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!

Three Years

Another birthday has come to pass. And every year, I grasp for the words to explain how I feel.

This year was definitely different -- for so many reasons.

First, we decided to make the book donations a 'thing.' A non-profit 'thing.' And considering we didn't decide to really pursue it until autumn, and set a goal of collecting 50 books, I'm so humbled and thankful that we got to deliver 84 books today -- in your names.

Forming this charity has given me something to focus my grief into -- from drawing the logo, to brainstorming fundraising ideas, and establishing our 'mission.'

But at the same time, it means that losing you is on my mind nearly all the time. I think that's why this year, especially this last week, has been so hard. I spent days drowning in my grief, guilt, and what-ifs. Waking in the middle of the night to immediately feel like I just lost you. Every second of that day playing over and over. Unable to catch my breath. Other days it would sneak up. Breaking down in tears, randomly, while brushing my teeth or making lunch, because I just kept saying in my head, "I miss you. You should be here... I'm so sorry I didn't save you."

Your father didn't always know what to say when he would find in me in such despair, telling him that I knew it was my fault.. and that he should blame me. But every time I go through this, or close to it, I find my way out. Your father has helped many times over to talk me down, but the common thread each time is just remembering how much love you ignited in me. The depths of which I didn't know were possible. And you got me there within seconds of meeting you.

I know, that if I can love you that strongly.. and just keep loving you.. it will last. It will carry me. It will light a fire in me to do better and be better. That there will be enough for me to share with the world -- and it will multiply. The love you gave me, and uncovered in me, will grow.

People often tell me that I'm strong. But I'm not. Not exceptional. Not extraordinary. I get lost all the time.. I just focus on you to find my way back.

So, though the week was harder than I expected, today was much like last year. Bittersweet.

I had put all the books into a Radio Flyer wagon, and your father remarked, "I'm happy we have so many books that we need a wagon. But I also just imagine the kids riding around in it."

And that is the burden we bear. Always imagining how things could be different. Who you would be now. The lifetime we missed out on. An ache that never stops.

But we arrived to IU Methodist, and I felt a sense of calm. Dramatically different than these last few days.

Again, we were greeted by several staff members. And babies, they remembered you and your story. We talked about you even more, which as a mother, fuels me. I love every chance I get to mention your names.

And then we talked about the charity, and how we arrived at the name.. PB&J Books Project (for those that don't know, peanut butter and grape jelly accounts for the initials of all four of my children -- Paxton, Bodhi, Greyson, and Jasper).

We talked about who we wanted the books to go to. I explained that people suffering a loss, or imminent loss.. like we did.. were at the top of our list. I explained further, "That time with them was mostly a blur. I barely remember the things I said to them. And I think now how it would've helped to have something tangible like a book to read. Something I could take home, hold onto, and know.. these are the words I said to my babies. That I could read it any time I wanted to go back there."

Next on the list were NICU parents. They go through so much, and just long for normalcy and bonding -- sometimes when they're not able to even hold their children. Reading to them is a chance for calm and bonding.. despite any obstacles.

And then, anyone they felt it would benefit. Low income. Previous loss. Or just anyone that expressed interest in reading to their baby on day one.

After we handed over all the donations, they again offered for me to visit one of the rooms. This time, it wasn't the exact room I had delivered you in -- so it didn't hit me as strongly to the chest as last year. But the layout was identical. And it brought me back almost immediately to laying in that bed, waiting for you to arrive, while knowing you wouldn't stay.

But this time, I didn't cry. Maybe I was all cried out. Or maybe it was too hectic with both your little brothers in tow. Or maybe.. just maybe.. it was the same calm that came over me the very second you were born. A feeling that I knew I didn't have much time, so I just wanted to breathe it in. To never forget.

I sat with your brothers and read Goodnight Moon. Every Shilor in one place -- the only place you ever knew. 

And as we left, I felt like I just had visited hallowed ground. I knew that as long as there was breath in my lungs, I would return here year after year, just to feel close to you.

So I will. Your father will. And when we can't, your brothers will.

This project will continue in your name, one way or another.

I owe you that.

