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.