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.

My Valentine

Bradley,

Here we are, love -- tomorrow is exactly one month til our due date. So hard to believe as I sit and think about the road that led us here.

I wonder how we'll ever begin to explain our story to this son of ours -- so complicated and messy -- yet so very simple.

Our love story sure didn't start how I had expected. Being asked out by my boss and knowing it would all have to be a secret. Our friends trying to set us up when we were already together. Getting ready for events or weddings at your apartment together, but then driving separately.. pretending. To the outside world, we were coworkers and casual friends. But in the confines of your apartment, we fell in love. A fast, intense, and scary kind of love. The kind that tears you apart, yet puts you back together. The kind that makes you want to run sometimes -- but luckily -- the same kind that you can never really let go of.

So many missteps, mistakes, cases of bad timing, and lapses in judgment. But never giving up was not one of them. No matter the chaos whirling around us, the second we were together again, time would just slow down. Fear would melt away. We both knew it was something different, as it would always just fade back to the first night in your apartment.. when you held me for hours. I had never felt so safe. So at home. And before either of us could fall asleep, you took a deep breath, looked me right in the eyes, brushed your hand against my face and asked, "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

To this day, you're somewhat mortified that you asked. And yet, I remember it as the moment "we" meant something. I saw it as loving, respectful, cautious.. and so very endearing. I nodded with the faintest of yeses escaping my lips.

I would never be the same.

You tell me now that you spent many nights watching me sleep, thinking how lucky you were. Truth is, we both did. I would lay there, in the crook of your arm, with my head on your chest. Your heartbeat whispering out to me like a lullaby. I knew it as if the beat were a song written just for me.

We taught each other everything we needed to learn.

And through all the starts and stops -- the on-again, off-again -- we never lost each other. Weekend trips "as friends." Wedding dates "as friends." We made it so complicated. But at the end of the day, you were still the guy that would drive me home, hold my hand, slow dance with me to Michael Bublé in the dim light of my bedroom, and then kiss me goodnight. Even if nobody else knew -- it was always you and me.

I'm not sure anyone but us will ever know the whole story. But if our son ever asks if that kind of love exists -- the camp out on their doorstep, stand out in the rain, chase them to the airport, hold a boombox over your head kind of love -- we can say, emphatically, "Yes."

We lived it.

As you've said many times since, "We always found our way back to each other."

Thank you for finding your way, and living this love with me every single day.

Ever since that first kiss, you have always had a piece of me. <3

With love,
Your forever valentine

One Year

One year. 365 Days.

It feels like forever, yet no time at all.

Today, we're going to celebrate you both -- your far too short lives.

In just a few hours, we'll be headed to Indy. To the hospital where you were born. To the only place you ever lived. I have no idea how I'll feel walking in there again. Overwhelming grief? Peace? Grounded again in the place where I met you? My guess is it will be a blend of all of them.

The same as it was the day you were born.

Your father and I relive that day frequently.

Just this morning, I awoke to your father wrapping his arm around me. As I came out of my grogginess, I asked if he was okay.

"Just thinking about them... I just wanted to be close to you."

I rolled over into his arms, tucking my head beneath his chin. We talked about that day, tears falling down both our faces, as we remarked on how strong and beautiful you were -- and how we were so grateful that we got to meet you.

I said to him, "They were pretty amazing."

Your father gently moved his fingers through my hair, and whispered, "They got that from you."

You see, he likes to give me credit for your strength.. for your will to live. But the truth is, you were the best of both of us. The best thing we ever did. And I'm only so strong when your father is standing next to me. He's the one who walked me through the grief. The man who got into the hospital bed with me and stayed through the night. The man who would sit outside the shower when we got home.. just in case I broke down and needed him.

I like to think you were the best of us.. as a team.

And we're both so proud of you. Proud to call you ours. Proud of your strength -- to beat the odds -- and live long enough for us to be able to hold you both in our arms at the same time. Feeling you breathe, and wiggle your little arms and legs, as you lay upon my chest side by side ... Oh, I'll never forget it.

