California

If anyone has experienced the loss of a child (or anyone, for that matter), then you know that your house suddenly becomes filled with people afterwards.  Some of them bring food, some bring miscellaneous items that you haven't braved the world yet to get yourself, and some of them simply bring words.  Everyone means well, and sometimes it helps to have a house full of people coming and going, showing their support.

But here's what happened to me when I came home:

I had edema. While I had this infection in the hospital, they poured IV fluids in me and I barely had any output, and this is coming from a girl who spends half of her life peeing.  The edema was so bad I couldn't walk anywhere - it took my husband and pastor to just get me into the house.  My poor husband had to help me on and off the toilet, give me showers, and lend me his shoes because mine wouldn't fit.  So when people came over, they saw a bloated, immobile version of me.  That is, when I actually made my way downstairs to see them. 

Our kitchen was in the middle of a drastic remodel when I was admitted to the hospital.  We had been remodeling the house in anticipation for two bouncing boys coming home in April. Words cannot do it justice, so...

Yeeeaaah.  Everything that was in the kitchen was down in our family room, everything that was in the living room and dining room was huddled in a corner, covered in plastic tarps to protect it from the drywall dusting flying around, and various items were thrown into my office and our master bedroom.  And that's what we came home to. So people came over with nowhere to sit, dust flying in the air, and nowhere to put the food that they brought over. My husband buried himself into home renovations as soon as we came home, telling his mom that he felt like a "jackass" for bringing me home to that.  I never blamed him.  For what its worth, it is a beautiful kitchen now.  

Our kitchen afterwards - but this didn't get done for weeks, after we returned from California.

I also didn't really feel like having people over at the house.  People would say that they just wanted to come and see me, sit down, and listen or cry with me.  But in reality, I felt like I had to entertain them.  I was speechless.  I was sick.  I was hurting.  I didn't have anything for these people who came over, not even words.  I hate crying in front of people.  The trains of people coming over proved to just be too much, and the day after the boys' memorial Tim and I headed out to Huntington Beach.  

We were in the middle of planning a vacation to Hawaii, and we were set to go in the summer of 2015 right after the boys' first birthday.  We imagined them running up to the water, screaming in delight at the waves lapping over their feet.  I saw two little boys making castles in the sand with their daddy while I scrambled to get them covered in sunblock for the third time that day.  I was excited for the pictures that would entertain our walls with beautiful Hawaiian sunsets in the background and our family of four posed elegantly in front of it.  When the boys died, Tim and I needed time to ourselves to talk about them and just be together.  Hawaii proved to be to hurtful to venture to just yet, so we made our way to California to listen and watch the waves that we once imagined our boys would play in.  

On the plane ride to the west coast, I read books about people and their near death experiences ("Proof of Heaven" by Dr. Eben Alexander being my favorite).  I was desperate for comfort, and I willed myself to sink into the fact that my babies were (are) in a better place.  But really... what better places can they be in than in my belly or in my arms?  

I thought about my new camera that Tim had gotten me for Christmas, one I had dubbed my "mommy camera" because I planned on using it on my babies everyday.  Instead, I was using it for a trip that was supposed to help me heal from their untimely deaths. It seemed wrong to use the camera in the first place.  I had done tons of research and played with many different cameras in many different stores until I knew exactly which one would capture our precious memories with our boys the best. And now, here it was, this camera that I had wanted so badly, and it never took one single picture of my babies. 

We hopped off the plane in California, tearing off our winter hoodies and coats.  Then we made our way to this monstrosity, the Hyatt Regency in Huntington Beach.  The lady at the front desk gave us a map to get to our room, and told us we needed to take the "lift."  Wow.  Fancy. This place seriously needs its own zip code. 

top three pictures taken from the Hyatt

On the way to our room, after getting off  "the lift"

Twin dolphins at the resort, near Twin Dolphin Drive.  In happier times, I would have loved the irony. 

So, what exactly do two mourning parents do when they reach the beach?  They write their babies' names in the sand.  They collect seashells to bring back for their boys to put in their nursery.  They talk about what it would be like to bring them here, if they had survived.  To everyone else walking along the Pacific coast, we looked like a normal couple strolling along the beach, frantically trying to avoid the cold January waves from reaching our feet.  But we knew better.  We were not a normal couple. Conner and Benjamin would never step foot in the ocean or feel the warm sand between their toes.  We had to show them the world through our eyes.  

My favorite shells - they were still stuck together, so I kept calling them my twin shells.  I was even more ecstatic when I found an identical pair further along the beach.  There are four mason jars full of shells currently sitting in the twins' nursery.

This was the first trip we have ever taken without an agenda.  When we arrived in Orange County, we decided to rent a car at the last minute (and you should have seen Tim's face when they handed him the keys to a brand new Dodge Charger).  This meant that we could pretty much do whatever we wanted, so we headed to San Diego to see the USS Midway Museum. The drive to San Diego was therapeutic.  We raced along the Pacific Coast Highway, windows down and the ocean to our right.  We found a country station on the radio and listened to each song, somehow connecting them to our boys.  When we finally parked in San Diego, I was immediately tensed.  But, one step out of the car and I was enamored with the sight of an authentic warship.  We are both history junkies, and I have to admit that I started enjoying myself.  It didn't take long for me to check my emotions and feel guilty.  I felt like a bad mama for enjoying the sunshine and warm weather, holding my husband's hand as we walked through the gigantic aircraft carrier.  

The USS Midway

Help me!  I just realized I can't fly a freaking plane. 

Obviously, I must check to see if my partner is OK.

"Hey Tim, do an Air Force One impression!"

Alright, this is only interesting to a few people (me, me, and me), but this helicopter Tim is standing by rescued Apollo 8, 10, 11, 12, and 13 when the command modules splashed down into the ocean. 

The whole trip was confusing for me.  We talked about Conner and Benjamin the whole time, sometimes laughing at what we thought they would be like, and other times lost in our misery.  We sat around fires at night, blocking out the faint noise of the resort and staring at the dancing flames.  I wished my boys could feel its warmth.  On our last night in California, we made a bonfire on the beach and stared out into the black ocean, wondering why we were here in the first place.  Why weren't we home, feeling our baby boys kick after dinner?  Why wasn't I cleaning out our guest room, making way for the nursery that I had spent so much time designing?  I thought that I would feel closer to the boys when we went to the ocean, but I really couldn't wait to go home.  I wanted to kiss their urn, climb into bed, and cry in the familiarity that only home can provide.  

