Waiting for Morning-Old Blog

IMPORTANT CHANGE

2009-06-13T19:29:00.001-07:00

To all of you that read my blog,
I have changed the address of this blog to:

www.aubreyandellie.blogspot.com

This new address feels more appropriate to me.
The blog is the same, only the address has changed.

If you are one of my "official" followers, please register again at the new blog spot.
I would hate to lose you.

Thank you for your prayers and support this past year.
I would be honored to walk with you again through this next year.

With love,
Rachel

Compromising

2009-06-10T15:43:00.000-07:00

This post is for Deana...she helped me put these thoughts into words.

I feel like I am battling again. But this time it is different. Instead of fighting the pain, I am fighting the joy. I can't seem to solve a crucial dilemma within my heart...let me see if I can explain.

A miracle has happened. Something I honestly never thought could happen. I am healing. The morning I have been waiting for is rising in the east. There has been a transformation within my very soul. Where there was only pain, relief exists. I have peace again and hope and joy...yet I feel myself resisting. I would think after hurting so deeply for so long I would embrace the healing I am experiencing. I would be excited about it. But I am hesitant. Why?

Because I don't want my healing to degrade my love for my girls. How can I have joy without compromising the severity of my loss, yet not let the severity of my loss compromise my joy? I am confused.

These are the kinds of questions I wrestle with, that turn and turn in my head as I try to wrap my mind around the depth of which losing Aubrey and Ellie has affected me. Even joy causes me pain. Peace concerns me. Hope confuses me. And I don't know how to sort it out yet.

My prayer now is for freedom. Freedom to love my girls. Freedom to miss them deeply. And freedom to have joy, hope, and peace. And not just have those things, but feel them, embrace them and not feel guilty about them.

Once again I have to truly give myself permission to heal. Truly allow God to do a work in me I don't fully understand. Help me answer questions I didn't think I would ever have. Teach me to live again. I am healing, but I clearly have a long way to go.

Turning A Corner

2009-06-09T17:02:00.000-07:00

Last week I had a strange, dull headache around my eyes. It was annoying, but I didn't let it get in my way as I went on with day. But every once in a while I would think to myself what a odd headache. I wonder what is causing it? I figured it would eventually go away, but it didn't.

As I climbed in bed that night I felt the tears creep up on me. As I let them slip out my headache instantly went away! I didn't realize it, but trying not to cry all day long had caused my headache. The constant tension of fighting back my tears actually made my eyes physically hurt. Once I let it out, my headache disappeared.

But I was not relieved. I was discouraged.

In the last six weeks or so I felt that I had finally turned a corner. I was making strides in my healing process. My energy was returning. I was sleeping better. And I no longer dreaded waking up in the morning. Most importantly, I had begun to dream again and think about the future. I felt hopeful and joyful for the first time in almost a year. It felt good to get through a day without breaking down.

Yet here I was again, crying. Was I regressing? Was the relief I felt an illusion or phase? Was I right back to struggling? Had I gotten my hopes up for nothing? I was so sick and tired of being sick and tired I continued to fight my tears. I really thought I was past all this!

I feel so much pressure to be "better" almost a year after my girls' deaths that I find myself rushing myself through my grief. I want people to see the work God has done in my heart and my life, to be an example of Christ's ability and willingness to restore lives and heal unimaginable hurts. And I feel that my tears nullify the change God has brought about in me. That the bad days represent a lack of progress. I am not all better yet, but I desperately want to be.

Or do I?

This is what is so complicated about grief. I will never be all better. At least not in this life. But I will be better. I am already better. God has done a work in me, and still feeling sad, still having hard days, does not negate the healing that has taken place in my heart.

But that magic moment of finally being able to put this all behind me will never come. My hurt will only end when my life ends. In the meantime, God will continue with the work He has begun in me. And just as my healing will never be complete, neither will His work in me. I like knowing that no matter how many tears I cry, or don't cry, God remains faithful, and His work can never be undone.

Romans 5:3-5 "We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because He has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love."

Tulips

2009-05-27T16:19:00.000-07:00

I love tulips. They are my favorite flower. They are beautiful in a simple yet bold way. Simple green stem, bold colored petals, not too frilly, just lovely. But what I love most about them is that even after they are cut they keep growing. It is miraculous really. And they always grow toward the light.

My husband bought me some tulips a few weeks ago. Two huge bunches. Beautiful, bold, lovely, hot pink tulips. He knows how much I love them. They sat on my mantel in a vase for a week, growing each day toward the sun that streamed through the living room window. And then one day I walked down stairs and saw that my beautiful tulips had slumped over and the petals were falling off onto the floor. I couldn't even bring myself to throw them away. I just left them like that. Eventually my husband cleaned them up and made room for a new bouquet of flowers on the mantel. But this time I put lilies and roses there. I didn't want to watch another bunch of tulips grow then wilt. The symbolism was too strong. It hurts my heart too much.

Tulips remind me of my little girls. Even after they were born they continued to grow. Their little bodies continued to develop. Something inside them continued to try. They did their best to thrive even though they were separated from me so early. It was amazing to me. Even though I was scared, I was amazed. I knew that although they were separated from me, the were not separated from God, who had a plan and purpose for their lives. And that gave me hope.

In the end my deepest fears came true. My amazement became disappointment and my hope to keep them faded as I watched my girls slip away from me. Their ability to overcome was limited. They would not be with me in this life. Like little tulips, they continued to grow for a while, then wilted. How quickly they bloomed and faded.

Yet unlike tulips, my girls have more to their story. Their bodies may have faded in this world, but were restored in heaven. Their temporary lives were so short, but they live eternally in the arms of their creator. They no longer struggle to reach toward the light, but exists in THE LIGHT, in the presence of the Almighty God, in perfection, in glory.

Now I strive to be more like a tulip, always growing toward THE LIGHT. And I have a new hope. The hope of seeing my girls again someday. My girls' deathes has instilled in me a deeper longing to know my God, to be sustained by Him, to be comforted by Him, to love Him, to wait on Him. I choose to stay attached to the vine despite my questions and the permanent ache in my heart. I choose to live, not just exist, as long as God allows. Like my girls, I desire to keep trying and to keep growing, all the days of my life. No matter how few or how many God grants me.

John 15:5 "I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from me you can do nothing."

Laughing and Crying

2009-05-11T22:02:00.000-07:00

I used to laugh a lot. My family has teased me for years about my ability to crack myself up. I used to laugh out loud at, well, almost everything. And it wasn't just a little giggle here or there but that kind of laugh that came straight from my belly. It didn't matter if I was the only one laughing, or if what I was laughing about was in my own head, I laughed anyway, freely and often. If it was funny I laughed. It was who I was then.

When Aubrey and Ellie died I lost my laugh. I lost my smile too. At least the genuine versions of both. Every once in a while I laughed sort of, but not the same as before. I would do that "half-smile and tip by head back with a raise of the eyebrows" maneuver that insinuates a laugh but isn't really a laugh at all. And I only did that to appease others when I knew I should laugh but couldn't. It seemed my laugh had died with my girls and replaced itself with tears and melancholy. It was who I had become.

Then one day I realized I missed my laugh.

I missed the feeling. There is something healing about cracking up. Laughing so hard you can barely breathe is exhausting, but in good way. Like when I was a kid I would swim all day long and be so tired I would nod off at the dinner table. Or after the league championship basketball game that went into triple overtime to finally win it by a single point. Or after 8 hours of labor to finally to hear my son's little squeaky cry. Sometimes pure exhaustion can be so indescribably fulfilling. Unlike the exhaustion of grief. Exhaustion isn't even the right word. I was so tired I felt tourtured, defeated and empty...and I really didn't want to feel that way anymore.

God, I want to laugh again.

I didn't immediately start laughing. Not that day or the next, or even the next week. But I daily offered up my request to God. Slowly I found myself smiling more or chuckling to myself. The heaviness began to lift and the lighter side of life was finding its way to my heart.

And then one day, it happened. I was in the car with my sister being silly and I couldn't help myself. I laughed and laughed. We both did. We could barely catch our breath. When we finally composed ourselves it hit me. I haven't laughed like this since...

And then I cried.

Laughing and crying now go hand in hand. God answered my prayer. I can laugh again. But I still cry. I think I thought that laughter would replace my tears, but I know now that is impossible. Nothing will replace my tears. I will always cry for my girls. But now I see that I will not only cry for my girls. I will smile and laugh too. Joy is possible and attainable after such tragedy. I never thought I would ever be able to say it, but it is. God is a faithful comforter. All I had to do was ask.

Mother's Day

2009-05-10T14:51:00.000-07:00

Today is Mother's Day.

I don't even know what to write. I had a few messages left on my voicemail today from people who love me, checking to see how I am holding up today, because they sense that maybe today might be a hard day for me. And they are right. It is. How could it not be?

I made myself a cup of tea and grabbed my computer. Here I sit ready to decompress. A paragraph in I am already crying. My husband commented that I usually wait until half way through to cry. I just need to get it all out. The thoughts, the tears, the questions, the conclusions...all of it, out. So here it goes...

I love being a mom. Love it. Even at the graveside of my daughters' I didn't hate being a mom, I hated death. I have always dreamed of being a mother and when my son was born it was like I found my place in the world. I knew my purpose in life, to be my son's mom. When I learned that I was having twins my purpose tripled, I was to be three people's mom forever more.

Even as I adjusted to motherhood and its demands (and yes it was a huge adjustment) there was never a time I wanted to undo becoming a mom. Sure, at times I would have given my left arm for more sleep or a shower, but when my son flashed me that little toothless grin on his chubby face the challenges seemed so worthwhile. I anticipated a similar experience with Aubrey and Ellie. Twins would have their challenges of course, but I had two more little smiles to look forward to. Those special moments are profoundly rewarding even in the most hectic of circumstances.

Becoming a mom changed me. Raising a child stretched me and grew me. My life was no longer my own. I realigned my priorities, became less selfish, and developed patience. And I discovered how unbelievably much I could love something. The depth of my attachment to my son was immeasurable and instant. I never knew what it felt like to be willing to die for someone until I held my son in my arms. Motherhood is humbling, transforming, and beautiful...

...and completely heartbreaking.

Becoming a mom is the most uncertain endeavor in the universe. It offers no guarantees. It costs all the love you have in your entire being. And you have to pay upfront. Everything is on the line, all your hopes, dreams, your very heart. And you can't be sure if you get a lifetime, a day, or just a moment to be your child's mom. So why do we do it then? All of us that are mothers, why do we risk a lifetime of sadness and longing for what might be only a moment of joy?

Because it is absolutely worth it.

Every single tear I have cried, every moment of sadness, has been worth the privilege of being Aubrey and Ellie's mom. Knowing them, although for such a short time, was a true blessing. Nothing has impacted me as profoundly as the existence of my children, especially those two little girls. And a lifetime of missing them will never negate the joy they brought to my life. I don't understand why I could not keep them. I would prefer to be holding them now. But those moments with them were priceless. And nothing could make me give that up.

This post is for every mom who has had the privilege of holding their children for a lifetime or a short time...we all know it is so worth it. And we don't need a day to remind us of that. It is in our every heartbeat, our every breath. We didn't become mothers in time, it is not a process, but a single amazing moment. We were instantly and permanently transformed. And whether we still have our babies or they were taken to heaven, nothing can take from us that moment.

Dustin, Aubrey, and Ellie...thank you for making me a mom. It is truly my privilege and honor. I love you all.

Grasping at Straws

2009-04-29T09:48:00.000-07:00

There was actually a point in time that I thought getting a puppy might make me feel better. Then there was the time I begged my husband for a vacation. If I could just get away for a while, have a change of scenery, I know I wouldn't feel so sad. I have tried buying furniture, cutting my hair off, eating chocolate, drinking tea, and running a half marathon. I even contemplated leaving my marriage and getting an entirely new life. After all, if my husband was a better husband I wouldn't hurt so badly right? If I had more time to myself or more money or could get more sleep it would certainly be easier to cope. Maybe if I had another baby I would feel better? There has to be some way to make my pain go away...and I am determined to find it.

I haven't found it.

And I keep doing that to myself. Convincing myself that somehow I can put an end to my sadness. But I went on vacation, and it didn't help. And cutting all my hair off only made me cry more. I tried to run it out of me but even 13.1 miles was not enough. The truth is a thousand miles wouldn't be enough. And my husband is not to blame either. He has been as supportive as he can be. I have tried everything. And I still hurt.

I just want to know when I won't hurt anymore?

The hardest thing for me to accept about my girls' deaths is that even God's comfort and restoration does not take the pain away completely. The pain is a part of my life now. Some things cut too deeply to ever really heal this side of heaven. I will never wake up to discover that the pain is finally gone. Nor will I ever find anything that can take it away. But I trust that God will help me carry this burden so I am not crushed by the weight of it. And I know God will continue to use my pain to draw me closer to Him. It is in Him I find refuge, where I am free to feel pain and relief simultaneously, where I can cry and laugh at the same time, where sadness and hope coexist.

I don't think healing should be measured by a decrease in pain, but instead by an increase in hope. I think of Paul. The more he suffered, the more hopeful he became. I want that kind of hope. I would rather have hope like that than less pain. I think six months ago I would have said less pain. But today I choose hope. My pain is still very real, but hope is real now too. Morning is coming.

Beach Day

2009-04-29T08:47:00.000-07:00

I took my son to the beach for a play date last week with other moms from my church and their kids. It was nice to get out of the house. I enjoyed getting a little sun and my son enjoyed playing with every toy on the beach. He doesn't really understand yet that not everything he sees is for him to "borrow." I love his innocence. And his boldness. He makes me laugh.

I have to keep a close eye on my son because he wanders. He lives in the world of a child, as he should. And as my husband points out, not just any child, but his mother's child...it is not unusual for me to exist in my own world as well. I am easily absorbed into all that surrounds me, captivated by what is there, and often deep in thought. My son is just like me in that way. He loves to walk, to touch everything, to explore, to ask questions, to chase birds, to walk up next to another child his age and say "lets run!" There is no fear in him.

And I love it. I love him.

He knows that I am watching out for him. He knows that I will call him back when he walks too far from me or lead him back if he gets lost. He trusts me to keep him from getting sunburned, provide food when he is hungry, and make sure he doesn't go with strangers. He plays blissfully while I take care of everything. I wish life could stay this way for him forever.