When we visit the hospital, we'll be donating some children's books to the maternity ward. It brings me a bit of peace to know that other parents will be bonding with their children -- because of you. Your spirit and your beauty will live on each night a child chooses one of the books we've donated in your memory.

The hospital also wants to interview us about you and that day. I'm nervous, but happy to do it.

People keep telling me how inspirational and strong I am for sharing your story. But really, I'm just like any other mother who loves to talk about her children. I don't get to talk about your spelling bees or your t-ball games. But I'll never stop talking about the love I felt in those hours with you.

I'm not inspiring. The magic in the story is yours -- it belongs to you.

So thank you. Thank you for bringing your father and I even closer together. Thank you for meeting us. Thank you for touching the world.

We celebrate you today. Happy Birthday, Jasper & Bodhi <3

- Your mother

Good Few Days

A lot has happened in just a few days.

Great news arrived in our mailbox on Thursday.

If you've been following the blog, or my Facebook, since last March.. you know that our insurance company had denied the hospital stay I had early on with the twins (for hyperstimulation). I had been admitted for 8 days, and would have died without treatment. However, they claimed it was a complication of fertility meds, so it would not be covered. Note: a lot of this post is numbers and bitching, so feel free to skip to the ** to bypass ;)

The bill for that stay was $29k. Insurance, however, was only billed $12k for the same services, but since it was denied, we were first billed the sticker price. After dealing with a plethora of inept employees at St. Vincent's, one told me I would only be billed the $12k. Then a bill arrived for the full amount. Next rep told me I would have been better off without having insurance since I could have had an uninsured discount, but I didn't qualify because we technically did have insurance. Her boss disagreed and gave us the discount.. bringing it down to about $18k ($6k more than insurance was even billed, if you recall.)

So next, I apply for the financial assistance. The hospital fails to go by its own publicly released policy/chart, and decided we should get a 40% discount. New bill arrives. I call to complain it doesn't line up with their own policy based on income and family size, and am informed that it's just a "general guideline" used for people with "really large bills and stuff." Um. First, 29k isn't a large bill? Two, why post a clear-cut financial chart as public policy if it's really a vague case-by-case "large bill" decision? But at this point, getting a lawyer would have cost more than the 2-3k difference in discount. I was also informed, "The financial aide discount should have been applied to the original amount (29k), but she accidentally took it off your uninsured total. So, since that was our mistake, we'll honor it." Why thank you. Basically telling me that our total "should have been" around $14k, but they were generously going to let us slip by with 'just' $9k.

Btw, it's worth noting, that during this same time period, I applied for financial assistance with IU Health for a plethora of other bills, and they determined -- based on the same income/bank statements/etc, that my husband and I should cap out at $1500 out of pocket. But St. Vincent, a non-profit and 'charitable' hospital, decided that $9k was cutting us a huge break.. o.O

** At any rate, we had to start making payments ASAP, or it would be sent to collections. So our only option was to agree to a payment plan that would last 7 years. Basically like adding a car payment to our already tight budget -- with me barely working at all.

All I could think as I agreed to this plan was that I was going to be making monthly payments up until the twins would have been in 2nd grade. Nevermind the huge financial burden -- the monthly reminder for seven years was going to be pure torture.

So we appealed. Got records, letters from our doctor, had husband's HR people contact the insurance company -- and it was denied. So we appealed again. It was denied again. Finally, after 9 months of appealing, I had given up all hope. We had already made several payments under the "agreement" and I had accepted that I was doomed to feel that punch in the gut every single month.

But I went ahead and sent the letter requesting the final, external review. They asked if I had any new "evidence" to include. And I didn't. We'd said, and tried to prove, everything we possible could. We'd rebutted every argument. It got us nowhere, and I felt this would be no different.

Then, last Thursday, my husband brought in the mail while I was watching television. He walks from the kitchen with a packet of papers in his hands -- with an inquisitive look on his face. His brow was furrowed. I was beyond curious what kind of mail deserved this much attention.

"That's not a good look. Something wrong?" I asked.