Leaving California, onward to freezing temperatures and icy sidewalks in Illinois

I left California, looking forward to going home but also dreading what we were coming home to. I wish I could say we came back feeling better or more at peace.  But everyday that passes, I realize that "feeling better" and "being at peace" are not phrases or feelings that are possible for parents who have lost children. I am infinitely different than I was before.  There is now life before January 10th, 2014 and life after January 10th, 2014.  I can only put one foot forward and keep taking baby steps towards my new normal, and hope that this new normalcy includes some sort of joy.  The ocean holds new meaning for me now.  It was once where Tim and I spent our honeymoon, cruising and enjoying our newlywed status.  It was where we spent our babymoon, seemingly our last trip before we committed ourselves to fertility treatments.  It was where we imagined we would bring our sons every year, a whole new tradition for our family.  But now the ocean reminds me only of what could have been, or more accurately, what should be. 

Conner and Ben's personalities

picture via Etsy

Oh, boys - my heart didn't realize how badly I wanted rowdy little boys running around the house until I held Conner and Benjamin.  Now I find myself doing laundry and wishing I had miniature grass-stained jeans and shirts caked with mud to wash.  My whole life, I thought my first child would be a girl.  I never imagined my first born being a tiny little man.  I wanted to dress my little girl in dresses and headbands, get pedicures with her and have imaginary tea parties.  So imagine my surprise when the ultrasound tech found not one, but TWO little fire hoses attached to my babies, floating around their saltwater sacs.  Hhhmmm... so no pedicures, huh?  What was I going to do with two boys?  Would they even LIKE me???

And then they were born.  As soon as I held each of them, I realized I was meant to be a mama to boys. How silly I was to even want a girl.  Girls, yuck.  My little men were and are my whole world.  Tim used to joke that they would be mama's boys.  Probably.  But we'll never really know now.

My baby boys never opened their eyes and never spoke a word.  Because they were born 17.5 weeks too soon, we were only given a couple of hours with them before they passed away.  Before they were born, we would often joke about what our little boys would be like.  We would laugh when we thought about little boys running around in their baby carhartt overalls, trying to help daddy fix something in the house.  They would probably like cookies way too much, and help each other reach forbidden items that we thought we had placed out of their reach.  They would get excited over fire trucks and tools, love NASCAR, and play soccer and hockey like their daddy. One of them would go into the trades like his daddy, and maybe the other one would go to college and excel in academics only to land a job that he never thought he wanted but ultimately suited his personality- like his mama.

Obviously, this is all in my imagination.

I am a full believer that babies, even in-utero, have distinct personalities that stick with them throughout their lives.  Psychological studies have shown that young infant temperaments are often indicative of their adult personalities.  Laid back babies tend to be laid back adults.  Hyper babies tend to be active adults.  But, when your babies are born 17.5 weeks before they are due, all you can do is take the little experiences you had with them and somehow transpose this into what their personalities are, or would have been.

Conner and Benjamin were best buddies.  Obviously, they didn't have many options in the womb. I mean, it was either their brother or my kidneys. Even little kids often choose their neighbors as their best friends.  But I like to believe that regardless of all this, they still would have picked each other.  We've had countless ultrasounds (one of the perks of carrying two).  One ultrasound sticks out in my memory - we were probably about 10 weeks along.  Little baby B was moving furiously, almost like he was waving to us.  Scanning over to baby A, it was almost like a mirror image. Panning out, we could see both babies swimming away, awakened by the high frequency waves the ultrasound uses to make its images.  And then, in the exact same second, both of my little babies stopped. Their heart rate slowed a bit.  They were asleep.  Just like that - awake, then asleep at the same time.   It was like they were responding to each other's movements.  I could almost hear them - "hey buddy, let's catch some zzzz's before we make mom throw up later."

There were times I would gaze down at my increasingly large belly, and it would be lopsided.  They like to hang out on my right side.  You would think I would be making this up, except an ultrasound once picked up on both of them crowded on my right side, smashed together like two peas.  Most of the time, they laid opposite of each other, with one boy's feet near his brother's face and vice versa.  It was only before I delivered that we got one last ultrasound - and they were both breech.  Their little heads were next to each other, and I like to think that little baby A flipped around to be nearer to his brother, maybe to comfort one another in their final days.

Fraternal twins, best buddies - but different personalities.

Conner Timothy

Little baby Conner was our baby A.  I would always think he was the most laid back of the two.  He didn't kick as much as his brother did.  But, we found out that he had an anterior placenta when I was admitted to the hospital.  That meant that this little guy had to kick harder and move more than his brother did for me to feel him - so in retrospect, maybe he was the stronger of the two.  We have ONE video where I taped my little boys moving.  I recorded minutes of my belly, seemingly quiet, only to catch one tiny kick in my lower abdomen.  The whole time I recorded, I felt movement from both babies.  But, it was so early that it was hard to see this movement manifest itself into something as concrete as a change in the landscape of my stomach.  I think - think- that this one kick I treasure on video might have been Conner.  He filled up the left side of my belly, but he liked to put a lot of pressure on my bladder.  The ultrasound tech at our 20 week scan commented on how far his head was into my cervix. It wasn't a big deal, just uncomfortable for mama. He had me peeing about 10 times in the middle of the night, but this mama didn't mind.  

When he was born, he took a few breaths, like his brother.  But, unlike Benjamin, Conner hiccuped.  Twice. I remember him making this precious noise while Tim held him, while Tim remembers him doing it again while he was laying on my chest.  He is the only baby whose hand I made wrap around my finger.  For some reason, while I was holding him I thought, "this is what babies do.  They hold their mommy's hand."  So, I took his little hand and curled it around my finger. He stuck his little tongue out at us, and this shows in almost every picture we have of him. His little gesture had his daddy and I laughing - the only time I remember laughing while we held them, waiting for them to pass.  He looks just like me, but may have had his daddy's eyes.  If Conner isn't my kid, I'm not sure who could be.  