To me, each and every book represents a piece of my love for you. Infinite and full of hope. Sending them all out into the world is the best way I know to be your mother. To help you live on and reach the world you didn't get to see -- and to help the world that didn't get the chance to see you.

We miss you.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.

Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.

- Your mother

If you are one of the parents that received a book, and you found your way here, please reach out. We would love to hear your story or see photos of you reading to your baby. You can find more on the book project on Instagram (@PBJBooksProject) and Facebook (www.facebooks.com/PBJBooksProject).

The PB & J Books Project

Okay, my dear followers and folks that stumble into my blog by accident. It's been many months since I last posted.

That is, in part, because I've been focused on doing something significant.

You see, several months ago, I approached my husband about the book donation we do every year on the twins' birthday. It had started with just us, delivering a few books we personally bought. The next year, a few friends and even a total stranger pitched in. And it got me thinking...

What if we do this as a legit charity?

Our goals are basically this:
We provide donated baby books (new board books) to maternity wards and NICUS, in loving memory of our twins, to encourage bonding, to promote literacy, and to help build precious memories.

I posted about my plans on Facebook, and the feedback and support was positive and swift.

I got to work making a logo and a Facebook page to share our story and successes.

Now, we're still sorting through all the red tape to make it official (ie: so people and companies can make tax-deductible donations). The IRS wants a lot of information, money, and paperwork to give us the stamp of government approval. So, please, bear with us for that.

In the meantime, people have been sending books and donations anyway. Most people donating $10-20 in money or books, aren't seemingly worried about the tax deduction <3

So, while we fine-tune our mission statement and organize a non-profit from the ground up, we need your support. Please follow us on Facebook and Instagram (@pbjbooksproject). Donate if you can. Tell others about our story, and what we're doing.

I am so grateful to get to do this in honor of my babies.

My Boys

My boys -- the best thing I ever did with my life was being your mother.

When I booked my surgery, I broke down in front of your father and told him I needed to write a letter to you both.. just in case. In some way, this entire blog is a letter to you. Everything chronicled and each of your birth stories shared. But still, nothing directly to you.

In truth, I've been meaning to write this since the day each of you were born. In life, you can never count on tomorrow. I don't have a single memory of your grandfather because he passed when I was so young. That's why I've always been a "say it while you have the chance" kind of person.

And I mean always.

I will never have enough time or space to tell you my entire story. But that's okay. I want you to have your own story. So, I'll start by narrowing in on how I loved.

Oh, bless those poor boys I loved in high school. If you've read my blogs now, you can imagine what my notes of confessed love were like. Teenage love is a beast all its own, after all. Heart always on my sleeve. Songs that reminded me of them were constantly played on repeat. So.many.tears. I even wrote, and the school actually produced, a play about one such fella during a very dramatic point in time.

In other words, when I love somebody, they know it. In my words and in my actions. Not a hint of ambiguity.

And I have never regretted being that way a day in my life.

Because when I love, it's with every molecule in my body. Swift, powerful, and never-ending. You can't cage that kind of love -- and you should never want to.

Nothing was different when I fell for your father. I could fill books with the stories of us. Beautiful chaos.

You'll see movies and read novels about utter heartbreak followed by immeasurable love. Those stories don't even compare to what we had.

Ours was a love so strong it felt like gravity had changed. As if we got too close to the sun, the sun may not survive the encounter.
The kind of love that has you dancing in the rain, standing for hours on your beloved's doorstep, and a first kiss that elevates your soul.

If you can only learn one thing from me and my life, let it be this. That kind of love exists, and I lived it. If I never feel anything more, that was enough.

Love like that whenever you get the chance. Without fear. Unapologetic. With every part of you.

But if you want to go the extra mile (always go the extra mile) here are a few more words of wisdom --

As I'm attempting to do now, never leave things unsaid. Even if you're afraid. Even if your words could tear everything apart. Even if you must whisper -- say what needs to be said.

Don't let a person's single mistake make you forget everything they've done right.

Forgive as much as you can bear.

Choose your friends wisely. They should inspire and lead you towards positive growth. If they don't, find new friends.