He looked up at me, still somewhat puzzled. "It's good news.. I think."

He handed me the paper, as if he couldn't believe it until I read and confirmed it.

I scanned the page quickly, recognizing it was from the external appeal. "The previous decision has been overturned... Benefits shall be paid. This decision is binding."

I probably read it three times before the same confused look melted away from my face.

I looked up at my husband with tears in my eyes, now standing over me, and smiled. A smile that was both meek and joyous at the same time. I put my arms up and said "Yay!" -- but with the volume and breath of a sigh.

He went down to his knees, and we hugged. Stating back and forth, "I'm so happy." and "I can't believe it."

Soon, he had to leave for work, and by then we were both starting to accept the news as reality. He kissed me good-bye, but didn't let go. He was just staring at my face.. as he held it in his hands -- gently tucking my hair behind my ears. He looked at me as though I was the most puzzling and beautiful thing. Something he was seeing for the first time.

I simply asked, "What?"

And he responded, "It's just so nice to see you smile again."

It wasn't until after he walked out the door that his statement really settled in. It had been a long time since he'd seen a genuine, full-hearted, and unguarded smile come across my face. Until this, I probably hadn't had that much joy and relief since we lost the twins.

And his statement made me feel both sad -- that it had taken this long for my husband to see me truly smile, and hopeful -- that I could feel true joy and relief again.

I was burdened with the emotional aspect of getting the reminder of the twins each month. I was worried about my husband -- already working two jobs -- stressing about the financial strain. And I could let it go, all at once. I could breathe again.

And just a couple days later, was our first shower for "Garby."

My mother hosted, but did it in our home.. since her place is 'out of the way' for most, she wasn't super comfortable making vegan food for a party, and it kept us from having to drag items between places afterwards.

I decided to do a robin's egg theme -- in reference to our bird tattoos, and the nursery colors. It really was quite lovely.

And though I always stress before a gathering, I kept reminding myself to just relax and enjoy it. This isn't about the perfect food or decorations. This is about celebrating my child.

It was, of course, bittersweet, as we put up decorations on the mantle where Jasper and Bodhi's ashes reside. But in my heart, I was celebrating them too. I didn't feel like a first-time mother, after all. I held my babies already. This was just me -- loving one more.

And perhaps as a surprise to some, my husband decided he wanted to be there. I'm not sure he would have with the twins. But with everything that happened, I think he didn't want to "miss" anything that celebrated our child this time. And it honestly felt "right" having him there.

I was, and still am, so grateful we have people in our lives that have been so supportive through our loss, and this pregnancy. So, thank you again, to everyone who attended -- or even wanted to. It means the world to me.

So, to summarize, it's been a great week.

After the guests left the shower, I gave my husband a hug. We both got a little emotional. While still in his arms, I whispered, "Things are finally starting to feel 'right' again." And I felt him hold me a little tighter. <3

What We Missed

Dear Jasper & Bodhi,

I've been thinking of you more and more as we approach your birthday.. and the arrival of your baby brother.

I find myself waking, in tears, from bad dreams where I relive that day with you, or imagine losing your little brother in the same way. I wish I could express the depth of how much I still miss you.

In a few days, we'll be celebrating your brother with family and friends. It so pains me that I never got to celebrate you that way -- not in the way I so desperately wanted to. I didn't get to hear advice on how to raise two babies at once. I didn't get to make your nursery how I had envisioned it. I didn't get to see your loved ones pass you around with smiles on their faces. I didn't get to bring you home...

Still, as I daydream about those missed moments, I choke back the tears.

And I'm slowly coming to terms with the guilt. The guilt for failing you -- for my body not doing what it's built to do -- for not keeping you safe. I still struggle with not having a reason for any of it. At the same time, it helps the blame to fade away.. slow as it may be.

But I'm not the only one with guilt. Your father had a completely different take on it; blaming himself over the timing. Wondering to himself if he had proposed sooner, if we would have been married sooner, and conceived sooner.. would our first born(s) have lived?

We'll never know.