In my imagination, Conner is the stronger of the two boys.  He has blue eyes like his daddy, but all his other traits screams that he is mine from his hair to his tongue. He is not bossy, but he does take charge.  I see myself getting their baths ready, with Benjamin next to me calling for his brother to get into the tub.  Conner needs to be told what to do, but he not because he is a bad child - because he is independent.  His love of orange juice in the womb has dissipated, and he has taken a liking to peanut butter instead (like his mama, he eats it by the spoonful).  He gets into the most messes and leaves dirt piles in his wake.  He is his father's boy, for sure.  I imagine the song "Anything Like Me" by Brad Paisley is Conner's song. As I write this, I am playing it in my head... "I can see him right now, knees all skinned up, with a magnifying glass trying to melt the Tonka truck..."  He watches out for his brother but sometimes steals pacifiers out his mouth, or, when they are older, toys out of his hands.  He is the more laid back of the two while also being the most active. He loves his bedtime stories but hates bedtime, loves his baths but loves being dirty even more, and sticks his tongue out at me every time he is being silly or has done something naughty.  

Benjamin Michael

Benjamin is our little baby B.  Since Conner's placenta was anterior, most of the movements I felt (and thus, Tim felt) were from the right side of my belly - Benjamin.  Something told me that baby B's name had to be Benjamin, and not baby A.  I could imagine myself yelling for my little Ben to come over to me throughout the house (while baby A remained nameless until the day I was admitted to the hospital).  We had named picked out before we were even married (Conner's name being on that list).  Benjamin's was picked out seemingly last minute, just weeks before I gave birth.  It was a strong name for a boy who did somersaults every evening after I ate dinner.  He had the advantage over his brother by being able to feel when we nudged at him (gently) to try and elicit a response.  I had read that babies would react in the womb if they were, well, poked. They weren't kidding - this kid kicked every time we nudged the right side of my belly while I was in the hospital.  I'm pretty sure he almost kicked the monitor off my belly the night I was admitted.  That one kick had me, Tim, and the nurse laughing.  He was almost always breech, proving to the world that he was going to do things his own way (and also that he did know which side was up).  Conner would crowd in his space, trying to get closer to him - or trying to take up some prime real estate. 

He is our little guy whose water may have started leaking in the middle of the night the day they were born. He is our little boy who came out with a bruised left eye and whose hand always found its way to his face. I remember thinking that Benjamin needed me more.  My heart ached for him. He looked like a thinker, his little brow furrowed as if in deep thought (and his hand over his chin adds to this theory). He was a quiet little guy;almost contemplative.  He proved me quite wrong; I thought he would be the little one making the cute noises.  He liked to hide himself by resting his head into his shoulder, face partially hidden into the hospital blankets.  Benjamin proved to be a fighter, just like his brother. He passed in Tim's arms, and I didn't know this until much afterwards.  He, like his brother, looks like me, but every time I look at his pictures, I think of his daddy. There is something about his expression stating that Benjamin is Tim's son.

Benjamin - is that you?

via wikipedia

I imagine Ben as being a mama's boy.  His traits are a mixture of mine and Tim's.  He is the little boy who is fascinated with the things around him, but instead of declaring it to the world he asks me quietly what certain things are.  We visit daddy at the fire department and Ben climbs all over the fire truck with Conner, but ultimately ends up at my side when he is done.  Conner takes a toy he was playing with, and Ben whines until Conner gives it back.  But, Conner always gives it back.  After all - who could say no to Ben's precious little face?  Not this girl.  He likes to play with his brother, and they make a great team.  But, Benjamin likes to do other things on his own - learn to read, put his toys away, or help mama get the bath ready.  He is the little boy who waits at the window with his dog, Miranda, for daddy to come home.  He calls for Conner when he sees Tim pull into the driveway.  Benjamin is finicky about food,  loves bath time and being tucked in, and sneaks out of the room he shares with his brother to snuggle into bed with mama. 

I have no idea if any of what I wrote about their personalities is true.  I haven't been given the chance to find out.  I get tears in my eyes every time I think of what they would have been like.  I know I would have loved them endlessly, regardless of what their personalities were like.  I DO love them endlessly - to the moon and back.  

Dear winter....

photo via society6

I know the whole country is freezing  - with a few exceptions (Southern California, you buttholes).  I am aware that even the south is freaking out over ice storms, and that states of the more northerly latitude are colder than Chicago.  But seriously, I went outside today in 35 degree weather and I was WARM.  More specifically, it was the didn't-need-my-jacket kind of warm. That's not normal.  I only feel warm because its not negative 40 degrees outside.  Just last week, my husband and I walked outside in 15 degree weather and I swear I almost stripped naked from the heat.    Winter, you are an asshole. You are pissing me off.  I shouldn't be liking 35 degree weather.  Plus, now that its "warm" out, the snow and ice are melting and creating flooding in the streets and leaks in my office window. More importantly, winter, you remind me that my boys were here much too soon.

Conner and Benjamin's due date is May 12, 2014.  Twins are routinely delivered via c-section at the 37 week mark, which would have been April 21, 2014.  My OB explained that most women carrying twins make it to 35 or 36 weeks, which meant that Conner and Benjamin would most likely be coming in the middle of April.  I was looking forward to the trees starting to turn green, warmer breezes, and barbecues for their birthdays. Every time I see the snow, I am constantly reminded that they shouldn't have been here yet.  I walk down the stairs and see their pictures hanging delicately on our walls, and I think two things simultaneously: they are amazingly beautiful and we shouldn't have any pictures of them yet - not until April.

I have the unfortunate luck of also having a January birthday.  I never wanted that for my children.  January in Chicago blows.  The Christmas lights are down, leaving buildings and houses stripped from their festive colors and inviting entrances.  It is one of the coldest months of the year, and no one wants to do shit during January.  Getting people to go out for your birthday isn't easy when you have to plan around ice, snow, cold, and car accidents.  This year, Lake Michigan is almost completely frozen over its surface, camouflaging itself like a snowy white field instead of one of the biggest freshwater sources in the world.  

Um, are those tracks in the snow? 

photo via bearkillers

I wanted my kids to have fun backyard birthdays with lots of games and food and people sitting around enjoying the weather.  So when we found out the boys' due date, I was so happy.  It wasn't quite summer, but spring would be warm enough to meet all my criteria for hosting big birthday parties.  Now I look out the window and and reminded that they were born during one of the coldest weeks of the year, just after one of the coldest days in Chicago history. Poor babies.  Haven't they been through enough?  I remember our boys when the funeral home came to pick them up from the hospital.  We laid them down in a basket filled with blankets that one of the nurses had found.  Even though the boys were swaddled tightly together, we threw another fleece blanket on top of them to keep them warm.  I knew that they weren't really in their bodies, but I couldn't let my boys go out in that frigid cold. 