I think that my relationship with God used to look a lot like that. I walked out my faith with a childlike naivety. There was not much to fear in my world and I often reached for God's hand to hold as I walked contently along. God was with me. And I loved Him so much. What could happen?

My girls.

In an instant my world was shattered. I went to sleep walking along the beach with God and woke up stranded at sea. I was face to face with a crash course in a new kind of faith. Time to grow up? Time to grow deeper. And that means growing pains. Deep growing pains that carve out the flesh to make more room for the Spirit. Less of me and more of Him right? That's what I want...

...but my girls. I want my girls too.

Deeper faith fills my heart, but not my arms. It is hard to feel ok just yet. My girls are gone. But my Jesus is more near to me than ever. I used to feel that God's faithfulness was more of a consolation prize in comparison to losing my girls and I accepted it like bad tasting medicine. Eventually it would help right? But now I can honestly say I feel the grace. God's comfort is real to me. I feel the relationship. And that relationship has become EVERYTHING to me.

God has been reaching his hand out to walk with me this whole time. It was me that wouldn't take hold. I just couldn't, and I'm not even sure why. Too hurt? Too disappointed? Maybe too angry? All I know is that I was no longer on the beach like I used to be. Like I wanted to be, watching my children, all of them, play and wander around. I would never be on that beach again. And I resented it. I watched my tears drop on the sand.

I guess I was tired of hanging my head because I looked up. I felt compelled to choose again to heal. To choose Christ and his healing power. I re-focused my eyes on Him and let my tears dry in the sun. I reached my hand up and took hold.

OK God, I will walk with you today. Bring my girls!

And we did, on the beach of all places.

Names in the Sand

2009-04-21T15:17:00.001-07:00

These are almost as beautiful as my girls.

We love and miss you sweet girls.

Not alone

2009-04-21T10:20:00.001-07:00

This journey is a lonely one. It just is. Even when I am not alone I struggle with feeling isolated in my pain, untouchable almost, impossible to relate to. I am not the same woman I was before my daughters' deaths. And my perspective on life has drastically changed. The death of my girls was a paradigm shift of indescribable magnitude. How do I navigate this new terrain? When I feel that I have lost my barrings I can only pray for Christ to show me the way.

And He does.

I can't even count the hours I have sat alone crying, praying, contemplating, and wrestling with the loss of my girls. I don't purposefully hide my grief, anyone that knows me knows that my pain is not a secret I am keeping. After all, this blog is my way of sharing it with the world. But my pain is internal, I battle on the inside. I can't very well spend my days wearing a t-shirt that says "my babies died" on it (don't worry, I don't really have one of those, but sometimes I wish I did) to involve the world in my pain. It wouldn't help anyway. I need understanding from those who know, those who have walked in my shoes. I need the fellowship of other mothers with babies in heaven.

It is in the quiet times and alone times that my pain grips me the most. The tears sneak up on me in the shower or while washing dishes. I cry sometimes when I walk past my girl's room or into the garage and see their empty crib, high chair, strollers, and car seats. I cry a lot while driving. Especially when certain songs come on the radio. Daily I stop suddenly, as if taken aback, as the tears hit me, and put my hands over my face as I take a few seconds to breathe and recompose myself. My day is a constant ebb and flow of sorrow and peace, pain and relief, suffering and joy.

Does anyone else understand?

More than imaginable. I am not alone.

I find great comfort in the stories of other moms who are on journeys similar to mine. Although I would give us all back our babies if I had the power and spare us this common thread. One of my favorites is the story of Audrey Caroline. You can read her mother Angie's blog at http://www.audreycaroline.blogspot.com/. My heart resonates completely with Angie's words. Her honesty is powerful and her testimony even more so. Her blog is truly lovely.

I also love a website called http://www.namesinthesand.net/. All the way in Australia a mother honors the memories of babies who have died by writing their names in the sand at sunset and taking a picture of it and posting it for the world to see, just as she did for her own son, Christian. Names in the sand is Christian's legacy, and it is a beautiful one. I was scrolling through all the names (and there are thousands) that have been written in the sand and was in tears. I truly am not alone. How breathtaking, how touching, how sad. I even saw Audrey Caroline's name. Soon I hope to see my girls' names in the sand.

I am daily reminded that I am not alone. Jesus has been so faithful to connect me in miraculous ways to other moms with babies in heaven for my own comfort, and I hope for theirs. Elizabeth...Arianna is waiting for you! Chelsea...you will be with them all someday! My Aunt Donna...who joined her daughter Mary in heaven last October after more than thirty five years of missing her. And there are more, so many more...

2 Corinthians 1:7
And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.

Rescue Me

2009-04-11T21:37:00.000-07:00

I still go to bed at night and hope that when I wake up in the morning I will find that all this has been a dream. And each morning when I wake up and see that it has not been a dream I feel sad all over again. I want so badly for my girls to simply reappear to me. To wake up one morning and find them in my arms and start this journey all over again how it was meant to be and not how it is. I hate how it is. And it is hard to accept that it will never be different.

The past few months have been rough. When the girls first died I had a horrible time. But after four months or so I started to feel a little better, I started to see that I was not going to be sad forever. But just when I felt the worst was over I experienced a new low. I spent the past few months in a bad place, a very bad place. I felt hopeless and empty. I felt dead inside.

Few things in life cut straight to the core. My girls' deaths wounded me so deeply that, at my lowest, I could not imagine life ever being ok again. I felt permanently altered inside. I may have looked like my old self to everyone else, but I was a different person now. I would never again be who I was. I was in no way prepared to lose my girls, to be forced against my will to let go of what I wanted to keep forever, nor to live on afterward. How is living possible after something like this? I felt overwhelmed. I had lost my way. I needed help. I needed a miracle.

So I prayed for one. "Jesus, rescue me."

It was a simple prayer but passionately sincere. I was desperate. I needed to be rescued from my grief. It wasn't enough anymore for God to walk with me through this, I needed to be carried. My pain and questions and guilt and anger had left me lifeless. I needed to be transformed. I needed to be made alive again.

I have passionately prayed many prayers in my lifetime, calling out to Jesus in my most helpless times. And I have learned that it is impossible to predict what He will do. He often answers my prayer in ways I do not expect, sometimes in ways I don't even like. That may seem harsh to say, but it is true. When my girls died after begging God to save them I was disillusioned, heartbroken, and angry. Why did God allow them to die? Why did He answer my prayer for their healing in the most painful way possible? It didn't make sense to me. How could I ever trust Him again?

Here is my answer to myself...what other choice do I have? Without Christ everything is meaningless...including my girls' lives and my pain. And I think the only thing worse than living without my girls is living without hope. Hope that God can make right all the wrongs of this life. Hope that God can heal even the most destroyed heart. Hope that God can make good come from something so bad. Hope that I will be reunited with my girls in heaven and our separation will eventually end. Hope that in the meantime God still has a future and life for me and my family. And hope is impossible without trust.

I know God will rescue me. In many ways He already has. Just having hope again has given me strength to hang on one more day. One day at a time...

Baby Things

2009-04-06T15:58:00.000-07:00

I miss my babies. I was in their room today sorting through all the baby things they will never use. Receiving blankets, little toys, sleep sacks, even the infant bathtub. Everything has tears on it now.

I really want to have another baby. But I am scared. I can't imagine losing another child. And I know that Aubrey and Ellie could never be replaced. But I love being a mom and I miss having a little baby. My son is so old now. He is a little boy, not a baby anymore. I adore watching him grow up, but I miss having a baby in the house. I miss nursing and giving baths and holding something so squishy and tiny. I can only pray that God has more children in my future. Despite Aubrey and Ellie's death, becoming a mother is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I would not trade it to forgo this pain. Some risks are worth taking I guess.

For now I am going to keep all the baby stuff out. I don't want to put it away yet. I need a little more time. When I am ready I will pack it all away for the next baby, but not yet. For now it still belongs to Aubrey and Ellie and resides in their room. And someday I hope they will pass it down to their new brother or sister (or God willing, twins again) just like their brother passed it down to them. That is the proper order of things.

Lying

2009-03-31T19:31:00.000-07:00

I told a lie today. Some college kids came to my front door this afternoon while my son was napping trying to raise money by selling books. At first they tried to sell me a cook book but Lord knows I have enough of those. I, of course, was friendly to them and made small talk. People don't go door to door very often anymore and I was curious about what they were up to. We chatted and they asked me a bunch of questions like how long have I been married and how long have I lived here? And then they asked me the question I have come to fear more than any other...

"How many children do you have?"

In a split second the answer sort of flew out of my mouth. "Three," I said. "Wow," they responded, "three kids in four years!" "Well, two of them are twins," I went on to explain, "I have a three year old little boy and identical twin daughters." I could tell that they were sort of looking around for them. Then without hesitation I said "they're all upstairs sleeping."

At that moment I felt myself float away. My body was still standing at my front door, but my mind was somewhere else. I no longer heard what they were saying or really cared. All I could think about was what I just said. Why did I say that?

I bought one of their books, a children's book of Bible stories, and sent them on their way. I closed the door and burst into tears. I could not bring myself to tell them that two of my babies were dead, but that was not the first time I held back telling the truth about Aubrey and Ellie. Sometimes it seems more appropriate to just leave it out, especially to strangers, but I have NEVER lied about them before. I was as surprised with myself as I was disappointed. What was I thinking? Why would I say such a thing?

It only took me about a minute to understand why I lied. I said my babies were sleeping because I wanted it to be true. For some reason at that moment I wanted to pretend that my babies were not in heaven but in their cribs. I wanted to speak their names and bring them back to life. For just a minute I wanted to stop missing them and feel normal again. But it didn't work. The lie only confirmed the truth. Their cribs were as empty as ever and my lie didn't provide even a second of relief from my heartache. I was in an unhealthy place.

I feel completely desperate sometimes. I don't know how to make the pain go away. But lying is certainly not the answer. It didn't help anyway. I am trying to reach a place of peace and acceptance, but it seems illusive. The pain I feel still outweighs the peace I feel. My pain is like being stuck in a permanent fog. Sometimes I can see farther into the fog than others, but the fog is always there.

I don't know how to not miss my babies, how to not cry for them, how to not long for them. I feel like healing requires me to be someone I can't be, that it requires me to not feel and to forget, and I can't do that. I don't know what to do anymore. I guess just keep being patient, keep trusting God's faithfulness, keep waiting for morning...

Thinking

2009-03-24T21:00:00.000-07:00

I visited a good friend today. I met her in my Griefshare class and we have since developed a friendship. We were talking while our kids played and she mentioned that she was thinking of me the other day. She overheard a conversation about how difficult it is to care for handicapped and mentally incapacitated children and couldn't help but think how different my life would be if I were caring for two severely mentally and physically handicapped babies right now. That maybe God spared us and them from a very difficult life? I couldn't help but ask myself if there exists a more difficult life than the one I have experienced since the death of my girls. Could it really be worse? Does it get harder than this?

I have to be honest and say that those exact fears crossed my mind while my girls were in the hospital. I was so scared when I learned of their brain damage. I obsessed about their care and what that would mean for our family practically, financially, and emotionally. How hard will it be? But mostly I worried for them. Would they suffer? Would they be aware of their condition? Was keeping them alive really what was best for them? Why was this happening to them? I didn't know what was best for them. I didn't want to lose them but I didn't want them to suffer...I didn't know what to do.

After lots of prayer, tears, and constantly mounting complications in both our daughters, my husband and I chose to remove them from life support. Ellie on July 1st. Aubry on July 7th. I vividly remember walking each of my girls back to their little incubator beds and setting them down. I remember asking the doctors to be gentle with them and to keep them warm. Their little faces were blue. They felt cold. They were gone. No pulse. No breath. No life. Just a tiny little limp body. I knew their souls were in heaven and that they had been restored...but it didn't comfort me. How many mothers ever hold their dead children or watch their babies take their last breaths? How many mothers choose the day their babies go to heaven? It seems horribly unfair. And not to me. To my innocent baby girls.

A day does not go by that I don't wonder what could have been, or even what should have been. I would have taken care of my babies no matter what condition they were in. I would have loved them no matter what. I would have dedicated my life to them. But when they died I felt this overwhelming sense of relief, and then immediate guilt and pain. I knew they were no longer suffering, but I was suffering...they were gone, forever. My babies were gone.

I often think that God was gracious to my girls and that taking them to heaven spared them from a very hard life. After they got so sick it became easy to rationalize why heaven was the best place for them. But the question I always ask is why were they born early in the first place? There would have been no brain damage or organ failure or death if they went full term. They would have been fine. We would have been fine. Everything would have been fine.

But it wasn't fine. It still isn't fine. All the questions and fears and would haves and maybes are fruitless. My girls are dead and can never return to me. All I can do now is keep my promise to them to heal and wait patiently to meet them someday in heaven. At least we have heaven. Thank God we have heaven.

High Chair

2009-03-15T17:39:00.000-07:00

I was out in the garage today and I saw the baby high chair up against the wall. It made me a little sad because it shouldn't be there. I feel the same way when I go into Aubrey and Ellie's room and see their crib dismantled and shoved in the corner to make room for guests when they come and stay with us. It bothers me. I understand that since neither the crib nor the high chair is being used they should be put away for a while...but the point is they SHOULD be being used, and they are not. I really wanted to feed my girls in that high chair and put them to sleep in that crib. I don't like seeing those things collecting dust. It hurts my heart.

My Birthday

2009-03-13T23:17:00.000-07:00

Today I turned 29. I can't believe how time has flown by. I remember when I was 16 and I thought 29 would never come. But here I am. Twenty-nine and counting. Honestly though I feel older than 29. The last year was a hard one.

One year ago, in March of 2008, I found out I was pregnant. Later that same month I learned I was pregnant with twins. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine what events would transpire that year. Last birthday I had my girls. This birthday I do not. It is almost surreal.

I did get to spend my birthday at Disney Land with my husband, son and family visiting from out of state. And I had the privilege of watching my three-year-old have the time of his life. As a parent there is nothing more fun than to watch your child be overcome with excitement. It was a beautiful day, the lines were not too long, and my son had a blast. The perfect day at Disney Land. It was a great way to spend my birthday. I very much enjoyed myself.

But I did think about my girls. The fun of the day did not erase the fact that they were missing. It is a thought I have come to accept as a part of my life now. They will always be missing from everything I do and everywhere I go. I am learning to accept it. But I still miss them. Acceptance does not erase how much I miss them.