Not every friend or lover will stay around. That doesn't make them a regret. Learn from them and your shared time. Thank them, even if silently, for the lesson.

Try. I don't care much if you "succeed," but give anything worth doing an honest try.

Most of life is trial and error. Don't fear the errors. That's when the most learning happens.

Be heard. Your opinions are valid.

Stand up for yourself, those you love, and especially those without a voice.

Listen. People often just want to be heard. Do them the favor.

Be kind. It's so easy to reciprocate. The challenge is, in the shadowy parts of life, amongst the bitter and angry -- to still be kind.

Catch snowflakes.. and fireflies.

Don't bully. Address your insecurities.

Be a hero, even your own when necessary.

Show up. Show up for others. Show up for yourself.

Keep real, printed pictures around. I should look young and cute in the ones of me.

Be funny. People always remember the person that could make them laugh.

Eat your vegetables.

Be smart. I don't mean calculus and biology (but your mama was a bit of a nerd, so that's okay too). I mean, keep your wits about you. Be aware. Make good decisions. And when you learn something was a bad decision, be wise enough not to do it again -- unless it was a lot of fun and totally worth it.

People will fail you. Remember that you've probably failed them too.

Know where your scars came from.

Wear sunscreen.

Love won't hurt you. But people that don't know how to love will.

Dance. Anywhere and everywhere. With abandon.

Act like a child sometimes. It's good for the soul.

Remember where you started, but know it has no bearing on where you may go.

Be you. Be proud of your uniqueness.

When presented with the option, always get extra guacamole.

Very few things in this life are black and white. Don't judge the grey areas until you've lived them.

Keep your promises.

Take risks. Jump from an airplane, at least once.

Make your own rules. But be prepared to throw them out.

Be happy. Everything you need for a happy life already resides inside you.

Finally, when you have/adopt/mentor a child, write them a letter like this. Tell them that you learned to do that from your mother.

Now, I know this letter can never make up for the moments and milestones I might miss. But the one thing I do know is that I loved you enough to last a lifetime -- yours.

You may not be able to recognize it every minute of every day.. but the moment you were born, a lifetime of love arrived with you.

Each of my babies brought an abundance of love from the depths of me. More far-reaching than I'd ever imagined.

I had dreamed of you. I begged the universe for you. I wept for you. I carried you. And I loved you. Every finger and toe, down to every eyelash.

Like the marrow in your bones, my love for you will live on wherever you go.

When the birds chirp outside the window. When the fields dance in the wind. When the sky burns red before nightfall. When snow collects on frozen branches. When the stars peak through the clouds. When waves crash against the shoreline. When seeds are sown. My love is there.

Whether my time comes today, or years from now, you can find me where the wild things are.

Now go be wild things.

Love, your Mama

Grief

Grief is such an appropriate word. It feels how it sounds. The way it churns in the back of your throat -- almost from the gut. It starts to flow out with a sigh, but gets caught up and trapped at the very end.

Two years ago, June 21st was the due date for my babies. And this week, the grief has been hitting me like colossal waves. Leaving me struggling to catch my breath.

Had my first pregnancy gone as planned, I would have my little girl and little boy here. We would be celebrating their second birthdays. A big party with family, I'm sure. Tearing into gifts and eating cupcakes to their hearts' content.

They'd end up with their toys strewn about the living room. I'd have one on each knee, or laying in bed with one on each side, as I read them a goodnight story. But they'd be wired from their big day, so I'd be using my 'mom voice' to tell them to stop picking at each other or to stop giggling and go to sleep.

And damn it, it hurts that it's not that way.

I wish I could say it's gotten easier. It hasn't.

Oh, my babies... I still fall apart in the shower, drowning in thoughts of you. I choke back tears every time I see a set of twins. I have to hold my breath if I hear your names. I often find myself wrapped in a feeling of emptiness -- like the day we went home without you.

Nothing can fix a mother's grief.

I see you in your brothers, but they can't replace you, nor will they ever be burdened with that impossible task. Having them doesn't make me hurt any less. It doesn't unbreak my heart. I just love them with all the pieces I can muster.