Most people are familiar with Kubler Ross' five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  I agree that most people going through the loss of their child(ren) go through these feelings, but definitely not in stages.  I feel those stages on a daily basis, all at once, and there are no words or drugs to help me get through them. They are overwhelming and all-consuming.  I'll take a vodka with a chaser of straight-jacket, thank you. 

1. Denial - thinking that maybe I'll wake up the next morning, and I'll still be pregnant.  Today would be week 28 of pregnancy, they would have weighed over two pounds, and would have been able to see around the womb.  The websites say that they would have had eyelashes by now - but they did at 22.5 weeks when they were born.  Conner had my short straight lashes and Benjamin's lashed curled like his daddy's. 
2. Anger - 24/7.  I hate everything everyone says, even when their hearts are in the right place. No one says the right thing.  Everyone is moving on with their lives, and mine has stopped.  How could that be?  Anger is probably the most overwhelming emotion I have been feeling lately.  
3. Bargaining - My life for theirs, God.  Please?
4. Depression - tears are in my eyes all the time.  Everything makes me sad, from walking into their nursery to doing the laundry.  I'll never see them playing in their nursery; I'll never get to wash their clothes.  
5. Acceptance - NEVER. 

The day after birth

Me with my boys, right after they were born.  Yes, I am a mess.  But aren't they beautiful?

It's taken me a long time to get to this post.  The day after the boys were born was the last full day and last night we would get with our baby boys before the funeral home came to pick them up.  The boys were born 5 weeks ago today, and that weekend was the longest and fastest weekend of my life. This morning, I woke up imagining myself in heaven and my little boys running towards me, yelling in delight for their mommy.  I played that over and over again in my head until I couldn't take it anymore.  Heaven is much too far away right now.

The hospital lets parents keep their babies until they are discharged. Because I had an infection, they kept me until Sunday. This meant that we had two nights to spend with our babies. If you have never lost a baby before, this sounds incredibly morbid. But if you have lost a baby before, then this is completely normal (motherly, even). I knew that their souls were no longer in their bodies, but I had to have this time with them. I am so glad we did. I am constantly reminded that every day that passes is one day farther away from the last time I held them, kissed them, smelled them, and marveled in their beautiful faces.

Saturday, January 11th:

When I was pregnant, I read blogs of mothers of twins online. It always got me so excited to have twins, because I couldn't wait to see how both of my boys interacted with each other and what their differences and similarities were. I imagined that we would have two little boys who were complete opposites in personality but were still best friends who always wanted to be with the other. I imagined the two of them stealing pacifiers out of each other’s mouths, but then giving it back when the other one cried. I imagined them  laughing at each other for absolutely nothing, or laughing at each other when they were rolling balls back and forth. I couldn't wait to capture every single moment of it. One of the blogs said that when her twins were born, their daddy requested that their footprints go into his Bible. I loved the idea. I asked Tim if someone would get us Bibles so we could do the same. Your grandparents went out and bought two big Bibles for boys that your father and I read to them at night now. They also bought tiny white Bibles for babies. We put both of their footprints in our Bibles, and Conner’s in his little white Bible and Benjamin’s in his little white Bible. We stare at those footprints every night. I can’t believe those were the same little feet that had been kicking at me for 22.5 weeks. What an absolute miracle. All of this, and I am just now realizing how powerful it is to be pregnant and what it really means. I was made for this. I was made to have my baby boys.

I have to say this was probably the day that I marveled in their sizes. 1 pound, 2 ounces each -  Conner at 11.5 inches, Benjamin at a stocky 11 inches. Ben would have had his daddy's build. No one thought they would be so big. Pre-pregnancy, I was 103 pounds at just a couple inches over five feet. I was at this point where I was so disgusted with my body over the fact that it gave pre-term birth to my boys, leading to their deaths. But at the same time, I was so proud. They were both so big! They were eating well. My body fed them. And then, when we got home, I immediately lost all the weight and then some. It was like proof that my body had put them first during the pregnancy and fed them before me.  I have to say that I am glad about that. My big boys - I get offended when someone says you were so small. I correct them. I’m probably not very nice about it, but I don’t care. You were big. You looked healthy. Sometimes that makes this whole process harder to accept.

Saturday night I finally managed to convince myself that I indeed looked like a homeless woman searching for her lost, imaginary sheep. Pregnancy meant that my acne had blown up, especially since there were not many safe topical creams to use during pregnancy. Right before I got admitted to the hospital, I had this rare and stupid idea that I did not need to blow dry my hair. When that happens, my frizzball head makes me look like an awkward teenager of the 90’s. My lips were chapped from the dry hospital air. I had a look on my face that was neither alert nor sleepy; more like empty. I was swollen from all the fluids that had been pumped into me that my stubborn body refused to give up. I had a rash ranging from my neck to my calves. Plus, I had been in active labor for about 40 hours so I had literally been sitting in my own pee, amniotic fluids, blood, and other bodily fluids. Tim said I didn’t smell but maybe that was because he didn’t notice above his own stink from coming straight from the fire department to the hospital days before. I asked the nurse if I could shower. It was one of those showers with a seat in it, and the nurse had set down tons of towels for me to sit on, and it turns out, bleed on. The water felt good against my skin. I had a hard time bathing myself and wanted to ask your father to help me but I did not want the boys to be left alone. So I insisted he stay with the boys and I clumsily tried to wash the remnants of a four day hospital stay off of me. Besides, I wanted pictures with my boys in which I didn’t look like a mad woman off her meds. 

That night, after reading to them from their Bibles, I slept with little Benjamin next to me since Conner was next to me the night before. My left hand was wrapped around Conner, my left arms gently placed over both of them. My right arm was underneath them. I didn’t want them to be scared the next day when we had to part ways, so through tears I explained what would happen to them. I told the boys that tomorrow, they would both be leaving the hospital with some people they didn’t know. They would both become ashes, but they would do this together. I explained that we didn’t want to bury them and that their ashes would be spread with me and their daddy’s ashes someday. Until then, they would stay with us at home. I knew I would guard them with my life. And I explained that I would try my hardest to have the process done as quickly as possible, and that mommy and daddy would come back for them as soon as we could. I explained this to them again on Sunday, because I wanted to make sure they understood we were not abandoning them. I could see what time was doing to their beautiful little bodies and I wanted the cremation done as soon as possible. My baby boys – I never expected such perfection from them. I’m not sure why. I shouldn’t have expected less. I just didn’t realize how much I could really love someone until I looked at both of them. I am still speechless every time I look at pictures of them both.