Age 28 was the hardest year of my life. I cried so many tears. My prayer is that age 29 will be a year of healing, not hurting. That this is the year the morning comes...and stays.

Crying

2009-03-06T08:50:00.000-08:00

I am sitting here crying. My computer is on my lap, a cup of tea to my side, and tears streaming down my face. I get like this sometimes. I just can't hold back the tears. When I have days like this I feel like I am not just crying for my girls, but about everything sad in my life. Every disappointment, every loss, every regret, every mistake...it all seems to be behind my tears.

Life is hard right now, for many reasons. My life is very different than I ever imagined it would be. I think it has been hard for me to come to terms with it all. The realities of life can be so harsh. It is disillusioning. It is hard to make sense of it all.

The only thing I know to do is hold on to what I know, to the unchangeable things, the things that remain right when everything else is wrong, to Jesus. All these tears fall at His feet. I am not alone in this journey. I walk wearily, but I walk with Him. And someday I trust I will get to the other side of all of this. Only He will lead me there.

Responsibility

2009-03-05T13:49:00.000-08:00

I wrote the following recently in a letter to a friend...

"It is strange because I understand in my mind that it isn't my fault, but in my heart, where I am still sad, I feel fear. I wonder "what if?" What if it was my fault some how? What if I didn't protect my girls? I think it will just take time to work through. I think it is what all mothers feel when something bad happens to their children, when they suffer in any way, and especially when they die...we feel responsible. I feel responsible. But I don't know if I am responsible. And I will live without knowing forever."

I don't want to be responsible for what happened, but I feel scared that I am. And the not knowing is a blessing and a curse. It just bothers me so much that my girls were healthy and developing perfectly, but were born too soon and died as a result. They were not sick. They were perfect. They just needed more time. Why didn't they get that time? What happened that they were born too soon to survive? I fear my body failed them.

But what if it did? Would that really change anything? Would it change how I feel? I did not choose to go into labor. It just happened. And I watched as my life spiraled out of control. I was in control of nothing. Not my body, not my babies, not my future, not their future. I begged God to intervene and watched helplessly as life unfolded, as if in slow motion, sadly and tragically.

I am not in control. I thought I was, but I wasn't. Control is an illusion. And wanting to accept responsibility or apply blame or find a reason is really just a desperate attempt to regain some feeling of control over a situation that can never be changed. It can't be changed now, but more importantly, it could not be changed then.

I feel myself moving closer to acceptance daily. God is slowing healing the insecurities of my heart. Mostly I am learning to forgive myself. Sometimes in life you just have to let go of things. Even when you want to hold on to them...hopes, dreams, feelings, fears, regrets, wishes, questions, even children...you have to let go. The letting go is hard and sad and slow, but my hope is that in the process I will find peace...peace with what happened as well as peace with myself...peace the surpasses all understanding.

Then God's peace, which goes beyond anything we can imagine, will guard your thoughts and emotions through Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:7

Flowers

2009-02-27T21:24:00.000-08:00

I made a promise to myself that I would keep a fresh bouquet of flowers in the house at all times in memory of Aubrey and Ellie until their first birthday. And so far I have done just that. Once a week or so I pick out a bunch of flowers for Aubrey and a different kind for Ellie. They each get their own kind of flower to represent their individuality, but I put them in the same vase so that they can be together. This week I have a cluster of Gerber daisies in a giant pink vase. Light pink ones for Aubrey and dark fuchsia ones for Ellie. I set them in my line of sight so I can see them often throughout the day. They look so pretty.

Babies and flowers have something in common. Their is something so lovely about them. I choose Aubrey and Ellies' flowers based on what I imagine their personalities to be. I often get roses for Aubrey and tulips for Ellie. Or light colored flowers for Aubrey and dark colored for Ellie. I don't know why, it just feels right I guess.

I was thinking today that I wish I would have given them each their own flower arrangement at their funeral. They deserved to each have their own, instead of one generic arrangement picked out of some funeral catalogue for them to share. I did not have the clarity of mind at the time to do that for them. And to be honest I don't really blame myself. I was in a fog of shock and grief. Now that I am thinking clearly it is one of my regrets. I think often that I would have liked to do that for them.

What I really would have liked to do for them was keep them in my belly until they were ready to be born. All my regrets added together do not equal the disappointment I have in myself for my inability to carry them full term. I realize I did not purposefully cause them harm, but I can't shake the feeling that my body failed them. I will never know exactly what happened or why. I get frustrated not having any answers. It really bothers me. But answers will not bring them back to me. Nothing will. But someday I will go to them. And I won't have to imagine their personalities anymore. I will finally know them. I look forward to that moment with all my heart.

Disappointed

2009-02-21T16:43:00.000-08:00

If I could describe how I feel these days in one word it would be DISAPPOINTED. I have gone through a spectrum of emotions since my girls died, but disappointment seems to be the most intense so far. I just can't seem to shake the very real feeling that God let me down.

I have been struggling for months, emotionally wrestling with being honest with God about just how disappointed I really feel. I feel ashamed of being so disappointed. After all, He is the God of the universe, creator of the heavens and the earth, He gives and He takes away. Who am I to question him? I tell myself on a daily basis that God didn't take my girls, He saved them, and that death is simply a sad fact of this fallen world...no one is exempt, not even my babies. But what I understand to be true has not traveled to my heart. When I sit alone, wrestling with my grief, I can't shake the indisputable fact that God could have saved my girls but didn't. He could have stepped in, but instead He stepped back. At least that is how it seems to me.

So I found a book. Disappointment With God by Philip Yancey. I needed something to help me make sense of the extreme disappointment I feel toward God for my daughters' deaths. Something to help me see again the God I love, the compassionate, trustworthy, and powerful God I gave my life to twenty years ago. The God I entrusted my children's lives to, the God I entrusted my life to, my heart to...the God I never thought would let something like this happen.

As I read I was moved. The book is profound. It does not explain away the reality of my disappointment with God. It doesn't talk down to me as the peon human who cannot possibly understand God's ways nor tries to make me feel guilty or judgemental. Instead, it teaches. It digs into the Word. It showed me how God is not positioned away from what happened but directly in it. He didn't step back. He jumped right in, or better stated, He jumped right ON...on the cross...and suffered and died and rose again not only so that I can have hope, but so that I can also be confident in His knowledge of my pain, His experience of my pain. God is not outside of my suffering. He is in it with me. There is no pain I have felt that He has not. Every tear I have cried for my girls He has matched. And He does not want it this way either. That is why He came, so that there will be an end to all this very real pain and suffering and death and disconnect...and comfort in the meantime.

Philip Yancey writes with regard to Hebrews Chapter 2,"Yes, it's true that Jesus is in control--but it sure doesn't look like it: 'at present we do not see everything subject to him.' That one sentence encompasses all unfairness: all war and violence, all hatred and lust, all triumph of evil over good, all illness and death, all tears and groans, all the disappointment and despair of this chaotic world. It may be the 'truest' sentence in the Bible." Jesus is in control, everything is subject to Him. He has made right every injustice that was done to my girls, He has rescued me from my suffering...I just can't see it yet.

But what of my pain though? I still hurt. I still miss my girls. I still feel angry and disappointed. I am still so devastatingly sad. I guess that is the real issue. Not my understanding, but my pain. Why does God let it hurt so much? I don't really have an answer yet. My hunch is that love comes at a cost. In order to feel the true joy of love we risk the pain of loss. Jesus himself cried out on the cross, "Lord, Lord, why have you forsaken me?" Even the Son Himself expressed disappointment with God. Not because he was bored or lonely or because He forgot what God had asked of Him, but because He was suffering. Maybe He too wanted to know why it had to hurt THIS much? I am not sure. I have to look into this more. I will write more on this later...

To My Friend

2009-02-11T13:24:00.000-08:00

I have not been able to get my friend Chelsea off my mind today. I have known Chelsea since childhood. She lived just down the street from me. We are the same age. We became mothers at the same time. We both have three-year-old sons. She was actually at my house the night I went into labor with my son. We both got pregnant again at the same time, me just a few month behind her like before. We both gave birth in June, her to a little boy named Micah. Her son was full-term and healthy. However, just months after Micah was born he was diagnosed with a fatal illness. It is only a matter of time until he will join my girls in heaven.

My heart breaks for her as it does for anyone who has ever lost, or will lose, a baby. I was imagining what I might say to her after Micah passes away. Infant death is such a devastating and confusing thing. Having experienced it myself I know that there is really nothing that can be said or done to lessen the pain. It just takes time. Lots and lots of time. And she will have plenty of people telling her to be strong and that God works all things for good and that Micah is whole in heaven as God intended...blah blah blah. All the things that I hated to hear as none of them brought my babies back to me. And she will plaster a smile on her face and talk about God's grace and mercy and faithfulness just like I did, but go home after the funeral and cry for her son night after night, who God could have saved but didn't...and she will have to live on without him while everyone else goes home to ALL their children. It is a level of reality few will ever know. And it is a much harder road than anticipated.

I guess if I could say just one thing though, it would be to be honest with God about how you feel. Give Him your questions, shout out your frustrations, cry out your disappointments, talk through every thought and feeling. Include God in the process at all times, even the ugly times, because at the end of the day He is the only one who will carry you through this. He wants to carry you through this. Let Him.

It took me a long time to really process and accept that God did not take my babies from me. Sin did. And by sin I don't mean my sin. Losing my daughters was not my fault. By sin I mean the sin of the Fall. We live in a fallen, dangerous, imperfect world. And even my sweet babies were not exempt from the consequences of sin entering the world. But what sin tried to destroy, God restored. God rescued my girls from death and placed them in heaven. He healed them from their injuries and made them whole. And what sin tried to make permanent, God made temporary. My pain is limited to this life only. It will end when I am reunited with my daughters in heaven. My girls are waiting for me. I will see them again.

Chelsea, Your son will be waiting for you too. And you will get through this. I promise. And I will be here to help you. Why God has allowed us to bare this burden we will never know. Why us? Why our babies? So much does not make sense. But at least we can bare this burden together, bonded in Christ first, and then bonded by our babies. Kiss that little boy for me. I know you are soaking up every moment with him. I am praying for you all.

Visit Chelsea's blog at http://www.micahpaulmarshall.blogspot.com/.

The Same But Different

2009-02-10T16:38:00.001-08:00

I wrote recently that I never got the chance to look into Ellies' eyes. But it dawned on me today that I did get to look into Aubrey's eyes and although Ellie and Aubrey are two different people, they are identical twins. Aubreys' eyes are Ellies' eyes. Although I never looked into Ellie's eyes I know exactly what they would have looked like because I looked into Aubrey's eyes. God has blessed me in ways I am only beginning to realize by giving me my identical twin daughters. What I missed out with one, God gave me in the other.

I only have a tuft of Aubrey's hair. She grew it in the week that she lived after Ellie died. It is dark red just like my son's hair when he was born. And I know that Ellie's hair would have been exactly the same. When I see Aubrey's hair I see Ellie's too.

After Ellie died the social worker made tiny plaster casts of her hands and feet. Not imprints, actual molds, perfect tiny molds. You can even see the imprint of her tiny fingernails, toe nails, and skin wrinkles. They are beautiful. And when I hold them I know that I am also holding Aubreys' hands and feet too.

When I close my eyes I see both of my girls. I see what was the same about them, but I also see what was different. I see their individuality. They may look the same, but they were not the same. Ellie was so sweet and calm. She laid in her incubator peacefully, always clutching her little clawed hand. Aubrey squirmed and protested constantly and preferred to sleep with her hands above her head just like my son did as an infant. They were each their own little person. It was precious to watch.

Aubrey and Ellie were miracles. Their sameness was a miracle and their individuality was a miracle. Only God could make two individuals so alike and so different at the same time. I honestly can't believe sometimes that God gave me identical twins. They are such a rare treasure. I looked forward to raising them will all my heart and was devastated when I had to let them go. But I remain deeply thankful for them. They will always be my precious twin baby girls.

The Only One?

2009-01-27T20:45:00.000-08:00

I feel alone. Sometimes I wonder if I am the only one that still misses my girls. I wonder if anyone else sees their little faces in their mind? Or wakes up in the middle of the night out of a dead sleep and cries quietly for them? Does anyone else imagine how old they would be now or what they might look like? Or ever mention them in conversation? Am I the only one?

I think day and night about my girls. Our family feels so incomplete. My arms are empty. The house is too quiet. I live with a constant awareness that something very important is missing. Two somethings, that can never be replaced. And this feeling is not going to go away. Part of healing is learning to exist with this permanent feeling of loss. It is like the man who loses a leg. He may learn to walk again, but always with a limp. I too am learning to live with the loss and function again despite what is so obviously missing. But for the time being the best I can do is emotionally limp along.

I feel like my girls were but a vapor on this earth. They came and left so quickly. Too quickly. Yet I grew so attached to them. It is such a miracle how instantly I loved them. There is no explanation for how I could love two little someones that I barely even knew so much. I missed out on so much with them. I never heard them cry or coo. I never fed them. I never dressed them. I never put them to sleep. I never gave them a bath or took them on a walk. I never learned their moods or routines. I only ever held each of them once. I never even looked into Ellie's eyes. Yet I loved them with all my heart. And that love is now equal to my pain. And I feel like I am the only one.

If anyone reading this ever thinks about or misses my girls will you please leave a comment? I would love to know what my girls mean to you or what impact they have had on your life. It would comfort me greatly.

My Anniversary

2009-01-22T13:31:00.000-08:00

Today is my fourth wedding anniversary. When I was pregnant with Aubrey and Ellie I would tell my husband that we must be crazy having three kids under the age of three before our fourth wedding anniversary. Life was just flying by. Our son was two and finally sleeping well at night. We bought our first house. We had two eight month long deployments behind us. And we had twins on the way. It had been an unexpected wild ride but it was full of blessings.

But then two of our blessings were taken away. Our whirlwind life came to a sudden and instant standstill. The future we had come to expect was altered in a blink. Our lives changed forever. Our babies were gone.