I was forever changed the day we saw two heartbeats on that screen. And nothing could have prepared me for holding you just long enough to say goodbye.

I remember.

I remember not expecting to be able to even meet you.
I remember the nurse carefully handing each of you to me, after her amazement that you both had a heartbeat.
I remember weeping.
I remember staring down at your tiny faces and translucent skin -- still too young to open your eyes.
I remember your mouths opening as you tried so hard to keep breathing.
I remember your arms and legs squirming as I held you.
I remember the tears on your father's face.
I remember, out of nowhere, feeling a sense of calm. That I just wanted you to feel safe and loved during those minutes with me.
I remember the last time the nurse put her stethoscope to your chests, and told me you were gone.

I wanted to go with you.

Now, I do my best. I try to keep your memory alive for others. I try to share the strength that you had. I try to help other grieving parents -- so they don't feel so alone. But that day... I wanted to go.

My dear Jasper and Bodhi... I miss you. I ache for you in a way that words can never describe. You are always deep inside me -- my memories of you are as much a part of me as the marrow in my bones. I carry you with me.

Thank you for making me a mother.
Thank you for your strength to meet me -- to stay with me awhile.
Thank you for those minutes. Too short, but long enough to let me love you with all of mine.

You are never forgotten.

The Things That Shape Us

The last couple weeks have been a whirlwind of worry, a near-constant sinking feeling, and lots of tears.

Both boys needed 100% of me at the same time.

First, Paxton had his 1 year check-up. His milestones seemed to be okay. Not great, but okay. And we all know kids kind of move through them at their own pace. I, nor his pediatrician, were at all concerned.. until she noticed his head circumference. Yes, it's big. Off the charts kind of big. And it has been since birth. But instead of plateauing along with the growth chart, his just kept a steadily increasing line. So, to be safe, she ordered an MRI to check for any fluid or pressure on the brain. She informed me that because of his age, he would have to be put under to get clear images.

My heart sank.

It was scheduled for last Wednesday (3/23).

While waiting for the MRI appointment to come, Greyson had his one month check-up. Pediatrician was concerned about head shape. She had been early on with Paxton too, but instead of just sending us to a specialist for a physical exam, she ordered a CT scan. This indicated to me that she was more concerned than she was with Paxton at the same age. She specifically wanted to check for craniosynostosis (premature fusing of one or more of the skull plates).

As we left that appointment, I let it all show. All my fear. My despair. My overwhelming feeling that enough was enough.

Every emotion was boiling up inside of me.. from the mundane to the extreme. "We can't afford this. We're living basically paycheck to paycheck. MRIs. Neurologists. And what if something is wrong? What if they need surgeries? How far can we travel? You don't have any vacation time. And we can't lose a paycheck. What if something is seriously wrong? These are my boys. My baby boys. They need the best.. but how?"

Then, I got mad. At everything. At the universe.

I cried to Brad, "TWO of our babies died in my arms. Isn't that ENOUGH?! I can't do this. I can't deal with this. They HAVE to be okay!"

And I knew he understood exactly what I was feeling. But the truth is.. I can do this. And I have to deal with it. Nobody else can do it for me.

When your babies need you.. you can do a lot more, and survive a lot more, than you ever knew was possible.

So, first, the MRI.

We were told Paxton could not eat after midnight before the MRI, and the MRI wasn't until 10am or so. So, we were immediately worried about how he would cope with just that. He's a huge breakfast eater, after all. But, he actually did just fine.. with lots of water and apple juice at 7am.

Because of flu restrictions, one of us had to keep Greyson in a waiting area, so only one of us could go back to the prep area with Paxton. It was me. They went through a pile of questions as they had me change him into a gown. Then we waited for anesthesia to come and talk to me and explain each step, risks, how he would likely be when he woke up, and so on.

I felt gutted as I was signing the consent forms. Yes, I know driving the car is actually far more dangerous statistically. But there is no logic when you know you're signing up for an added risk. But, I knew it had to be done.

They allowed me to go back with him while he was sedated. First they put a mask on. He didn't fight it at all. He just looked at me with his big eyes. Staring at me for reassurance. And after a few breaths, he was asleep. They had me kiss him and walk out before they placed the IV.