Something happened that night that had also happened Friday night while I tried to sleep with them both next to me. I had my left arm around both of them, and it was like my arm was slightly rising and falling as a result of them both breathing. I knew they weren’t. But I thought maybe they were both trying to send me a sign. Maybe I was delusional from the drugs, lack of sleep, lack of food, and/or infection. But maybe, just maybe… they were trying to tell me they were ok. I’ve been waiting for a sign from both of them telling me they are ok. I think I’ve had some, but nothing that is a blatant sign that I cannot ignore. I told them both that neither of them owed me anything.

But, baby boys, if you could just tell me you’re ok every once in awhile, mommy would be so happy.

I had been crying so much I had something wrong with my eyes. Almost like little tear bubbles in the corners appeared overnight. The nurses wanted me to take Benadryl but I refused. I knew Benadryl made me sleepy and I absolutely refused to be in and out of it on my last full day with you. I was sleep deprived, recovering from an infection, and dealing with edema. I didn’t care. I had to be awake for this. I had to be fully in the moment. Taking care of myself could wait until we got home. But Saturday night, I did get about 6 hours of sleep. I woke up once, I’m not sure what time, and realized where I was. I had my arms wrapped around both of you. They were so still and quiet. I cried all over them again, told them I loved them, and passed out. I woke up Sunday morning, frantic. This was the day I had to say goodbye and had to hand them over to strangers. I would never hold them again.

Conner's giraffe and Benjamin's puppy that we gave them on their one day birthday, sans babies. 

I wish there was some magic ending to this post that could wrap things up.  There isn't.  I can only say that I miss my boys, and for the first time in my whole life I am ready and open to whenever God would like to take me.  I always used to feared death, but I cannot wait to see them again.  

A letter to my baby boys

I wanted something special for Conner and Benjamin's memorial, so I decided to write a few key points to our pastor. What resulted was a letter to my boys, which poured out of me uncontrollably. I ask the pastor to take what he wanted from it and incorporate it into their memorial. He called me and told me that the letter was difficult (emotionally) to read, but he wanted to read the whole thing in its entirety at their memorial. Their letter is below:

Tim and I have wanted babies before we were even married. We picked out Conner's name when we were still dating (Benjamin's name just spoke to me one day while searching for baby names during pregnancy). Everything we have done has been in preparation for them, and when we were finally blessed with a pregnancy it was the happiest we had ever been. We had wanted twins, and God gave them to us.

These boys gave us the best 22 (almost 23) weeks of our entire lives. Tim showed off every ultrasound we had of them (and there were A LOT). Every detail of their nursery and their arrival, I planned daily. Every pregnancy symptom I had was worth just having them for this short time. I am their mama and even at this young age, I know their personalities. Benjamin was our active little one, and Conner more laid back. Both of them loved orange juice (as proved by my only pregnancy craving). They were best friends, even in the womb. They reacted to each other's movements, slept and woke at the same times, and very often were scrunched up as time allowed them to be together.

I tried everything I could to avoid delivery. Multiple days of labor was the least of my pain. But when the time came, I knew it had to be. Neither one of us wanted our boys to suffer. If we had made it another two weeks, we would have had to decide whether to take extreme measures to fight for their lives, which would most likely include severe handicaps and impairments or choose to just make them comfortable. If we had made it to 24 weeks, I would have never been able to make the right decision. How do you choose to fight for your babies, but watch them suffer, or give up on them to let them go in peace?

When we delivered at 22.5 weeks, we had the obvious but difficult choice to just make them comfortable and enjoy our time with them. Both of them were fighters. Both came out breathing. I will never, ever forget watching their chests rise and fall with their little hearts beating and little lungs fighting. Conner made little hiccupping noises - the most beautiful sound I will ever hear in my life. The nurses said we could expect anything between a few minutes with them and a few hours.

Our baby boys gave us hours.

They showed us more strength and bravery than I will ever see another human being show in my life. When I held each of them for the first time, I even stopped crying. They gave me a sense of calmness in the middle of absolute chaos. Each of them were baptized in my arms right after they were born. Tim and I told them how happy they made us, how proud we were, how much we loved them, and how sorry we were. They both passed quietly, Benjamin in Tim's arms and Conner in mine. But their impact on our lives will be felt forever. They have changed us and will continue to change who we are for eternity.

I have overwhelming and extreme guilt over what has happened to them. I have apologized to them over and over and over again. I may have said "I'm sorry" almost as much as "I love you." I am their mother, and I am supposed to take care of them. I have no idea what happened. Did the infection cause pre-term labor, or did the long labor cause the infection? Does it even matter? All I know is that they owe me nothing, and I owe them everything. I will never be able to give them what was taken from them or from Tim and I, and for that I will never fully be at peace with.

I made promises to them that I will never break. First, that I would make sure their cremation was taken care of properly and quickly, and that their daddy and I would come back for their remains and not to be scared. Second, that their daddy and I would read to them from their bibles every night until the day I died no matter what the circumstance. Third and most importantly, that they will always have a mama and they will always have a daddy. If they ever, ever feel like they need anything, please show me some kind of sign to let me know and I will die trying to give them what they need. I am, after all, their mother.

The last words I told them before we left the hospital was that I loved them, and to take care of each other. I know that they will. Although our heartache is a million times deeper because we have lost not one but two sons, we are comforted knowing that they are always with each other and never alone. I asked Tim if we could use his first name for Conner's middle name, and Tim's middle name as Benjamin's middle name. I wanted them to be just like their father. And, God willing if they are, they are strong, self-less, and positive. They are every mother's dream. I like to think that they take these traits with them into heaven, and use them to support each other.

My precious baby boys, do not worry about your daddy and I. We love each other and will support each other through this. Your daddy said that he thinks your hearts might be breaking for us, but I hope that they are not. We will grieve forever, but only because we love you both so much. Every nurse that had come into our room told us that they felt how connected your father and I were and how much we loved each other, and they knew we would get each other through this. I believe that because it is true. The night you were born, your father gave a prayer and asked God that you never, ever go a day without knowing our love for each of you. Please do not ever feel like you are alone. We are always with you, and you with us.

Love you to the moon and back

Two days ago, I would have had my baby shower.  Tim and I went to the planetarium in keeping with the shower theme: Love you to the moon and back.  I wondered if the boys would love the history of NASA the way that I did, or if they would read every single thing there was to read like their daddy did.  I stared at the stars projected on the walls and ceilings, wondering what was closer to my baby boys: me, or the stars?