I still have a hard time accepting what happened, that our lives took such a tragic turn. When I woke up this morning I still had that heavy feeling on my chest, the one that reminds me that today was not supposed to be like this. My fourth wedding anniversary was supposed to be celebrated with two identical four month old little girls. Just like my son was supposed to have his sisters at his birthday just a few weeks ago. And my husband was supposed to turn 36 this month with three children in his arms, not one. And I will turn 29 in just a few months without my two girls. Every milestone only intensifies the tragedy of what was lost, of what will never be.

Time keeps going by, but life has yet to feel right again. And I don't think it ever will. How do I move forward with a life that never feels right? How do I live out the days that were not supposed to be? Honestly, I don't have answers to those questions. I can only do my best to let God walk me through these hard days and carry me past each milestone as they come. I don't really want to do it, but I know I need to do it. And that I can't do it without God to help me.

I guess I just resent God's help sometimes because I feel like I didn't want this kind of help, I wanted the kind of help that allowed my girls to live. It is difficult to cope with such deep feelings of disappointment toward God. But they are real. And truthfully I am not angry, just deeply hurt. Losing my girls broke my heart. Why is God so willing to help mend my broken heart but not prevent it in the first place? It is confusing. But I have faith and I trust that God will lead me to a place of healing, even if that healing comes without understanding. I accept that some things are outside of my understanding, that I will never have all the pieces to the puzzle.

In the meantime though I just try to be as real as I can be. God knows my heart anyway so I don't hide it from Him. And I know He will be patient with me as I vent my disappointment and allow Him to carry me through a lifetime of how it was not supposed to be.

New Year Resolution

2009-01-12T14:08:00.000-08:00

The holidays were not as difficult for me as I thought they were going to be. I had hard days, sure. But over all, the holidays were a pleasant time for me. Now that the holidays have passed I feel like I've been blindsided yet again by my grief. I walked around for the first week of the new year in a fog. I felt exhausted. I could not get anything done. I couldn't keep my thoughts straight. I cried on and off throughout the day, especially in the shower. The shower has always been my secret crying place. Mostly I felt sad and disconnected for days in a row. I just really missed my girls.

I could tell that I was struggling. I could feel it. Then one morning I broke down while on the phone with my husband. It is still so hard for me. I'm overwhelmed with my grief. I just can't seem to snap out of it. I don't know what to do. My husband consoled me and offered his understanding. He reminded me that it has only been six months and not to rush my grief. I got off the phone knowing that I still had more healing to do and that I needed more time to do it. I needed to rethink some things. I needed a plan.

So I set a New Year Resolution: To Grieve.

Its a resolution I hate. I never imagined starting out any new year with this kind of a goal or mindset. But nonetheless it is necessary. It isn't that I have not let myself grieve because I have. But it is clear to me that I still have a long way to go.

Looking back I realize that I put too much pressure on myself to rejoin normal life. I tried to jump back into full function mode too soon. Some of the things I did, like run a half marathon and attend a GriefShare group, were beneficial for me. They served as physical and emotional outlets that helped start my healing process. But some other things might have been too ambitious. They didn't help as much as they exhausted me or distracted me. This year I want to do a better job of protecting myself and guarding my healing journey. I want to give myself permission to rest, to take care of myself, and to resist distracting myself from my grief.

Someday I will regain my strength and focus. Someday I will be able to return to a more normal way of living. But that day is not today. For now I will lighten my load and let healing be my top priority. Next year I want a different resolution.

Memories

2009-01-08T11:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my son's birthday. He is three. I cannot believe that three years have flown by so quickly. I remember, like it was yesterday, him kicking incessantly in my belly. When I was pregnant he often got the hiccups in the middle of the night and kept me up at strange hours. Since I was awake I would talk to him. I loved it. The day he was born was the most amazing moment of my life. Everything went just as I had hoped. He was healthy and perfect. As all parents know, something in you changes when you see that little face and count all ten fingers and ten toes. Life takes on a whole new meaning and suddenly everything is crystal clear. I was a mom. Forever, with all my heart, I was some one's mom.

When I got pregnant with Aubrey and Ellie I instantly became three people's mom. It was amazing. I felt so blessed. So honored. So special. It had already been such a privilege to be my son's mom I could only imagine the joy of raising Aubrey and Ellie. I anticipated the day of seeing their little faces and counting their little toes. Would it be as amazing as the day my son was born? Would I love them more than I already did? I was counting down the days...

And the day came. But it was nothing like I hoped it would be.

My son was born four days before his due date. My girls were born 107 days before theirs. My water never broke during my entire labor with my son. The midwife broke it for me when I was pushing him out. My water did break with my girls, suddenly and prematurely, and that made my labor impossible to stop. I gave birth naturally to my son. No surgery, no medication, no medical intervention, just eight hours of miraculous hard work. My girls were born by emergency classical C-section. The surgery was our best option to save their lives because they were both still breach as they should be so early in gestation. I held my son against my chest the moment he was born. The midwife handed him right to me. He cried and squeaked. It was music to my ears. I was out, completely under anaesthesia, when Aubrey and Ellie emerged into the world. They were handed directly over to strangers; doctors and nurses that swept them away to the NICU. I never saw them until hours later already hooked up to machines and tubes. I had to wait days and days to hold them. I only held each of my girls once, as they left me for heaven. And I never heard my girls make a single noise. I never heard them cry. My son weighed 7 pounds 11 ounces and was 22 inches long. My girls were not even a pound and a half and were only 12 inches long. I nursed my son within a half hour of his birth. I never nursed either of my girls. I took my son home from the hospital two days after he was born. He was beautiful and perfect. I have never been so proud of anything. I never got to take my girls home, and they never left the hospital until the day we put them to rest. But I am still proud of them. I show everyone their pictures. And I miss them terribly.

It is hard to cope with the disappointment I feel in losing Aubrey and Ellie. The whole experience was the exact opposite of what it ought to be, of what it is supposed to be. Their birth, their life, their death, was all a nightmare. The days we had with them were so traumatic. So painful. So scary and uncertain. Yet I am thankful for every second of knowing them. Despite all the pain, I am thankful for those two little girls.

And knowing them and having this experience with them has made me even more thankful for the miracle that was my son's healthy pregnancy and birth. I see now that God blessed me with those hours of labor. That all the tears and sweat were a gift to me. My son is a gift yes, but so is my birth experience with him. It was my honor to endure that pain, not only for his benefit, but for my own, so that I could have one memory, one experience, of what giving birth is like. Of what seeing a healthy baby come into the world feels like. To have something so special and miraculous to reminisce about and hold on to. I guess God knew how much my son's birth would come to mean to me. Having a healthy baby is truly a miracle.

I always assumed that I would get to keep any baby I had. I never thought that a baby of mine would ever die. Certainly not two babies. I still struggle accepting that both of my girls are gone. Why? I just don't understand how my first pregnancy went so perfectly and my next pregnancy went so tragically. It is just one of those things I guess. Just something that happened. Something painful and sad. Something that I can't change no matter what. All I can do is hold on to the good memories. I have my son in my arms and my girls in my heart. And that will have to be enough for me.

Aubrey and Ellie's Milk

2009-01-01T18:20:00.000-08:00

On New Year's Eve Day I got to meet, for the first time, the family and little girl that got my girls' milk. When Aubrey and Ellie were alive I pumped my milk for them, saving it for when they could have it. After they died I kept pumping my milk anyway. I just couldn't bring myself to stop. I don't know why. But for seven weeks I pumped my milk every three hours and stored it all carefully in my freezer. Before I knew it my freezer was full of milk. I could not bare the thought of pouring it down the sink. It needed a home. It was time to find a baby that needed my girls' milk.

I made some contacts and in a very short time I received an email from a family that had adopted a little girl that was struggling a bit to gain weight and stay well and they eagerly wanted to find breast milk for her. It turned out they did not live far from my home town so I took all the milk to my mother's house and the family came and picked it up from there. I was not able to meet them at that time though and we made plans to meet sometime in the future.

While visiting my family for Christmas we were finally able to meet. I took my son to their beach vacation home and we had a wonderful afternoon. The family was so gracious and their little girl was so sweet. I loved finally putting a little precious face to the milk that was for my girls. I felt so blessed to have found them, to find a specific family and a specific baby to give my girls' milk to. A baby that I could meet and hold and remember. A family I could stay in touch with. A part of my girls lives on in that little girl and her family and that comforts me. Aubrey and Ellie have touched many lives, not just mine.

I know my girls' milk was deeply appreciated by the family for many reasons and I could not help but feel honored to give it to them. We are all sad that such tragic circumstances brought us together, but also blessed that something so good could come out of something so sad. It is just another example of the good God is accomplishing through my daughters' deaths.

I recognize the good God is doing but I would be lying if I said that it feels good. It feels a little sad too. I can't help but miss my girls. There is so much that I don't understand. I would have been more than happy to pump extra milk for this little girl if she needed it so badly. It seems so extreme that Aubrey and Ellie's death allowed this little girl to get the milk she needed. There has to have been another way. But that is not how this all works. What happened happened. I know my daughters' deaths had nothing to do with this little girl. And she needed milk and I had milk so God linked us together for all our benefit. She got what she needed and I also got what I so desperately needed...a little more peace in my heart. And that peace helps my heart heal. It really does.

Three Kids

2008-12-28T19:12:00.000-08:00

I visited some friends today that I have not seen in quite a while. Whenever I visit my parents I also like to visit friends that still live in my home town. These friends have three adorable little boys. Their oldest is just a few months older than my son and the second boy is almost two and the third is six months. And they are all adorable. I enjoyed so much visiting them and my son enjoyed having some boys to play with. It was a fun afternoon.

Observing how quickly life happens I couldn't believe that they have three kids already. Three kids in three years! One of my best girlfriends from high school also has three kids. It seems like everyone has three kids. And then it hit me. I have three kids too.

It tore me up inside. I could feel tears well up in my eyes. I fought them as best I could but I think a few slipped out. I decided that it was time to go and I gave my hugs and left. As my husband and I drove home I sat quietly. I find these kinds of days so bittersweet. The days when I am genuinely enjoying myself with friends or family, watching my son enjoy being a little boy, feeling the pain lift for a moment, when suddenly my grief blindsides me and before I know it I am crying and hurting again. I just can't seem to escape my pain. It really is always there. I am afraid it always will be.

I don't know why such a revelation is even a part of my life. Why does it seem like everyone gets to keep their babies but me? I am happy that my friends have all their healthy, beautiful children. That is my hope for everyone. I would not wish such pain on anyone. I just wish that I could have all my children too. I simply don't understand why this had to happen. I don't think I ever will. In the meantime I am trying my best to cope. I may never get over losing my girls, but I hope that someday I can visit my friends and not burst into tears at the sight of their family. Right now I can't help it.

Christmas Eve Visit

2008-12-27T11:34:00.000-08:00

I visited my girls in the cemetery for the first time on Christmas Eve. I have tried to visit them before but was unable to bring myself to go. I just was not ready. But with Christmas the following day I felt compelled to see them. I had to let them know that they were included in our lives and in our holiday celebrations. That I thought about them day and night and still cried for them. And I just wanted to spend some time with them. I have missed them so much during this holiday season. The night before I visited them I wrote them a letter:

Dear Aubrey and Ellie,

I am sorry that this is the first time I have visited you since your funeral. I have not been able to muster up the courage until now. It is Christmas Eve and I needed to come and visit, to bring flowers, and spend some time with both of you. I don’t want you to feel left out. You are still a part of my life. You are a part of everything I do. You always will be forever.

There is so much I want to tell you that I don’t even know where to start. First I want to say that I miss you both so much. There is not a second that goes by that I don’t think of you. I have tea with you every morning, I look at your pictures daily, and I cry, a lot. It is still hard for me to get out of bed in the morning and you are the last thought on my mind when I go to sleep at night. Living without you has been the hardest thing I have ever had to do. The only peace I have is knowing that you are both together, whole and restored, in the presence of the Lord, waiting for me. I can only go on because I know I will see you again.

I am so thankful that God gave you to me. I wish He would have let me keep you longer, but I don’t regret one second of being your mom. You two have changed my life more profoundly than any person or experience in my life. I was thrilled to death when I found out about both of you. I always felt privileged and special to be blessed with identical daughters. I was completely in love with both of you from the very beginning and my love for you has only grown, even after your death. You will always have a place in my heart and a place in our family. I will never pretend like you didn’t exist or keep you a secret. I am as proud of both of you as I am your brother and it is an honor to tell your story.

I am sorry that I didn’t know how to pray for you. I only ever wanted what was best for you both but I didn’t know what that was. I felt so helpless while you were alive. But I never gave up hope or lost faith, and I never stopped loving you. Forgive me for not dressing you before you were buried. I should have put clothes on you and looked at you and held you one last time. It was hard for me to think clearly at the time. I hope you understand.

Aubrey Elizabeth- I am so sorry for not visiting you in the hospital the Sunday before you died. Please forgive me for taking our time together for granted. It is one of my greatest regrets. I would give anything for one more day with you now. Also forgive me for not pumping my milk while sitting by your incubator looking at your tiny little face. I intended to do that and am not really sure why I didn’t. I regret it. Thank you for giving me so many special memories of you. You were so feisty and strong. I know you would have made a great big sister to Ellie. I loved the day I got to change your diaper and touch your skinny little legs. I treasure most how you opened your eyes a few days before you died. I know you could see me with those smoky gray eyes. It is my favorite memory of you. Whenever I picture you in my mind I see you looking back at me and it comforts me. And it was my privilege to hold you before you went to heaven. I wanted to hold you the entire time you were alive but was not allowed until then. It was my dream to hold you and it came true. I remember your cheek against my cheek. You were so tiny. I miss you everyday.

Ellie Alexandra- I am sorry for not giving you a bible verse until after you died. That was not my intention. I am so thankful that in the short time you were alive I got to make so many special memories with you. I was so worried about you. I was worried about you and your sister both but you got so sick so soon that I couldn’t help but be concerned. I love how you waved you left hand at me when you heard my voice. And I loved the day I got to lift you up while your dad changed your bedding. I loved sitting next to you while I pumped my milk imagining nursing you someday. I am so thankful that I got to hold you before you left us. I loved petting your hair and kissing you. You were so sweet. I think you would have been my easy baby. I miss you everyday.

There are feelings in my heart that I cannot put into words. My deepest pain seems to come only in the form of tears. Something happened to me when you died. You each took a part of my heart with you to heaven. I will never be the same. But I promise to heal. I promise to honor your lives with how I live my life. I will never stop missing you. I will never stop wondering what you would have sounded like or what color hair you would have had. I will always feel sad that you are not a part of my daily life or a part of my future. And you will never be forgotten or replaced. You are my precious baby girls. I will love you forever.