I headed to the waiting room where Brad was sitting with Greyson. I started to tear up as I explained what it felt like to watch him being put under. Had the waiting room been empty, I'm fairly sure I would have been sobbing. Luckily, it wasn't, so I just took a few deep breaths.

We waited a little over an hour. They came and told me he was waking up. So, I started walking back, expecting his eyes to be open, or at least rustling around in the bed.

Instead, I walked into a dark room, his head was tilted back in a very unnatural position, his eyes were closed, sheets covering his entire body and neck, and the only lighting in the room was the glow from the monitors and a dim light behind his bed. It almost stopped me in my tracks. He looked.. gone. And I was not prepared.

So I stared at the monitors. Watching his heart rate to reassure myself he was alive. The nurse was talking to me, but I was just glancing back and forth between the monitor and his face. Finally, it sunk in that she wanted me to start talking to him.

I started to say his name, and told him that he did so well. His heart rate would climb every time I spoke to him. My baby boy was in there, and he knew his mother's voice. <3

He woke up gradually, but perfectly. They warned me that some kids will scream, cry, have tantrums, etc. Many also get sick when they try to drink or eat after waking. Paxton was chill as always. Woke up, and started sucking down apple juice like no tomorrow. No sign of nausea at all.

So, we were off.

And literally as we were leaving Riley, we got a call that Greyson's CT was scheduled for April 1st, and then we were going to meet with a neurosurgeon at Riley on April 8th. Clearly, my pediatrician was concerned enough to schedule both. I didn't even get a full car ride to process the MRI before I had to worry about the CT for my other child.

So while waiting on the MRI results (we were told it would be 3-4 days), much against common sense, I began to Google everything craniosynostosis. I had briefly researched it when they were worried about Paxton's head shape, but it was a casual look at best. This time, I was bookmarking information, searching for specialists, joining support groups to ask questions. Full panic mode.

By Monday, I was in a downward spiral. Convinced one child would need skull surgery and worried the other was going to have bad MRI results.

Then, on Tuesday morning, I got a call from Riley saying they had a cancellation if we'd like to come in early for Greyson's neuro consult. "We have an opening on the 30th." ("That's tomorrow," I thought to myself.) I informed them the CT wasn't scheduled til the first, so that wouldn't work. Well, their nurse got on the phone and got the scann
 moved up to that day. I literally had three hours notice to get showered, the kids fed, fit in naps, and off we went.

As I walked in with the double stroller, the tech looked a mix of puzzled and amused. "Soooo this one is 5 weeks. How old is this guy?" "Almost 13 months," I replied. She gave me a smirk. "Girrrrlllll. Do you ever sleep?"

One of the staff members occupied Paxton in the hallway while I stayed with Greyson. As the tech was handing me the vest, "Any chance you could be pregnant?" she giggled. Noooooope. I got all vested up and stood by him. But, he didn't need me. He actually started to fall asleep when the machine got loud.

They told me a doctor had to make/review the disk of images, but that they could be picked up later. They would call when it was ready.

A couple hours passed. I spent most of that time pondering if I should try to look at the images when I got the disk. Even if it loaded on my computer, would I have any idea what I was looking at? Would I just worry more?

They finally called, said the disk was ready at the front desk, and then she ended the call with, "Good luck."

Whyyyyyyyyyy did she say that? I immediately was reading into it. "She KNOWS something is wrong. Otherwise she would have just told me to have a nice night."

So, when Brad got home with the disk, I popped it in my laptop. Yes, it opened. No, I didn't know what the hell I was looking at. Yes, some sutures were really obvious and open. Soft spot was there. But clearly, I would have no idea if one suture was fine while another was just starting to fuse. So I closed the computer and tried to make peace with waiting one more day to find out if my littlest was going to need surgery.

As we finished dinner, we got yet another phone call. It was Paxton's pediatrician. She was calling at 7pm, and wanted to be put on speaker phone so we both could hear. "The MRI results came in."

My stomach twisted into a million knots.

"Well, he doesn't have any fluid or pressure going on. That's the good news."