Yesterday, it was Conner and Benjamin's one month birthday.  We wanted to do something that they would have liked, so we went to the aquarium.  I imagined my boys next to me, eyes in wonderment at all the colorful fish, excited to touch everything they could in the water.  I saw a family with the same double stroller I bought for them (which I have not brought myself to return, even though it cost about $600).  I stared at that stroller like a lunatic.  I wonder if that family noticed.  I kept imagining pushing a stroller, heavy with two boys and over-packing, and teaching them about the multitudes of exhibits before us.

Today, I got an email updating me on my should-be pregnancy.  Conner and Benjamin's eyes would have been open today after months of being fused shut.  We never did get a chance to see whose eyes you would have, although we guess that Conner might have had Tim's and Benjamin's mine.

Baby boys, can you see us now?

So what happened?

via Etsy

I guess at this point, I should mention what brought us to the hospital on that deplorable January night.  We just recently (read: last week through my ob and yesterday through the mfm) found out that it was from chorioamnionitis.  Yeah.  Try saying that five times fast, or better yet, spelling it. I literally googled it five seconds ago just to make sure it was spelled correctly, since I always says its chorioamniocentisis (which doesn't even exist).

Chorio is estimated to affect 1 in 100 pregnancies.  It is caused by normal bacteria that resides in the vagina, and every pregnant woman is at risk for it.  There is no way to prevent this motherf'er.  Every once in awhile, this bastard makes its way up to the uterus and infects the placenta(s), making its way to the baby(ies).  Most of the time, this happens late in pregnancy.  And, most of the time, it is the result of a prolonged labor and the cervix being open for so long.  The mother gives birth, say around 37 or 38 weeks, the mother and baby are treated with antibiotics, and they are wheeled out a few days later, mother holding baby and balloons while daddy helps them into the car.

I delivered Conner and Benjamin at 22.5 weeks.  Because I was already dilated when I came in, and because I went from 2 centimeters to 10 centimeters so quickly, both my OB and my MFM believe that chorio caused me to go into labor, rather than just being a result of the labor.  Because it happened so early in my pregnancy (and would be the indirect reason why my babies died), my OB said this was a 1 in 10,000 chance this would happen.  He has only seen it happen like this a few times in his 20 years of practice.

The placenta autopsy showed that one of the babies, probably baby "B", had a moderately severe case of chorio that had even reached his umbilical cord.  The other baby, probably baby "A", had a mild case.  I say probably about the babies, because when I delivered the placentas they both came out at once and it was most likely difficult to tell whose placenta was whose.  My babies were sick.  The MFM and OB later explained to me that even if I had made it to 24 weeks (viability), they had 0% chance to survive with this infection paired with the complications of premature delivery.  Hearing this made me feel better that we made the right decision for them, but also awful - they were (are) such beautiful babies, and they fought for so long. It was incredibly painful to hear that they had no chance, regardless of how brave they were.

Everyone says that I shouldn't blame myself, and now there is pathological proof that I could not have prevented this.  Even if I came in a day earlier to the hospital, the damage was already done.  But I am their mommy.  I was supposed to carry them, help them, save them.  I would have laid down my life for them.  I didn't get that chance.  I will always feel guilt.  My body turned on them.  My body didn't carry them to term, or even to viability.  This infection didn't happen to me, it happened to them.  I will live the rest of my life owing those boys the world.

Conner and Benjamin's birth story

There is a reason why I waited to post this. I was in labor for 65 hours. It's long. It's sad. You have been warned.

I was a happy mama.  I had an uncomplicated pregnancy, but that does not mean it was uneventful.  I was sick for 16 weeks, and my baby boys were good eaters.  I lost a lot of weight in the first trimester.  I twisted my ovary (still the worst physical pain I've felt, including labor and childbirth).  But, I was HAPPY.  Little baby "A" and baby "B" were floating along in increasingly cramped quarters but were active little boys who I'm pretty sure would have made really great gymnasts or hockey players.  I was trying to be diligent of their kicks and movements, waiting patiently for those butterfly kisses that everyone says that they feel.  That is not what my boys gave me.  Roll...roll...PLOP!  They sure liked fighting for a prime piece of real estate. Even so, I could tell they were best friends.  They reacted to each other's movements and slept and woke at the same time.  We even had an ultrasound where they were kicking away... and both stopped at the exact same moment.  Two sleeping little babies, blissfully unaware of the world outside of the womb but aware of each other.  I often imagined them plotting their escape together with every powerful kick.  Two minions, eating their bananas (no joke), laughing hysterically at the fact that mama would have her hands full with two bouncing and somersaulting boys.

On Tuesday, January 7th, the day after my 29th birthday and the day after the boys turned 22 weeks old, I started feeling contractions.  Here's the thing though: who the HELL knows what a contraction feels like if you've never had them before?  I didn't.  And no freaking way was I looking for signs of preterm labor this early.  It was the start of the new year.  Their due date wasn't even until May 12. Chalking them up to round ligament pains, I slept through the night.  And just to be clear: I am the type of woman who called the doctor's office when I was pregnant when I was coughing.  Twice. It never crossed my mind these were contractions.  I watched Despicable Me 2 that night, laughing at the thought of my boys being curious little minions and wreaking havoc.

So naive in this picture, but so glad I have it - my last picture I had of me and the boys while I was still pregnant.  The chalkboard sits in their nursery, untouched and frozen in time. 

Wednesday, January 8th.  I felt contractions through the day, but sporadically. Here's what I know about contractions: the movies always show some poor sweaty woman threatening to kill her husband.  Here's what I felt: uncomfortable for five seconds.

But that night, the contractions starting getting closer together.  My best friend urged me to call the doctor. Dr. D didn't sound worried.  "Let's meet at the hospital, just in case."  No problem.  I called my husband to come home from the FD, with a plan to make him get me a smoothie on the way home.  We would be home, hop into bed, and laugh that I thought this was anything significant.

I was two centimeters dilated when we got to the hospital.  They handed me a horse pill to stop the contractions, but less than an hour later I was at a full 10 centimeters. I had already been unnerved, trying to swallow the guilt of not coming in earlier or knowing what contractions felt like.  The bitch of a resident OB told me  that I had no cervix left and it was time to move me.  That was all the information I got from her. Any questions I asked were promptly followed with, "Let's wait until Dr. D gets here." She was a robot. Absent of emotion or caring, she made me feel like a waste of her time.  Was she insane?  I was a mother on the brink of giving birth to her babies.  No one had to tell me that they weren't at the point of viability; I already knew.  But in that moment, hormones crazy and the  unacceptable happening, I wasn't thinking clearly.  Thank God my doctor was on his way.  I found out later that he rushed to the hospital, scared he wouldn't make it in time.  How wrong we were...