I will see you soon. Wait for me.

Love,
Your mom.

When my husband and I arrived at the cemetery it was cold and rainy. We put purple and pink lisianthus flowers at their grave. I intended to read the letter I wrote to them but could not bring myself to do it. So I folded it up and put it under the flowers. We stood there a while holding each other and cried. I watched my tears fall into the grass. I felt so sad. It was hard to read their headstone and accept that I buried my two babies. I never imagined such a tragedy in my life. But I was glad I went. I needed to see them. I needed them to know that I was thinking of them. I plan to visit them again soon. I hope to feel more and more comfortable each time. I don't think I will ever feel good about visiting their grave, but I do think I will have peace about it someday. At least that is what I hope for.

Christmas Cookies

2008-12-22T07:48:00.000-08:00

We have a tradition in my family. Every year we get together and decorate Christmas cookies. My mom makes the dough and cuts out every shape of cookie imaginable. She also makes homemade butter cream frosting and my sisters and I color the frosting and put it in piping bags with different icing tips. Then my aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, nieces, nephews, and friends get together and spend hours, I mean hours, decorating cookies. We visit and create and genuinely enjoy ourselves. It has been one of my favorite holiday traditions for as long as I can remember. I look forward to it every year, even as an adult, and I look forward to making it a tradition with my own children someday.

This year was different for me though. When I was pregnant with Aubrey and Ellie I told my husband that I didn't think cookie decorating would be possible for me this year. That I just didn't think I would find time to decorate cookies with two newborns to nurse and an almost three year old running around. This year I would just have to miss out. I was not disappointed, it was just the reality of having twins so close to Christmas. There was always next year. I simply accepted that I would not be able to participate this year.

A few months after Aubrey and Ellie died I told my husband that I still was not going to decorate cookies. Even though I love it and now had the time, I could not bring myself to do it. It seemed like a poor consolation under the circumstances. My ability to participate would be a symbol of their absence instead of a celebration. I just didn't feel right about it. I could not imagine participating.

As the day approached I became very emotional. I was dreading cookie decorating day. I told myself that it was ok to help, to mix the frosting colors, to fill the bags, to help my son decorate his first cookies, but that is as far as I would take it. I would not decorate. I would not dishonor my girls.

But something happened.

While I helped my son frost and sprinkle his cookies the dread in my heart disappeared and was replaced by peace. I wanted to decorate cookies for my girls. I no longer felt that enjoying myself would dishonor them. I wanted to do it for them, and I guess in a way, for myself too. So I sat down and spent hours thinking of my girls while I frosted cookie after cookie. When my sister walked in and saw me she said, "So you are decorating cookies!" As if to show her approval. It was ok for me to join in after all.

That night I felt sad. I didn't regret decorating cookies, but I did miss my girls. I never thought that one day I would sit down to participate in one of my favorite holiday traditions in memory of my babies in heaven. I am constantly reminded that nothing was left untouched by Aubrey and Ellie's death. And nothing ever will be. Their death is a part of my life. But I promised them I would not let their death ruin me, that I would do my best to find healing so that they could be proud of me. Now I have a new tradition. From now on I will sit down and decorate cookies with my children on earth and for my children in heaven. And that will just have to be how I think of it. Cookie decorating will never be the same. But then again, nothing will be.

New Perspective

2008-12-17T16:12:00.000-08:00

I feel like I am gaining a new perspective on the loss of my daughters as my grief changes. I don't feel less grief yet, but I do feel my grief differently. My pain used to be so raw and intense, and often hit without warning. Sometimes it still does, but not nearly as much. Now my pain is quieter. It is always there, but instead of being right on top of me all the time it shadows me almost. I always sense it, but there is a little more distance between it and me. And that little distance allows me a deeper understanding I think. At the very least it leaves some room for a deeper sense of peace.

I often struggle to accept that my perfectly healthy and properly developing babies got thrown into the world too soon and became profoundly sick and injured as a result, and eventually died. They were not born early because they were sick, they became sick because they were born early. And it was simply too much for them to overcome. Why I went into labor so early remains a mystery, which bothers me greatly. I have this sneaking suspicion that my body simply failed. I have forgiven myself for failing my girls. I know in my heart it was not intentional, just something that happened. But it still gets to me. They did not deserve what happened to them. They really didn't.

I don't understand why they were born early, but that does not change the fact that they were. And I don't understand why they became so sick, but they did. And the fear that I felt when I learned of their permanent brain damage was beyond explanation. I would stay awake at night wondering what kind of life was in store for them, what kind of pain and suffering might be in their future, both physically and emotionally. Wondering why them? Why did this happen to them?

To be honest I did not even know how to pray for them. I wanted them to live so badly. The thought of losing them was unimaginable. But with their quality of life so uncertain I had no idea what kind of life they would have. One doctor softly commented to us that some fates are worse than death. I was confused and scared. I didn't know what was best for them. I wanted them to live. But I didn't want them so suffer. I just wanted them to be ok. I was unimaginably conflicted. Either outcome was my worse fear realized. Why won't you heal them God? I would silently pray. Please, I beg you, make them well. Do something! Anything!

At their funeral I remember telling God that this was not what I meant at all. I wanted a miracle. I wanted my girls with me. I was so sad to say goodbye to them. As time passes my perspective is changing though. I can't help but wonder if my prayers for them were answered after all, just not in the way I had hoped. God did do something. He healed them. He just chose to restore them in heaven instead of on earth. I admit that I would have preferred to have them restored on earth. I just miss them so much. But I trust that God spared my girls from a life of pain and suffering. He knew how much losing my girls would hurt me. But maybe He also knew that living would hurt them more. As much as losing Aubrey and Ellie has broken my heart, I am beginning to truly recognize God's mercy in it. I no longer see only what was taken from me, but what was given to them. God saved my baby girls. And for that I am truly thankful.

No Babies to Dress Up

2008-12-15T13:09:00.000-08:00

The holidays are keeping me busy. Yet I still manage to find time to cry every single day. Grief always seems to find its way into my day. As Christmas is getting closer I feel myself growing more and more sad. I am coming to accept that there will be no babies for Christmas this year. Accepting that has revealed so many broken dreams and unmet expectations. And each one is like another cut on my already bleeding heart.

When I was pregnant with Aubrey and Ellie I had this vision of Christmas being the day of their big reveal. I would bring my precious little identical twin daughters home for Christmas and the whole family would be there to meet them. I envisioned having them dressed in identical outfits but with different colored headbands on their heads so everyone could tell them apart. They would have been so little still, probably not even three months old yet. I imagined nursing them while I sat in front of the fire in my parent's living room the same way I nursed my son when he was tiny. I had a dream of what having my girls for Christmas would be like, and I have had to let it all go. Every little detail is gone. And with it so is a part of my heart.

I was in the mall with a girlfriend the other day and I found two little infant outfits that would have been exactly what I would have bought for my girls to wear for Christmas this year. And to tell the truth I almost bought them anyway. I grew very attached to them as I imagined my little girls wearing them. But I thought about it and I made myself put both outfits back. Your girls are in heaven now I told myself. There are no babies to dress up for Christmas this year. It is a sad time for me.

Held

2008-12-05T11:25:00.000-08:00

When I was pregnant with my son over three years ago I heard a song on Christian radio by Natalie Grant called Held. I remembered it because when it would play I would cry. The first verse is about losing a baby, and with my unborn baby boy kicking in my belly the thought of losing him was too much to bare. I honestly thought losing a baby would be the worst imaginable pain. I didn't know that three years later I would no longer think, but know, exactly what losing not one but two babies feels like. And the pain is worse than I ever imagined.

This song is powerful. I can't listen to it without breaking down. And I mean breaking down. It stirs up in my heart the deep grief that seems to settle on the bottom. The grief I don't want to touch because the pain of it might cut me clean through. I am still so raw. I battle daily accepting that God allowed this. That the God I love and loves me took them anyway. I guess I am supposed to find comfort in being held through this. But I don't. I don't want to be held, I want to be doing the holding. I want my babies in my arms.

Held

Two months is too little.
They let him go.
They had no sudden healing.
To think that providence would
Take a child from his mother while she prays
Is appalling.

Who told us we’d be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We’re asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It’s unfair.

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.

This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred NUMB our sorrow.
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.

If hope is born of suffering.
If this is only the beginning.
Can we not wait for one hour watching for our Savior?

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.

I feel the arms of Jesus reaching for me even though I push them away. I am just so angry. It IS appalling to take two children from their mother while she prays. And I prayed! I begged! This IS what it feels like when the sacred is torn from my life and I survive. It is devastating. And jumping into God's arms like it is all ok with me is just not possible for me right now. None of this is ok with me. I know God is patient with me though. He is waiting with open arms while I inch closer to Him. I just need to know I don't have to pretend I am ok with what happened to be held. And I don't. God will hold me even when I am mad, when I feel confused, when I express my disappointment, when I am completely broken. God will hold me while I kick and scream. I just need to let him.

Someone Elses' Words

2008-12-02T19:31:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you, but sometimes, no matter how hard I try to put my emotions into words, it does not translate. And it is frustrating. Without the words to express myself the pain stays locked inside. When I struggle to give my pain a voice I read. Reading helps me think and sometimes I stumble across the words I was looking for. Today a friend of mine forwarded me a post from stillsearching.wordpress.com, the blog of a fellow Wheaton alum, who wrote a beautiful piece on Advent. I read it and was blown away. It was clear as I read his words that he was able to say what I could not. Sometimes others just say it better I guess. I included the post below. I added italics to the sentences that resonated most with me for emphasis. The words are beautiful.

Advent: A Beautiful and Sad Time of Year
December 2, 2008 · 8 Comments

"Though Thanksgiving is not a part of the liturgical season of Advent, I think it fits perfectly as segue or entry point into this period of the church calendar.

Advent, after all, is about anticipating and reflecting upon the mystery that is the Incarnation: the nearly incomprehensible moment when God entered human history by becoming a baby on earth. Thanksgiving is an appropriate predecessor, as a day that we set aside to take stock of what we have, what God has done for us, the bounties and blessings and loves he’s bestowed us. Thanksgiving gets us in the mode of self-effacing gratitude, but it doesn’t end there. It prepares our hearts and minds for the bigger, more solemn, more awesome experience of meditating upon God’s greatest and most mind-blowing gift ever: himself.

It puts everything into perspective. On Thanksgiving, I was amazed and shamed at all the things I have. I was thankful for all the usual stuff (family, friends, a house, my health) as well as some unusual stuff (walnuts, synthesizers, Japanese people, aging), but mostly I was just overwhelmed by the fact that I was even alive: that I existed when I just as well might not have existed, and that God orchestrated it for some spectacularly unfathomable reason.

It made me reflect on the preciousness of life, and how newborn babies often make us say things like “isn’t life a miracle” or some variation of “that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Which is weird, because babies are really not all that beautiful, in the way we typically conceive of beauty. They are actually a bit deformed and unseemly, what with their frog-like appendages flailing around and their crinkly, crying faces, etc. But we nevertheless are floored by the miracle and beauty of them. And I think it is our response to the very idea of life: of an existence that starts at a defined point, a someone that holds the promise of the world and an unknowing affirmation of everything in its gradually opening eyes. Above all, it’s a sense of wonder. How and where does this little person come into being? Why do we love it and it us? What is its purpose? It’s the supreme mystery of existence.

It’s fitting, then, that God chose to enter our human world as a newborn baby. He could have appeared out of thin air as a 21 year old, or as a 30-year-old prophet ready for some serious ministry. But he chose to start where everyone else starts: in the womb. His incarnation was always about working through—not outside of—creation to reveal himself to us in ways we could understand. And a baby who is born and grows up and dies is something we can understand. It was God coming down to our level to bless our unfortunate little existence by becoming part of it. And his name was Emmanuel—“God With Us.”

Speaking of that, I highly recommend the advent devotional book, God With Us, featuring essays and meditations by the likes of Scott Cairns, Kathleen Norris, and Luci Shaw. In the introduction to the book, which I read last night (Day 1 of Advent), Eugene Peterson captures so much of what I have been feeling about Advent. He writes:

There can’t be very many of us for whom the sheer fact of existence hasn’t rocked us back on our heels. We take off our sandals before the burning bush. We catch our breath at the sight of a plummeting hawk. “Thank you, God.” We find ourselves in a lavish existence in which we feel a deep sense of kinship—we belong here; we say thanks with our lives to Life. And not just “Thanks” or “Thank It,” but “Thank You.” Most of the people who have lived on this planet Earth have identified this You with God or gods. This is not just a matter of learning our manners, the way children are taught to say thank you as a social grace. It is the cultivation of adequateness within ourselves to the nature of reality, developing the capacity to sustain an adequate response to the overwhelming gift and goodness of life.
Wonder is the only adequate launching pad for exploring this fullness, this wholeness, of human life. Once a year, each Christmas, for a few days at least, we and millions of our neighbors turn aside from our preoccupations with life reduced to biology or economics or psychology and join together in a community of wonder. The wonder keeps us open-eyed, expectant, alive to life that is always more than we can account for, that always exceeds our calculations, that is always beyond anything we can make.

I love that Advent simultaneously forces us away from ourselves and our petty problems while also, in a way, affirming them. It’s a season of denying our self and our possibility in the face of the wholly Other that is the mysterious, Incarnate Emmanuel. But it’s also a chance for us to focus, to synthesize our various desires, issues, concerns, and identities into a cohesive oneness with the bewildering fact that we are here, and so is God. There’s a reason why we sing “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.” We share a planet—the dirt, air, water, DNA—with the creator of the universe. This is the most empowering and humbling fact of history, and the weight of it is immense. It is the reason Advent is historically a very solemn season: because the Incarnation cannot be taken lightly.

As I enter into Advent this year, I’m burdened by just as many hopes and fears as the next guy. There is pain and regret in my heart, love and confusion, physical and emotional imperfection, and immense exhaustion. I sometimes just want to drink eggnog or mulled wine and listen to Over the Rhine’s Darkest Night of the Year (for the record, probably the best Christmas album of all time) while languishing in self-pity and world weariness as stocks and bombs carry the torch of history’s tumultuous march.