Sure, it's possible we would have had an uncomplicated pregnancy. But it's also possible we wouldn't have even had the chance to hold them for the moments we had with you. And either way, they wouldn't have been you. Meeting you both was the most beautifully painful moment of my life.. and I wouldn't give it up for anything short of more time with you.

We also wouldn't be expecting your brother now.

And what I know in my heart is that when I celebrate him, I celebrate you. You are not my past, or just a memory. All three of you are equally my children. Equally loved. And equally celebrated -- even if it doesn't outwardly look the same.

I celebrate you when I speak of you. I celebrate you when I have quiet moments of remembrance. I celebrate you by forgiving myself, and helping your father do the same.

I celebrate you by loving your father every day.

- Your Mother

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

If you were expecting something in a banana suit singing "Peanut Butter Jelly Time," I apologize.

This is a post about healing -- about a quirky hint even.

My husband and I wanted desperately to find a holiday tradition that would honor and remind us of Jasper and Bodhi. If it could include "Garby," all the better.

So I came up with this idea of getting an ornament each year that represents them to me. Angels aren't my thing. Birds would work, but it didn't feel quite right. I wanted something that reminded me of childhood, as well as each child individually. Something Garby would get excited about putting on our tree. Something he could understand without needing to grasp some overly deep symbolism.

Nobody will really 'get it' until Garby is born. But this is the ornament I just ordered (no tree to hang it on this year, but wanted it ordered by what would have been the twins' first Christmas). The goal is to find a similar one each year. :)

This Your First?

That is the question that has haunted me this entire pregnancy. From the ER to Urgent Care to well-meaning strangers. And now hospital tours.

As soon as I hear those words, my insides collapse.

"Is this your first?"

No matter how I answer, the conversation scrapes away at those wounds. On the rare occasion I've said "Yes," to avoid the awkward conversation, hoping the other party will just drop it, it turns into a weird blend of condescending cheer. "Oh, just wait. You'll see."

And then there are the times when I say, "No." Then I'm left wondering if they'll ask follow-up questions, or if I'm bound to explain my heartbreak all over again.

It hit me really hard last night.

My husband and I went to take a tour of the maternity/birthing area at the hospital. It was looking like we'd be the only people on the tour, but about 30 seconds before it started, another pregnant woman and her husband walked in.

As soon as we approached the tour guide, an older woman who seemingly had more trouble walking than either of us preggos, she immediately asked, "So, is this your first?"

I swallowed abruptly and simply said, "No."

She glanced back at me inquisitively. I knew she was used to mothers going on and on about their previous children. So, my grief and avoidance made me seem anti-social and/or rude.

She turned to the other woman, "No. This is our third, so we're excited."

We all head up in the elevator, and the tour goes as expected. Short and to the point. But as we go to leave, our tour guide starts picking away again -- even though I knew it was her version of casual conversation.

"So, where did you deliver your other children?"

The other woman answered first, "Well, one was in China. The other in Australia."

I took my cue and tried to make it seem funny, "Oh, ours were just in Indianapolis."

Was she going to drop it there? Of course not.

"Indianapolis? What hospital?"

Eh..

And just as we're about to leave, she turns to us again, "So how long were your labors last time?"

I feel like I can't catch my breath -- my pause allowing the other woman to answer first. I couldn't even muster a real answer and basically repeated what she had said.. then walked away.

I know I should be elated to be pregnant, and I am. But the very state of being pregnant causes a barrage of questions that hurt immeasurably. And it all feels like it's coming to a head as we approach the holidays. I can't tell you how many times the grief has flooded in so fast I felt like I was drowning.

My nephew's birthday party. Shopping for their Christmas gifts. Hanging up our stockings, but leaving Jasper's and Bodhi's in the box. The pain is so thick as I ponder what should have been their first Christmas.. just a handful of weeks away from their tragic birthday.

It's becoming increasingly hard not to lose myself in all those thoughts and things I had hoped for.

The only saving grace to last night was being able to cuddle with my husband, as he wrapped his arm around me and felt for our son's kicks, talking about the twins as we fell asleep.