They wheeled me into a labor and delivery room.  Up until this point, I had been given almost zero information on what the hell was going on.  Maybe, just maybe, there was hope.  I could lay here, cervix open, until the babies were bigger and ready to come out.  It's 2014.  They can do all kinds of crazy things that used to only exist in science fiction.  But then, as I was being wheeled in, I glanced to my right and saw a baby warmer.  FUCK THAT BABY WARMER.  That stupid fucking baby warmer.  I knew what that baby warmer meant: we were going to deliver my babies.  I was hysterical.  My husband tried to calm me down, and with the lack of information we had been given I think he was still holding on to hope, too.  Here's what I learned about emotion in that moment: it is completely possible to be numb to a situation due to shock, and still feel guilt, anger, and overwhelming sadness.  When my doctor arrived, he looked distraught.  He explained that I would probably deliver that night.  My contractions were a steady at 2 minutes apart, I had dilated quickly, and nothing was going to stop it.  At this point, the contractions were worse. Way worse.  I was starting to feel like I would be one of those insane movie women.  Did I want an epidural? There was a chance, he explained, that when I got the epidural that I could break my water.  That was enough to bring clear my mind.  I had to get it together.  I was a mother.  No epidural.  I had to give these boys a chance.  

Thursday, January 9th.  No babies.  I was still having contractions, this time every 3-5 minutes.  But it seemed like my body had stalled.  Dr. D was floored.  He stayed all night, prepared to deliver.  Dr. F (my other ob - the are partners in their practice), came in.  He called the MFM in to talk to me, as they both believed I had an infection.  At that point, I had "soft markers" for infection.  It wasn't until later that day that I started to get a fever, a high heart rate, low blood pressure, and an incredibly high white blood cell count. They both decided not to play God.  I could tell they wanted to get our boys to 23 or 24 weeks.  I did, however, finally give in for the epidural.  I made Dr. F promise to stay outside the room in case my water broke.  That stuff is liquid gold.  Not only did it not cause my water to break, but it finally ceased to feel like a miniature world war was taking place in my belly.

My poor boys.  I was so terrified of making my water break, I had stopped rubbing my belly.  They loved it when I rubbed my belly.  Whenever they were kicking away furiously, I would rub my belly and it would put them to sleep. I feel so guilty - they probably wanted their mommy's comfort right then, but I just remember not wanting to move an inch in an effort to buy them more time.  By this time, Tim and I had decided to name them Conner and Benjamin.  I wasn't going to have them be born baby "A" and baby "B."  The high risk ob, Dr. Z, came in.  She explained their chances of survival.  Hospitals consider 24 weeks to be viability.  They have a chance of survival, but this is not without high risk for profound or severe disabilities.  However, at this hospital they can save about 10% of babies at 23 weeks.  Again - this is just a survival rate.  This 10% can live with seizure disorders, never walk or talk, have cerebral palsy, be blind and/or deaf, require round the clock care... the list goes on. At 22 weeks, they have no chance.  Most are too small for intubation. They would attempt to resuscitate them at our request, or we could swaddle them and make them comfortable and have them die in our arms.  

To this day, I still have no idea how I was thinking so clearly.  Maybe it was the same feeling I had when I initially denied the epidural, a motherly instinct.  I just wanted to make them comfortable and let them pass, straight from my arms to Jesus.  There would be no brain bleeds, no IVs in their head, no organ failure, no struggles to stay alive in an incubator.  We knew if we requested that they try save them, it would only add, at most, days to their life.  Those hours would be filled with pain, drugs, and isolation in a plastic world.  And for what?  So we could selfishly have more time with them?  We could never do that to them.  What if the intubation didn't even work?  We would have done ugly damage to their trachea and pained them for nothing. Dr. Z said, as a mother, she respected our decision.  It was an easy decision for me, but also the most heartbreaking.  I can't look back at this and without thinking that I gave up on my boys.  I also think if we had made the decision to try to save them, I would regret that as well.  I loved (love) my babies.  They were and still are my whole world.  I had to hand my babies over to God.  

You would think that the thought of heaven would be reassuring or relieve some of my pain, but I have to say that one most days it doesn't.  It was not their time yet.  They should have been brought home, stolen pacifiers from each other's mouths, played with their fire trucks, gotten dirty in our backyard, gone to school, graduated, gotten married... they should have done all of those things before going to heaven.  They were 22 weeks.  Their eyes were still fused shut.  They wouldn't even have a chance to see the world around them for their short time here. 

Friday, January 10th.  4:30 a.m.  Baby B's water started to leak, and the rest happened quickly. Our pastor arrived at 5:30 a.m. so that he could be there to baptize them.  Contractions got stronger and closer together.  I felt like I needed to push. By then, it was evident that I had an infection.  The babies could not survive the infection, even if I could carry them a couple weeks longer. The decision was made jointly by Dr. Z and Dr. F that they needed to break Baby A's water bag to deliver. Dr. F couldn't even look in the eye when he told me that.  I could tell it was breaking his heart to have to do this.  We knew what the end result would be.  I told the nurse I didn't want my babies cleaned before she handed them to me.  We didn't know if we had minutes or hours with them, and I wasn't going to let them take time to clean them if that was the only time we had with them.  Then it was time to push.  Our pastor cried.  We cried.  I think our doctor cried. The boys were born into a bright hospital room, full of crying people. 

Conner Timothy was born at 11:27 a.m., weighing 1 pound 2 ounces and measuring at 11.5 inches.  I cried at every push, knowing that every effort my body made to get them out into the world was the same energy that was bringing them closer to their deaths.  Tim cried and told me he looked like me, sounding like a proud daddy.  Conner came to me, swaddled and perfect.  I know I told him he was perfect, beautiful, and the best 22 weeks of my life.  I know I told him I loved him.  I know I told him how sorry I was.  He was baptized in my arms.  And then it was time to hand him to Tim so that I could deliver his brother.

Benjamin Michael was born at 11:43 a.m., also weighing 1 pound 2 ounces and measuring at 11 inches.  Tim laughed as he told me they looked exactly alike.  It wasn't until we looked at them side by side that we realized they looked nothing alike.  Benjamin looked more like a mix of both of us. I told him all the same things I told Conner, making sure that they both felt equally loved.  Benjamin was baptized, and I couldn't help thinking that God better hear this prayer and come get my babies before they struggle or suffer. I delighted in the fact that I had two sons.  I sound crazy, I know.  I knew the circumstances.  But there is no way to look at your children and feel anything but joy.  I was so proud of them.  