And Advent accepts all that. It thrives on unsettledness, uncertainty, and despair. Which is kind of bleak for a holiday season that is typically thought of as the merriest season of all. Until we recognize that our pain makes Advent all the more meaningful—to look forward, expectantly, longingly, to the moment when all the pieces (of our lives, of history, of heaven and earth) come together in a monstrous cymbal crash that reverberates in every corner and cranny of the concert hall."

I hope that you found his writing as meaningful as I did. It helped me find more peace in the midst of the holidays. Losing Aubrey and Ellie is still fresh and painful, and the holiday season seems to reopen barely closed wounds. The more I fall apart however, the tighter I cling to Jesus. This time of year makes obvious what I lost. But it also reminds me of the hope I have, the comfort in the midst of my suffering, that only Jesus can provide. As was so eloquently stated above, my pain makes Advent all the more meaningful. I too have "pain and regret in my heart, love and confusion, physical and emotional imperfection, and immense exhaustion." The death of my daughters has left me broken in so many ways. I walk wearily to the arms of my Father for healing and "to look forward, expectantly, longingly, to the moment when all the pieces (of our lives, of history, of heaven and earth) come together." I will see my girls again. Advent makes that possible.

Fixation

2008-11-28T20:46:00.000-08:00

I am staring at the computer screen right now. I don't know what to write. Not because I don't have anything to say, but because I don't know where to start. How do I even begin to explain what it is like to exist after the death of both my babies? Is it even possible? Some things can only be experienced I think. Grief is impossible to imagine because our imagination at its best cannot conjure up the depth of the pain grief inflicts on our heart. Grief can't be anticipated. It is impossible to brace yourself for impact. And it hits so hard you can't even believe you are still alive. That is the hardest part. Grief doesn't kill you. It lets you live to experience every single painful moment. It is relentless. Grief is like torture.

I had a particularly hard day. I was fixated for some reason on what color hair Aubrey and Ellie would have had. It really bothers me that I will never know if they would have been blond or brunette. It isn't that I prefer one over the other, I just wish I had more details to imagine them with. I want to see their little faces in my mind as they were intended to be instead of so sick and discolored and premature. What color eyes would they have? Would their hair be curly or straight? Would they have freckles? What would they sound like? I would give anything to hear them just once. A cry, a laugh, it doesn't matter to me. To have a memory of their voices would be so precious to me. I just want to know them.

I don't get to know them in this life as I want to, but they are waiting for me in heaven, and there I will get an eternity to know them perfectly. That is the only thing that gets me through these days. My grief is only temporary. It doesn't feel temporary. But it is. If I can just hang in there until then I will see them again. Our separation is not permanent. Until heaven!

Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T10:16:00.000-08:00

Today is Thanksgiving. I have been cooking since early this morning. I love to cook and am happy to have Thanksgiving in our new home surrounded by family and friends, but I can't shake the feeling that Aubrey and Ellie are missing. If Aubrey and Ellie had lived I would not be here this morning. I would be at my parent's house, with my baby girls, showing them off to my whole family. They would probably be around two and a half months old now. I would have my hands full with three children under three and putting on Thanksgiving at my house would not even be an option this year. I wouldn't even consider it.

But here I am. No babies at all. And it makes me so sad. I honestly try to remember all the other blessings in my life but they only remind me of the two blessings that are gone. I still have moments of denial. I can't believe this all really happened, that my baby girls are dead. It just seems too horrible to be true.

Now that the holidays are here the adjustment to life without Aubrey and Ellie is even more apparent. There are no babies for Thanksgiving. There will be no babies for Christmas. No little bundles to dress in warm hats and socks. No matching dresses with tights that have ruffles on the bum. I have time now to decorate the house and make Christmas cookies and throw parties. But I don't want it. I want Aubrey and Ellie. I am doing my best to make this holiday season fun and meaningful, especially for my son who is now old enough to be thrilled to death over presents and decorations, but I would be lying if I didn't admit that deep down I resent it. It is hard to celebrate with the loss of my girls still so recent. I don't feel like celebrating. I feel like crying. For the rest of my life two of my children will be missing from every holiday. My two little girls won't be at the Thanksgiving table today or any other day.

Losing Aubrey and Ellie has changed my perspective on everything and realigned my priorities extensively. I do recognize the blessings in my life. But I still hurt. I still feel the emptiness of losing them. I still have an ache in my heart that never seems to go away. This is not at all what I ever wanted to happen. I still dream about them and long for them. I wanted them so badly and accepting their death is a constant emotional battle. They are my precious girls and I will miss them at every holiday forever. Truthfully, I will miss them forever no matter what day it is.

Unexpected Return

2008-11-19T18:26:00.000-08:00

Today my son had an MRI. He has been having dizzy spells that we can't find the cause of. The doctors want to rule out the worst case scenario so they scheduled an MRI for him today at Children's Hospital, the hospital Aubrey was transferred to and eventually died in. Where we took my son was in a different part of the hospital and at first it didn't feel too reminiscent of our time there with Aubrey. But while wheeling my son to recovery we walked right down the hall to the NICU and past the room we sat in with Aubrey after we removed her from life support and held her while she slowly left us.

Those few steps through that familiar place felt like slow motion. I remember emerging from that room with my dead daughter in my arms covered in a blanket. I remember all the eyes on me as I walked her through the NICU and placed her back on her bed. I remember telling the nurse to keep Aubrey warm and to be careful not to hurt her while removing all her tubes and tape. I looked around and saw alive babies on all sides. But my baby was dead. Both my babies were dead. One nightmare ended as another began. Our girls were gone. We signed some papers and went home. It was horrible.

I was not expecting to return to that part of the hospital today, nor was I expecting to remember so vividly my experience there. When the memories come back so does all the what ifs and regrets. Not a moment goes by that I don't wonder if some how the outcome could have been different. I just don't understand what happened, why my beautiful baby girls came so early and left too soon, why this is part of my life at all?

My life was not supposed to be like this. I can only pray that God gives me peace and the ability to accept my daughters' deaths and all the heartache that goes with it. I never wanted to let go of my girls. Laying them back on their beds and walking away from them was crushing. I didn't want to leave them, but in truth they had already left me. All I have now are memories. I never want to let go of those memories, but I do want to let go of all the what ifs and regrets. I just don't know how.

Numb

2008-11-18T17:08:00.001-08:00

I thought the numb phase had passed. At the very beginning I remember being aware of my numbness. The night after Ellie died I didn't shed a tear. I just laid in bed, completely numb, and fell asleep. I didn't feel anything about anything. Not a single feeling existed in my body. I don't even think I had any thoughts. I was just a body, my heart and soul had shut down, and I was fresh out of tears. When I walked out into the parking lot after Aubrey died and squinted my eyes in the brightness I felt as though I entered the twilight zone. I was a hollow woman. Nothing lived inside me but emptiness. No feelings. No emotions. Nothing.

In only a matter of days the numbness wore off though, and my pain was excruciating. Both of my babies were dead. I went from having no feelings at all to feeling every painful emotion that exists all at once. I thought feeling had returned. But I realize now that I can only feel my pain. I am still numb in almost every other way. As I sit here writing this I can't deny my indifference to the rest of the things in my life that cause me to feel. I have shut out anything else that might add to my pain. I just can't cope with more pain or disappointment. I just can't.

I don't know what to do. I can only pray that God will save me from myself. That God will give me the strength I need to risk feeling again. I can't be numb forever and I don't want to be. I want to feel EVERYTHING, not just the agony of my daughters' deaths. I want my life to become real to me again. I want to feel again.

Bleeding to Death

2008-11-17T19:38:00.000-08:00

Grief is more far reaching than I ever imagined. The pain is deeper than I even realize. I know it is there but I am so delirious with the pain of it that I don't even realize how deep the wound goes. I have heard war veterans talk about how they got shot and didn't even realize it until they had almost bled to death. They knew something was wrong, they knew they felt strange and weak, but they had no idea they were bleeding to death. That is grief. I feel strange and weak, but I am not completely aware of just how much my broken heart is bleeding. I know I am hurt, but I am not sure how badly. The difference is with grief you don't bleed to death. You bleed to unawareness. Somehow I have lost myself in my pain. I have become someone different. Someone I don't recognize. Someone I never wanted to be.

Aubrey and Ellie's death has changed me forever. In some ways I am changed for the better I guess. But I am not really sure. But in other ways I have changed for the worse. Of that I am sure. I feel that I have lost my way a bit. My heart is still bleeding all over the place, I just don't always realize it. Hopefully I can not only regain what was lost in me, but that God will turn my weakness into strength. I want to feel strong again. I want to feel like myself again.

What is Good?

2008-11-10T09:28:00.000-08:00

God works all things for good for those who love him. I must repeat that to myself a thousand times a day. I believe it to be true but it doesn't take my pain away. It is an unfair trade if you ask me. What does it mean? What is good? Better than Aubrey and Ellies' lives? Better than loving and raising my two precious daughters? Better than a life and future with my girls? I don't think so. So what is this good God promises because it doesn't seem that good to me?

Losing Aubrey and Ellie has brought me face to face with the harsh realities of life. Some things can happen in life that no amount of good can make up for. Good is a relative term that changes depending on life's circumstances. But I wonder, is the good God promises an ultimate good? Is His good different from what I understand good to be? Is His good always truly good regardless of circumstances or my perception of it?

I think it is. What is ultimately good for us is to be transformed. To become more like Christ. That is the good God promises. And that ultimate good, although it does not always feel good, is truly good. God did not allow my girls to die so that I could become more like Christ, but He will use it for my good, to transform me and draw me closer to Him because only there will I find the comfort and healing I need to go on. He will not allow my daughters' deaths to be meaningless. His good offers what nothing else can, purpose in my suffering.

I don't think I will ever prefer the good God promises in this life to keeping Aubrey and Ellie. I wish I could say that the good is worth it, but I can't. I would trade it all to have Aubrey and Ellie back in a heartbeat. I have been honest with God about that. But I am thankful that in my suffering there is meaning. I don't think I could go on if it was all for nothing.

Healing

2008-11-09T19:41:00.000-08:00

I was driving in the car today and a song came on the radio by Lifehouse called "Broken" that touched my heart. I felt like it was written for me. It describes exactly how I feel since Aubrey and Ellie died. Just a few days before I heard it I hit my knees begging God to speak to me. I was so broken. I realized that I have distanced myself from God. I have been relying too heavily on what I know to be true about God and but longing for the emotional comfort and peace that only comes from Him. I was desperate for something more. I prayed that God would help me to feel, and not just know, that He is with me. And He answered my prayer right then. In my mind I heard Him say to me, "You will be ok, I sill got you." I was so touched. And so thankful. For the first time in a long time I could feel God comforting me. It was deeply healing. I used to tell my girls, "God's got you," when I talked to them in their incubators but I think I forgot that "God's got me" too. When I heard this song in the car it reminded me of what God did for me this week. I am in pain, I am still hurting so much, but in pain there is healing. I am holding on because in His name I find meaning. And I will be ok.

Broken

The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight

Maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time

I am here still waiting though i still have my doubts

I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing

With a broken heart that's still beating

In the pain, there is healing

In Your name I find meaning

So I'm holdin' on, I'm holdin' on, I'm holdin' on

I'm barely holdin' on to you

The broken locks were a warning you got inside my head

I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead

I still see your reflection inside of my eyes

that are looking for purpose, they're still looking for life

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing

with a broken heart that's still beating

In the pain (in the pain), is there healing?

In Your name (in Your name) I find meaning

So I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'), I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'),

I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin')I'm barely holdin' on to you

I'm hangin' on another day

just to see what you throw my way

And I'm hanging on to the words you say,

You said that I will be OK

The broken lights on the freeway left me here alone

I may have lost my way now, haven't forgotten my way home

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing

with a broken heart that's still beating

In the pain(In the pain) there is healing

In Your name I find meaning

So I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'), I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'),

I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'), I'm barely holdin' on to you

I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'), I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'),

I'm holdin' on (I'm still holdin'),I'm barely holdin' on to you

Simply Worth It

2008-11-06T14:07:00.000-08:00

Losing Aubrey and Ellie has put my life under a microscope. Every aspect of my life has been magnified a thousand times. The cracks in my life, the weak areas, are proving to be more fragile than ever. But the solid parts of my life are holding fast. They are stronger than I even realized. I have learned that I am both stronger and weaker than I thought. My perception of myself has changed as I am stripped to the core. It was one thing to imagine how I might respond if something tragic ever happened to me, it is another to actually find myself here. It is so different than I imagined. I now realize that no one is capable of imagining this kind of pain, it can't be conjured up in the mind or viewed from the outside. It can only be experienced first hand. And it is worse than I ever imagined it could be. Beyond worse.

I think life can be so disappointing. And lonely. And scary. Just existing assumes so much risk. We are all destined for life-altering heartache. We risk incapacitating pain every time we love someone, hope for something, or dream of the future. We may lose who we love, never get what we hoped for, and our dreams may be stolen from us. Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it. Why do we set ourselves up for disappointment like that? Wouldn't it be safer to not love, to not care, to not hope, to not dream?

Absolutely Not! The depth of my pain may match the depth of my love for Aubrey and Ellie, but I would not trade one second of that love, one moment of knowing them, to ease even a fraction of my pain. Some things are simply worth it. And loving them is worth it. I can't help but think of how God must feel the same way about us. His heart must break so profoundly for us. The infinite depth of His love must make His pain unfathomable. Yet it is worth it to Him also. He still loves us. He still pursues us. He still has a purpose and future for us. He still blesses us. We are worth it to Him. I am worth it to Him. And my girls are worth it to me.

Can't Stand It

2008-11-02T20:08:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I freak out inside. I feel like my world is caving in around me. I can't stand that Aubrey and Ellie died. I CAN'T STAND IT! Grief and sorrow pile on top of me like rubble. Before I know it I am buried and suffocating, the entire weight of it on me at once. And it infuriates me. It is a battle I can't win. I am fighting with everything I've got, but I am no match for the magnitude of my grief. When I surrender to my grief it overwhelms me. When I resist my grief it pursues me relentlessly. When I question my grief I find no answers. When I collapse in exhaustion my grief tramples me. When I muster up new strength my grief intensifies. I can't get away from it. If I could gnaw off the part of me caught in grief's trap I probably would, but all of me is tangled up in it. There is not a single cell in my body that does not feel the pain of losing Aubrey and Ellie. I literally feel sick with grief.