... I hung my head.

"But there are some areas of concern. The MRI did show spots of scar tissue, and evidence of a bleed or stroke."

Tears started to fill my eyes.. This has to be a mistake.

I think she knew my short answers were indicative of me falling apart silently, so she was quick to then reassure us, "I know this all sounds really scary. But I talked to a neurologist at Riley because I didn't understand the results when they arrived, and I wanted to be able to answer your questions. They said these look like old trauma, possibly from birth. (Paxton had coded right after birth) And the reality is that lots of kids may have this, and never get scanned, because they happen to have a smaller head size. Kids brains are able to compensate even better than adults. He may have no issues whatsoever."

We asked a few questions, but since she's just his pediatrician, we knew more complex questions would have to wait. The gist was that there are "small" areas of damage. We don't know if or when we might see any fallout from it. And for now, it's just keeping an eye on him and doing some blood work to make sure there are no clotting issues that would indicate any clotting disorders or risks for stroke.

But before we got off the phone, she noticed Grey's CT results from earlier in the day were in the system. So she opened the report. "No signs of craniosynostosis."

I asked her to read it again.

"I promise. It says he's fine."

I felt torn. Such relief about Grey (though I still wanted the neurosurgeon to confirm), while just starting to process everything with Paxton.

As parents do, we started to assess our own guilt. Brad started to wonder if he passed on a clotting issue, since his mother died from a stroke in her 50s. I began to wonder if I had passed a clot or became too dehydrated prior to birth. What if I hadn't gotten an epidural and pushing went faster?

The what ifs are a flood of self-torture. I tried to quickly quiet those voices.

I began to read up on infant stroke and brain damage during birth. I was surprised to find out that the highest risk for stroke in your lifetime is actually at or near birth. Even without a 'traumatic birth,' just the act of being born is a cause. They estimate it happens to 1 in 3000 to 4000 births. But since many are never tested, it's hard to know for sure.

Then I started diving into all the negative outcomes. More likely to have ADHD, cerebral palsy, seizures... I had to stop. Well, first, I had to break down. Bawl my eyes out. Then, I had to stop.

So, today, we went to Riley with a mix of a bazillion emotions. Part of me still fearing the radiologist was wrong. The other, overwhelmed with the news about Paxton.

I half-jokingly told Brad, "If I start crying, I wonder if she'll look at Paxton's MRI for us.."

I knew she was a surgeon, not a neurologist, but since the specialties overlap, I knew she'd be more adept at reading the results than our pediatrician.

Well, I didn't cry...

Instead, when she asked about family history, I added, "And we just got the MRI results for our other son. We're not sure what to make of it, but it's not great."

"Where was it done?"

"Here at Riley."

"Oh, I'll take a quick peek when I look at Greyson's CT scan."

I didn't tell her we saw the CT results. I wanted her to confirm without any bias. Sure enough, she came back with, "Well, this little guy has no serious problems. Looks like he just prefers to lay on one side, so we'll just watch him and check up in 3 months."

And I wasn't expecting much about Pax, since it was Greyson's appointment, but she did say this: "I did look at the MRI. There's nothing that would require surgery. Nothing I'd get too excited about" (such a surgeon thing to say). She then added, "It shows specks that are underdeveloped," as she held up her hands to gesture that something was tiny, by holding her thumb and finger together as if holding something the size of a Tic Tac. "Really, nothing I'd worry too much about."

And that was it. I knew I'd have to save my questions about long-lasting impact for a neurologist. And I couldn't help but notice she said "specks." So, are these areas smaller than I imagined? And I was reassured, somewhat, that a 'brain' person acted as if she wouldn't worry. But it will be a couple weeks until we can get ALL the details and questions answered.

In the meantime, I'm trying to stay positive. Grey, as of right now, seems to be just fine. Paxton, is standing, playing, giggling, and as of tonight.. learning to use a spoon.

Of course I wonder about the future. And how I'll have to remind myself that even if he is slow to talk, or bad at math, that may just be WHO he is.. and in no way related to any damage.

So, for now, I'll do my job. And my job is to worry.. and to love.

I'm exceeding at both.