Where are you, God?

So just when we think my mom is done with chemo, turns out she has 9 more weeks of toxic hell.

Also, my grandfather died.  No one has told my dad yet because of what is going on with my mom.

So, in 2014, Conner and Ben died, my mom got cancer, and my grandfather is gone.  We're not even done with this shitty year yet.

We were waiting until next week to tell our families about Baby C, since we thought my mom would be declared cancer free by then.  Nope.

We're probably going to keep this a secret until I am very, very pregnant.  Like around the anatomy scan.  I need my mom to be feeling better to tell her.  And she's going to be worried to high hell about me.  I can't tell her about this pregnancy now.

I really don't think God listens to anything I ask for.

Also, kinda trivial, but I had an allergic reaction to a freaky bug bite yesterday and now my leg is wrapped in an ace bandage with ice packs.

If I wasn't pregnant, I'd be downing some tequila right now.  But... at least I'm pregnant.

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.  

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.  

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.