I get a knot in my throat sometimes that can take hours to go away. I think I get it on the days I try really hard not to cry. Some days I am so sick and tired of crying I fight off my tears all day long. When I get in bed at night I realize that my throat hurts from chocking back my tears and my neck and shoulders are tense and sore. I get frustrated because I have to decide which kind of exhausted I want to be at the end of every day, exhausted from crying all day or exhausted from trying not to cry all day. It is frustrating. I am really exhausted.

I cannot explain how badly I wish this never happened. I love my girls. I often feel that being without them is just too much to ask of me. Most days I just don't know how I will ever go on, how my life will ever be good again. I feel as though I will never be ok again. And that scares me. If only they didn't die I would never experience any of this. They would be healthy and beautiful and here with me. I would be exhausted and happy and in my glory with my sweet baby girls. I would never know this depth of pain. I would still be ok. We would all still be ok.

The hardest thing about losing Aubrey and Ellie is the finality of it all. Yes, it would be so much better if this didn't happen, but it did happen and no amount of wishing, arguing, questioning, praying, or demanding will change it. My baby girls are dead. They are never coming back. I will never hold them, see them, or be with them again until heaven. And until then I will hurt. My life will never be normal. My family will never be whole. My heart will always be missing two pieces.

Halloween

2008-11-01T14:23:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was Halloween. I dressed my son like Oliver Twist. He looked so cute. My husband and I took him to the Harvest Festival at our church so that he could play games and have fun. It was a beautiful day and nice to be outside, but I was hurting inside. While pregnant with Aubrey and Ellie I looked forward to Halloween. I knew they would be born by now for sure and I was excited to dress them up in sweet little costumes only twins could pull off like two peas in a pod or yin and yang. Something darling. But just as Halloween has come and gone so have my precious babies. Two babies to dress up for Halloween is just one more unrealised dream of a future with Aubrey and Ellie that will never be. And it made me sad. I know this is just the beginning of the difficulty of the holiday season. So many things are on the horizon that will only deepen my pain and magnify the loss of my babies. I expected to have them for Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. I planned on bringing in the New Year with them and every New Year from then on. I had a whole lifetime planned with them. Life is so sad sometimes. I miss my girls.

Didn't Go

2008-10-30T20:26:00.000-07:00

I did not visit the cemetery. I just couldn't bring myself to go. I honestly had intentions to go, but I was too scared. And too sad. I knew that I would break down and I did not want my son to see me like that. I also wanted to read a letter to each of my girls, but was unable to prepare them. I didn't feel right going there unprepared. I guess it just wasn't time yet. I feel terrible that I have all these opportunities to visit their grave and don't go. But I just can't. It is too painful. Someday I will find the courage to visit them. Someday I will find the strength to kneel down in the grass and touch their headstone. Someday I will sit with them and read the letters I wrote while I cry and miss them. I think what I dread the most is not the going there. It is the leaving. Leaving the cemetery on the day of their funeral made their death so real. And I fear that leaving them again will only make it more real. You would think my empty belly and painful scar would be enough to convince me of that already. How much more real could it get right? Was holding each of my babies in my arms as they took their last breath not enough to drive it home? Does an empty nursery and their death certificates and the deed to the cemetery plot leave any question that they are gone? No it doesn't. Yet with each passing day, somehow, the reality sets in even more. I don't even know how. But it does. And the pain of those moments is excruciating. I know that seeing their headstone is going to hurt profoundly. And I am just not ready for that yet. I will be someday, but not today. I hope my girls understand.

Anxious Observer

2008-10-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

At my aunt's memorial service on Saturday I could not help but watch my uncle and cousins the entire time. I observed anxiously, trying to read them. I recognized in their faces the intensity of their pain. Their body language exposed their grief. I empathized with their brokenness in some ways but not in others. It is hard to watch people you love hurting so profoundly, especially when my own pain is still so fresh. I know how unbearable it really is. I worry for them.

I prayed today for them and for every person in the world that is grieving, has grieved, and will grieve the loss of some one they love. Watching others grieve stirs up so much of my own grief it almost makes me sick. I feel scared and sad for others who are experiencing such pain. I watch helplessly as they uniquely endure their loss. I feel anxious because I know how hard and lonely this journey is. And it is lonely. So unbelievably lonely. I hurt for them as I myself hurt.

I know how devastating losing Aubrey and Ellie has been for me and I can only assume that other kinds of loss, although not identical to mine, are just as devastating. My uncle asked me how long the pain lasts. I couldn't really answer him. I told him that his loss is different than mine and that he is different than me, but for me it has not yet ended, that it will take a while. He thanked me for being honest but I could tell he was not encouraged. I too wish the pain would pass more quickly, but it doesn't. It takes a lot of time, too much time in my opinion.

I know that God will help them through their grief just as He is helping me through mine. I know that God will carry them just as He has carried me. But it will still be hard for them just as it is hard for me. They will have many hard days and tear-filled nights. I still have many of those ahead of me. I can only watch anxiously and pray for God's comfort for all of us. He has enough for all of us thankfully. Even when we feel like enough does not exist.

A Sliver of Light

2008-10-24T12:47:00.000-07:00

The last four days have been the hardest in a long time. I felt like I was caught in a storm again. It is so easy to feel exhausted, overwhelmed, and disoriented. The waves of grief were pounding me one after the other. And I struggled. I felt like I was hanging on for dear life but unsure if it was even worth it. I wanted to let go and just be overcome. Grief is a lot like water. It can be relentless, eroding away every coping mechanism, striping me of any strength or strategy to endure this sad season of my life. Aubrey and Ellie's death has truly shattered me and sometimes I feel as though the pieces will never be put back together. I am simply broken, forever.

But today I see a sliver of light. I feel a hint of warmth on my face. I was in a storm but now the storm has subsided and the clouds are clearing. Light is breaking through. And there I am, holding on to a life raft, tired and soaking wet, bobbing up and down with the small swells of the sea. The waves are gone. The rain has past. I am still in the ocean of my grief and looking around from my raft land is no where in sight, but for the moment there is calm, there is light, and there is warmth. There is hope.

It is easy for me to see God in the calm. But He was there in the storm too. He has not abandoned me during this time. He is what keeps me afloat. He held my head above water through every powerful wave. When I could not see, He was guiding me. When I could not swim, He held me up. When I wanted to cast myself into the sea and give up, He quieted the storm and let the sun shine through. Another storm will come. My hard days have not come to an end. But I am so thankful for God's sufficient grace. I will remember this day when the hard days hit again. I can trust that there is light in these dark times. I have experienced it. God is so faithful. His Word is true. He comforts those who mourn. His comfort is real to me today.

I am still sad. My heart is still broken. God's comfort does not remove the pain, but it does sustain me through it. I feel the pieces being put together one by one. I will always miss Aubrey and Ellie though. And I know I have many more tears to cry for them. At least for today though I can have a little sun on my face in between the tears. For the moment I can catch my breath.

Headstone

2008-10-22T19:25:00.001-07:00

My dad called me today to tell me that Aubrey and Ellie's headstone has finally been set on their grave and that it is beautiful. I have not yet visited them in the cemetery. I can't bring myself to go. But I have plans to finally see them this weekend while I am visiting my parents to attend my aunt's memorial service. I want to write them each a letter and read it to them while I sit on their grave. I know I will water the grass with my tears. I will also bring them the most beautiful flowers I can find. Most importantly I am going to spend some time with my girls. I realize they are in heaven and not really in that tiny casket but I think going there will be good for me. It will be a huge step. I will put their letters in their memory boxes when I come home and hold my time at their graveside close to my heart. I need these things to keep me going. Any connection to my girls helps me cope. Any memory I can make with them brings me comfort. I miss them so much.

Doll Clothes

2008-10-22T18:52:00.001-07:00

I was in the craft store today and I came across an entire isle of doll clothes. I found all kinds of beautiful and tiny little outfits that would have fit my girls perfectly. Adorable little dresses with ruffles and hats. Tiny sweaters with matching mittens and booties. Even shoes. Tiny little shoes. I was filled with gut wrenching regret. I should have dressed them before they were buried. I should have found doll clothes for my girls and made them look pretty before they were laid to rest. I am their mother, I should have done that for them. I wish I could go back in time and make a different decision. But I can't. It makes me so sad.

Not dressing them before they were buried is not my only regret. I have a million regrets. I regret not paying more attention while I was pregnant. Maybe I could have prevented their premature birth? I should have protected them better. After they were born I only visited them in the NICU two or three times a day. After I was discharged only once a day. I should have visited more and stayed longer. I never took any video of them. Why did I not do that? I had the opportunity to sit next to Ellie's incubator and look at her while I pumped my milk, but I never got the chance to do that with Aubrey. I hope she can forgive me and knows that I love her as much as I love her sister. I also didn't visit Aubrey in the hospital the Sunday before she died. Everyday I think how God gave me a day with her that I took for granted. Every time I wish for just one more day with my girls I think how I did have one more day with Aubrey that I didn't take advantage of. I feel like a horrible mother.

It is really hard to forgive myself for not doing all the things I should have done. And everyday brings a new regret. It is all part of the process I guess. Part of the grief process. Someday I hope that I can let go of all the ways I failed my girls and accept that I did the best I could under the circumstances. I hope they know that I tried to be the best mother I could to them and that I love them with my whole being. I hope my love for them can find its way to heaven.

Fed Up

2008-10-21T19:56:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning completely fed up. I looked at myself in the mirror and I saw a worn out woman staring back. My eyes were puffy from crying the night before and I looked awful. I am so over feeling broken and sad all the time. I just don't know what to do with myself anymore. I want this whole miserable process to be finished. I am sick of carrying it and dealing with it and fighting it and feeling it and wrestling with it and crying about it. My heart aches all the time. I am exhausted. And I want more than a break from the pain, I want it to end. I just want it to be over.

If only it was that simple.

Nothing about my daughters' deaths is simple. And nothing will make the pain simply vanish. It is a burden I will carry for the rest of my life. Their loss has complicated my life in ways I did not think possible. Normal daily living is harder than it has ever been. Simple tasks overwhelm me. I get frustrated with the demands of being a wife and a mother. I just want to be left alone to deal with my pain by myself, uninterrupted. I can't seem to keep myself motivated. I lose track of time. Half way through something I forget what I am doing. I feel like I am losing my mind sometimes. I constantly fight the urge to check out on life every day. I don't want to cook dinner or fold laundry or go to the grocery store. I just want to do nothing and stare into space and think about my girls. The present overwhelms me. The future scares me. I used to love being alive. I embraced the present and welcomed the future. The possibilities were exciting. Now all I foresee is a lifetime of pain. A lifetime of sorting out how to live without my girls. And more opportunities for loss and pain. I am scared now. Bad things can and do happen. It is frightening.

I think part of what is making me so fed up is how hard I am fighting to resist giving in to the process. I fight it sometimes because walking through the grief hurts and I don't want to hurt anymore. It is far worse than I imagined it would be. I am scared of how bad the pain might get. I don't want to find out how much worse I can hurt. I hurt badly enough already. I am overwhelmed. I have hit the wall. It has been a hard last couple of days. The hardest in a while. I hope it lets up soon.

Another Death

2008-10-20T17:02:00.000-07:00

Today my aunt died. Cancer. She is with the Lord now without question and no longer suffering. I rejoice that she is whole, but I am still very sad. I loved her. She was always a good aunt to me and my sisters. She loved us. Her and I also formed a unique bond when my girls died. She also lost a baby daughter over thirty five years ago. She was so broken hearted for me. She knew my pain. I found comfort in that.

I went to visit her two weeks ago. I wanted to spend time with her and tell her how much I loved her. She was very sick and in pain. I sat in her room while she slept. And when she woke up I rubbed her feet. She asked me how I was doing and I started to cry. First of all I could not believe that she was asking about me in her condition. I guess that is just the kind of person she was. She truly cared about others. And she knew I was hurting. And she was right, I was and I still am. She hugged me and told me that she knows how hard it is, that she cried on her daughter's birthday for twenty years, but life is still full of so many blessings. That she feels so blessed. She must have said how blessed she felt twenty times. Hearing her say that gave me hope. She had made it through her grief to live her life, and not just any life, but one full of blessings. If she could I know I will too. It will just take time.

My aunt will be dearly missed by many. A lot of people love her. I wish she could still be with us, but I do think it is beautiful that she met her daughter in heaven today. I am sure she never stopped longing to see her baby, no matter how blessed her life was. And that ache in her heart is finally gone. She is with her daughter. And they are both with the Lord. There is peace in that. At least for me.

The Nursery

2008-10-20T16:02:00.000-07:00

I was standing in Aubrey and Ellie's nursery today trying to think how to rearrange the furniture in it to transform it into a guest room. I was trying to make room for a queen size mattress so that when guests come stay at our house they have some where to sleep since the room is not being used right now. I want to put up one crib in the room because I hope to have another baby in the future. But which crib should I put up, Aubrey's or Ellie's? I want to give the other crib back to my mom. But again, which one? It sickens me that I will eventually have to pick. This is a decision I should never have to make.

I hate these days when decisions have to be made to move forward with life. That nursery was supposed to be for Aubrey and Ellie. It was never supposed to be a guest room. It was never supposed to be for any other purpose than for my baby girls. I just stood in the door way staring. I could feel resentment and sad anger building up in me. It felt very much the same as picking out their plot and headstone. I hated that day. Every moment was torture. I just hate that this happened and all the decisions that come with it.

I resent so much that everything got so screwed up when Aubrey and Ellie died. Losing them changed everything. My life will never be the same. I will never be the same. And their empty nursery only pours salt on my wounds. I still call the nursery Aubrey and Ellie's room. I don't know what else to call it. There is a rocking chair in the corner I had dreams of rocking them to sleep in. Sometimes I just sit in it and cry. Some days are just so hard. Today was one of them.

