchiness from the spinal)," "I don't want to sleep through his birth," "If I fall asleep, will I stop breathing?" "Calm down and breathe," "There's Brad. Just look at him," "This feels weird," How long should this take?" "I really, truly feel like I'm dying."

And then I heard him cry.

I still struggled with every inhale, but it didn't matter. My job to get him Earthside was done.

I heard them going over their checklist, and all was well with my baby boy. Come what may, I was immediately filled with pride and love.

Brad, again, found himself pulled in two directions as they invited him over to see his son.

He looked me square in the eyes, "Are you okay?"

I smiled and nodded.

I felt so alone as he left my view, still struggling to breathe, but I wasn't going to let him know. It was his time to be a dad first.

But soon, I was in recovery, doing skin-to-skin, and nursing.

Seemed my time wasn't up just yet. And I felt grateful to the universe for being loaned some more hours, days, months, or maybe years -- to be a mother.

And as I held my baby boy, thinking about how we chose his name many months ago, I couldn't help but smirk to myself.

You see, we picked Greyson for a few reasons.

1) He was the "Grape" in our PB&J
2) His initials are GPS, cause he found his own way here.
And lastly,
3) The beauty and surprises in life exist in the greys. Not the rules, decisions, and plans we naively believe are black and white.
The area between black and white. The grey. That's where life happens.
And in all our black and white plans, our Greyson came along -- changed everything -- and showed us the beauty in surprises.

And his delivery was no exception <3

Born at 1:12pm on 2/19, 8lbs. 2oz, 20 inches.
- Greyson Paul Shilor -

My Valentine

Thanks to "On This Day" on FB, I just read my Valentine post from last year (and just like last year, I'm posting a day early). Not sure I can top it.. 

I mean, I talked about how we met, and how we fell in love -- over and over again. How we have the kind of love that playwrights imagine. What more could I possible add?

Last Valentine's Day, we were exactly one month from my due date (this time, we're exactly two weeks away), so needless to say.. this year has involved a lot of change. Because not only do I get to love you for all the reasons I did before, but now, I get to see you through our son's eyes.

And it's quite a view.

How he giggles when you make faces or blow raspberries. How he lights up when you walk through the door after a long day at work. How he snuggles his face into your chest when he's tired and just wants his dad. -- How he loves you.

And despite all the chaos our little rugrat has brought us, we did some awesome things to celebrate us and everything that got us here.

You set up a surprise picnic (and fire) in our backyard for just a normal date night.

You took me to where you proposed on our dating anniversary.

We announced the gender of our new baby.

But one of my favorite moments of the last year, was standing in the exact spot we stood on our wedding day -- celebrating 5 years of marriage. <3

But these, my love, are just the highlights. There have been countless love notes, slow dances in the living room, tickle fights, and laughing fits. Everything that makes us, US.

I choose you.

Happy Valentine's Day.

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.