Conner and Benjamin both passed quietly.  Tim was holding Benjamin, watching his heart beat slower and slower until it finally stopped.  Benjamin passed first.  I didn't even get to say goodbye to him. The nurse took them over to that baby warmer that I hated so much to hear their heartbeats.  Tim quietly came over to me and told me Benjamin was gone, but Conner was still with us.  He handed Conner to me, and I sobbed quietly, then loudly, over his body.  I didn't want to know when he passed, so I didn't watch his chest.  I wanted to be saved of this agony.  I silently asked God to take him before he suffered.  Both of them had lived about 2 hours.  The whole time, I worried about what they were feeling. Their nervous systems so immature, every source of stimuli probably overloaded their tiny bodies.  They had taken a few breaths, and while it was incredible and beautiful to watch, I could not help but think how awful it was to take in such precious air only to be denied it immediately afterwards.  Their skin was thin, and the warmth of the blankets were nowhere near as warm or as soft and soothing as the womb.  The nurse and doctor said they were not suffering.  I begged to differ. 

Before they passed, Tim and I cradled our babies and told them how much they were loved.  I may have said I'm sorry as many times and I said I love you.  I stared at Benjamin's beautiful face, thinking how much he reminded me of his father.  His features were so well defined and delicate, with his little hand always reaching for his face and his head snuggled into his shoulder.  I couldn't bear to hand him to Tim, but I needed to spend time with Conner.  Conner had made a couple of noises that sounded like hiccups.  I wish I had a recording of this sound.  It was beautiful: short and sweet, but it was probably a struggle for air.  He stuck his little tongue out, almost in a playful manner.  I had always worried with IVF that there might be an embryo mix up, but if Conner wasn't my kid then I don't know who else could be. My baby boys were so brave, so strong, and so handsome. Yes, every mother thinks their babies are the best looking babies in the world.  But seriously, these boys deserve some sort of award. 

Tim, Conner, Benjamin, me

Angel babies -  we will meet again.  Mommy can't wait to hold you.  Until then, may you  never go a day without knowing my love for you.  

Ode to my ovaries

Before I starting writing about Conner and Benjamin, it only seems appropriate that I include a crash course on what happened to get us here in the first place.

Tim and I were married in September of 2011, and shortly after that we pulled the goalie an in effort to get pregnant.  We weren't necessarily trying, per se, but we weren't NOT trying.  After about a year and some months of baby dancing and peeing on sticks, nothing happened.  Something was obviously wrong with my body, otherwise the only other explanation was that I am so old and such a homebody that they have updated sex and no one has told me yet.

We went to see a reproductive specialist.  I wasn't ovulating.  In fact, my hormones were so craptastic that it was giving me false ovulation tests.  We tried four rounds of Clomid, an evil little pill that is supposed to get your ovaries to produce eggs.  Again, nothing.  No eggs = no babies.  Damn you, ovaries!  What the hell have you been doing all these years?! We were given the choice to do IUI (artificial insemination) paired with a series of shots to get my ovaries to produce eggs, or to do those series of shots but with IVF (in-vitro fertilization).  IUI had a 30% chance of working, while IVF had a 60% chance.  My ovaries, in all their polycystic glory, were good candidates for IVF.  Um, if we are going to stick needles into my abdomen everyday, let's just jump into the deep end of the pool, shall we?

So begrudgingly, I let my husband stick me with needles every night to get my ovaries to mass produce eggs. I was a chicken (in more ways than one).  I let teams of people proke and prod at me.  This reproductive team probably saw more of my vagina than my husband did.  On days he was working, I drove to whatever fire house my husband was at with my needles and drugs on the passenger seat. Might I add: we do not live anywhere near Storybrooke, Maine (or any other whimsical place that entails fairies and magic.  Where is that?  Disney World?  Hawaii?  Hooters?).  I was terrified of getting pulled over and being arrested for possession.  "Hello, officer," I would say, trying to explain that yes, these drugs were legal and that it was only a coincidence I was driving in the hood. Thankfully, that never happened. Whatever this cocktail of drugs did, it worked.

On August 24th, we transferred two of these little guys into my uterus:

Hello, Conner and Benjamin!

On August 31st, 2013, this happened:

Yes, I am holding the wrong end of the sticks, and yes, I told my dog before I told my husband that we were pregnant.

Being infertile does something to your psyche that shouldn't exist in 2013.  It takes away your sense of womanhood.  I'm not talking about something that can be fixed with burning your bras in the middle of the street and demanding equality. Your body is meant to carry babies and birth them.  And then all of a sudden, a fancy medical degree tells you that your body is not meant to do that without reproductive help.  You swim in your sadness for awhile, realize that you're exhausted of treading the water, and give in.  In my case, I was excited to get pregnant by any  means, but afterwards had this immense guilt that only a mother can have about my babies not being conceived inside me.  Regardless, once I saw my babies I knew instantly that they were perfect.  Even though they were premature and even though they are gone now, I know that they were meant to be here.  So, thank you God and thank you science for IVF (am I allowed to thank them both in the same sentence?).

Press Play

Where exactly do I begin?

On January 10th, 2014, I gave birth to two beautiful boys.  Conner Timothy was born at 11:27, weighing 1 pound, 2 ounces and measuring at 11.5 inches.  Benjamin Michael was born at 11:43, weighing 1 pound, 2 ounces and measuring at a stocky 11 inches.  They were born after just 22.5 weeks of pregnancy, victims of an infection that only had a 1 in 10,000 chance of ending their short lives.

This blog is a testament to them and their journey.  Even though my babies are no longer with me, I feel the need to have their story be heard and go on.  I am still their mother.  This blog also chronicles my experiences and struggles on trying to move forward while still remembering my sons and including them in my life everyday.  I hope that this blog will help someone who has dealt with/is dealing with neonatal loss, infertility, or the like.  Its not the club we wanted to be in, but here we are ladies.  Maybe words can heal what time cannot.

Warning: I don't believe in censorship on blogs or memoirs of any kind.  I can't possibly be truthful and open without including my streams of thought that contain sarcasm and profanity.  Babies die.  Parents grieve. It gets sad. But I do promise that we find laughter and make future plans and all kinds of lighthearted things.