The Decision

2008-10-15T07:54:00.000-07:00

After Aubrey and Ellie died I was faced with the biggest decision of my life. I was completely devastated and in shock, yet I knew that I was at a crossroad. I had to decide to walk through my grief to reach the healing on the other side or let my grief overwhelm me and leave me wrecked and miserable for the rest of my life. To be honest, at first I did just want to lay down and die. I could not imagine ever feeling anything but pain again. Yet I knew that I had to commit to the process of healing even if I could not fathom ever reaching the end. I had to at least try. And not just for my sake, but for the sake of my husband and son, and for my girls. My girls may have died, but I was still alive and I had to learn to live again or I was afraid my grief would swallow me up. My son needs a happy mom, my husband needs a whole wife, and I wanted to honor my girls by living a full life. I eventually decided that I was determined to make it through. I was going to make it to the other side no matter what. Looking back though I see that I had no idea what making such a decision would require of me. I could not fathom the fight ahead of me. I still can't. I am blindsided daily by the difficulty of healing. But I'm along for the ride no matter where it takes me. I literally hold on for dear life and pray that at the end of it I will find the peace I am desperately seeking.

I often reflect on the exact moment I made the decision to find my way through my grief. I was sitting in front of my daughter's casket staring at it. I have never felt such anguish in my life. I often describe that day as the worst day of my life. Attending Aubrey and Ellie's funeral was my worst nightmare realized and the finality of their death was emotionally sickening. I could barely endure it. I wanted to crawl inside their casket and be buried with them. I could not imagine feeling pain more painful than what I felt that day. Yet, in the midst of my paralyzing pain, I felt a peace. I believed for the first time since their death that I would make it, that I could keep living even though they were gone. It would not be easy, but I didn't have to figure it out alone. It would be OK. And my girls were OK. I decided right then that no matter how hard the process became, I would not give up. And so my journey began.

I remember telling myself that now I get to find out what I am made of. And you know what I have discovered? I am made of tears and snot! I wish I could say that I discovered how strong I am but I haven't. I found out that I am not strong enough for this. Losing my girls stripped me of any strength I thought I had. I can honestly say that my own strength has not moved me a single step forward, that God has carried me every step of the way. His strength is what gets me through. His comfort keeps me striving for healing. His word and promises give me hope. I don't know where I would be without God's faithfulness.

The process has proven to be harder than I ever imagined it though. I often want to give up. And at times I probably have. But God gives me a renewed strength and is patient with me as I travel uniquely through my grief. Every morning I wake up and say, "OK God, it is you and me together today." And He is so faithful. It has been over three months now and I am still pushing on. It has not been easy though. I have been discouraged many times. Grief is messy and confusing. There is no rhyme or reason to the process. Just when I think I can't hurt anymore than I do, somehow I feel the loss of my girls even more deeply. When I don't think I have one more tear to cry, more tears come. When I think I am finally taking a step forward I get knocked back ten steps. Grief is pretty relentless. And I just keep taking blow after blow. I don't know what is ahead of me. I do know that I still have a long way to go. I do know that I am so tired and still so sad. I know that I hate grief and I hate that my girls died. I don't know how this became my life. But it is my life and all I can do is the best I can. I remain committed to my healing journey.

Yelling to God

2008-10-13T15:03:00.000-07:00

Today has been a hard day. All I can think about is how God could have asked this of me? In my conversations with God today I find myself shaking my head in painful disbelief. My feelings are deeply hurt. I feel betrayed. How could He require me to endure this tremendous loss? How could He ever allow such a thing to happen? HOW? Doesn't He know how much this has broken my heart and crushed my spirit? How incapacitating my pain is? That asking me to live my life without my girls is too much to ask of me? THIS IS TOO MUCH TO ASK OF ME GOD!!!! How will I ever get through this? Honestly, how could shattering my hopes and dreams and allowing my girls to die be necessary at all for them, me or my family? There were so many less painful outcomes God could have allowed. Why did He allow the most painful outcome possible? Doesn't He know my heart and how much I love my children...that asking this of me is unnecessary and feels cruel? I am so hurt. Truly crushed. And desperatedly sad.

I know that God understands my anger. After I get done yelling my disappointments to God I often realize that I am not really angry but desperate to vent my pain. I just miss my girls. Living without them is so hard for me. I would really like some one or something to blame for all the pain I feel. I have tried to be mad at God but I just can't be. I have tried to blame Him but I truly know that my girl's death was not his fault. And I know that He was merciful to them. I am not mad really. Just horribly sad and broken hearted.

At times I do wish I could punch God for allowing this to happen. But in reality no punching is necessary. God knows how I feel fully and completely. I don't have to make Him hurt like I hurt, He already carries the burden of my pain. He knows the full weight of my pain would crush me so He helps me shoulder the load. His presence in my life and the fullness of his comfort is as real as my pain. It is possible to feel so sad and yet be comforted by the Lord at the same time. And thank God for that! I will probably never know how God could have allowed this to happen, but I do know He does not expect me to endure without His help. He will sustain me until the day I meet my girls in heaven, however long that will be. I lean heavily on that promise.

The Due Date

2008-10-09T18:37:00.000-07:00

Today would have been my girl's due date. I knew this day would come and I knew that it would be hard. To be honest though I don't find it any harder than any other day without my girls. Since Aubrey and Ellie went to be with Jesus my days have been the hardest of my life. It does not matter what the date is, each day is another day without my babies. Waking up each morning still brings tears. My favorite place to cry is in the shower because the water washes my tears away and muffles the sound of my sobbing. Getting on with the rest of the day is easier some days than others. For some reason I often cry in the car. Days that require a lot of driving are harder than days at home. And once I crawl in bed I always cry again. Some nights I shed only a few tears, other nights many tears. It just depends. I miss my girls most at night when the house is quiet and dark. I listen to the silence and think of them because I know I will never hear them cry for me. I don't even know what they sound like. They never cried while they were alive because of the breathing tube in their throat. It makes me sad that I never heard their voices. It is just one more thing I will never know about them.

I didn't have an emotional break down today. I wasn't a mess. I just felt deeply sad all day, like I do everyday. I thought a lot today about what my sadness feels like. My sadness is acute and constant. It envelops me like air, always all around me, eerily silent and always present. I can't see it, it isn't tangible, but I feel it with every ounce of my being every second of every day. It lives in me too, unchanging and unyielding. Sometimes my sadness surges like a storm, pummeling me with intense emotions, battering me with painful reminders of what I have lost, and when those storms come I am often left feeling kicked while I'm down. But even when the storm dies down, my sadness does not subside. It is always there, lingering. I think I have all the symptoms of a real broken heart. Seriously, my heart actually hurts. I don't think a broken heart is just a figure of speech.

My sadness has become a part of me, a part of who I am now, and slowly I am learning to function with it. I think it will be a long time until I feel any relief from my sadness. Losing my girls is the most painful thing I have ever experienced. I don't expect it to ever fully go away. This kind of pain doesn't just leave one day. But I do trust that God will help me learn to live with it. And I know he has carried me during the worst of it. I have crumbled under the weight of my pain at times, and I have felt God carry me through those times. I know that while He is holding me He is also holding my girls and all three of us are in the arms of our Savior at the same time. It is the closest I can get to my girls in this life. I am thankful for God's grace during this time, but I would still trade all the comfort God has bestowed on me since Aubrey and Ellie's death to have them back. That is just the honest truth. I just miss them so much.

So Many Losses

2008-10-06T08:45:00.001-07:00

On Sunday I was driving in the car to my GriefShare class. I was all alone, thinking and missing my girls. Their due date is right around the corner and I often ponder how life would be different if we were still expecting them any day. I recalled that when I was pregnant with them I constantly imagined what the day of their birth might be like. I hoped and prayed for a natural, medication-free birth just like I had with my son and I was looking forward to surprising all the doctors when I gave birth to twins without an epidural. I imagined Kirk's face as he saw his little daughters come into the world. He was in Iraq when our son was born so Aubrey and Ellie's birth was going to be a first for him. But mostly I imagined that special moment when we would take our first family picture. I wanted one of those priceless once in a lifetime photographs of Aubrey and Ellie in my arms and our son in my husbands' arms, looking delirious with exhaustion and happiness, marveling at our perfectly beautiful family. It didn't even matter to me if I looked terrible from hours of labor, I had my heart set on that picture. I prayed for that picture and thanked God in advance for that miracle moment. But it would never be. As I drove I started to cry. It hit me that I was grieving the loss of that moment. I was and still am grieving the loss of that photograph. Losing my girls has truly cost me so much.

As the loss of my daughters sinks in I feel new losses all the time. I didn't only lose them, I lost every memory that never came to be. And I grieve the loss of those memories. Just when I think I might be coping a little better a flood of new grief comes over me as I am hit with the magnitude of Aubrey and Ellie's death. Just the other day my mom showed me two darling overcoats she bought for my sister's two small daughters. They were pink with white fur around the collar and the sleeves. When I saw the coats my heart got so sad because they were exactly what I wanted to dress my girls in. I had dreams of dressing them in matching coats with white tights and black Mary Jane shoes. I have to grieve the loss of ever dressing them up as I hoped.

Before Aubrey and Ellie were put in their casket I was asked if I wanted to dress them in something to be buried in. I said that I didn't because I didn't have anything for them. That they were so small the only clothes that would have fit them were doll clothes. But in reality I didn't want to dress them because I was too scared to see them again. To this day I regret that decision. I am grieving the loss of that opportunity. I should have dressed my babies. I should have looked at them and touched them and dressed them and put little hats on them and wrapped them in a blanket and held them and kissed them one last time before I put them in their casket to be buried. But I was scared. I was so devastated with grief that I didn't have it in me at that moment to say yes. I will always regret not saying yes. But I know Aubrey and Ellie forgive me. The hard part is forgiving myself and letting go of what will never be.

Nightmares

2008-10-02T19:23:00.000-07:00

Since Aubrey and Ellie died I have had nightmares. Scary, tormenting nightmares. I had a lot of them in the beginning. But they occur less and less as time goes by. They used to be terrifying. They seemed so real that I would wake up confused and upset. Sometimes I would even scream or cry out in my sleep. Now I don't have nightmares as much, but I constantly dream about them, which is just as emotional. I dream I am holding them, but I wake up with empty arms. It makes me sad.

The first night after both girls had died I had a dream that I was in the middle of the ocean treading water in rough seas with one of my babies in each hand. I was desperately trying to keep them above water. I was using all my strength to keep swimming but over time I grew tired and I dropped my babies into the sea. In my dream I was frantically grabbing at them but the waves knocked them out of my reach. They slowly disappeared in the water and I was helpless to save them. Just as I started to drown I woke up. I cried for hours after that.

I think my dream that night represented the helplessness I felt. I struggle daily wondering if I could have done more to help my girls live. It was so frustrating just looking at them through the incubator glass. I felt as though I failed them. I should have kept them in my belly longer but my body failed in the worst way. Now they were sick, and not getting well, and there was nothing I could do but pray.

I often feel guilty for not knowing how to pray for Aubrey and Ellie. I am so thankful that God knew what my girls needed even when I didn't. I find peace in that. It was disheartening to not know what was best for my own children. I remember praying, "Please God, just do something." I don't even know what I meant by that, but God knew. He heard the desperate plea of my scared and broken heart for my precious daughters. And eventually God did do something, he took my girls to heaven. I find comfort knowing they are whole now and not suffering, and I trust God. I know he did the most merciful and loving thing that could have been done for my girls under the circumstances. But not a second goes by that I don't ask God why he didn't let me keep them. I really wanted to keep them. I know I will see them again someday, but in the meantime I still miss them. I really really miss them.

Small Special Things

2008-09-30T19:16:00.001-07:00

Everyday I do certain things to incorporate Aubrey and Ellie's memory into my daily life. These small things give me a lot of comfort and allow me an opportunity to think about them without bursting into tears. I will admit, I often still cry when I think of them, but as each day passes I cry less and less, and that is a huge step for me.

I love tea, especially green tea. Drinking tea gives me a mini break throughout my day. I sit and relax and enjoy a few moments to think or be comforted while I savor my tea. After Aubrey and Ellie died any quiet moments I had in my day were spent thinking about them. Every cup of tea was my special time to remember them. So I bought two beautiful tea cups, one for each daughter, with their initial on it in Old English writing. Each day I use one to have my morning cup of tea and the other to have my afternoon or evening cup of tea. I make sure to alternate cups each morning so that I use each cup equally. If I reach for Aubrey's cup one morning and then use Ellie's cup later I make sure to reach for Ellie's cup the next morning and use Aubrey's later in the day. I don't want one to get more of my attention than the other. I love them both the same. Drinking tea with them also assures that I take time daily to remember them equally. I worry about the possibility of forgetting one of them or dwelling on one more than the other. I don't want either of them to ever feel that I miss one more than the other. I miss them the same. I wanted each of them as much as I wanted the other. I grieve deeply and equally for each one of them.

I also promised my girls that for the entire year after their death I would keep a bouquet of fresh flowers in the house at all times. So far I have managed to keep my promise. Once a week or so I go to the market and pick out two different kinds of flowers, one for Aubrey and the other for Ellie. I try to pick flowers that remind me of them, that represent the little bit of personality I saw in them in the short time I knew them. I may have only known them for a short time, but I did know them. Mothers know their children. I knew my girls. After I pick their flowers I arrange them in a vase and put it up on our mantel so that I can look at them often. The flowers remind me that their memory is alive even if they are not. And the flowers are beautiful like my girls. Mostly I just like keeping my promise to them.

My parents had a ring made for me to wear in memory of my girls. It is beautiful. Their birthstone is in the middle with two little diamonds, one on each side, to represent each of them. Also my parents are making little plaques to go on the cradle my dad made for me and my sisters before we were even born. It is a tradition in our family to make a plaque for every child and grandchild that is born and put it on the cradle. My sisters and I each have one with our name and birth date on it. When my son was born he got one. So did my sisters' two girls. And my girls will each have one too, but theirs will be different because it will also include their death date. The important thing is that my girls are being acknowledged. That is all I want, for them to be counted.

In the future I would like to do even more things in their honor. I would like to plant a tree that blooms in June to honor their birth. I would like to get a tattoo of something somewhere to remind me of how they changed my life and how I am permanently impacted by them. I would like something other than a huge scar on my body to remind me of them. I would like to make a quilt out of all their blankets from their bedding in the NICU. I want to touch something that once touched them and hold something that held them. My dad is making me a wooden chest to store all their things in. Their pictures and scrap book, their hand and foot prints, Aubrey's hair and the plaster casts of Ellie's hands and feet, the quilt when I make it, every memory item I have will be stored in their special chest made for them my their grandfather. We are going to put a plaque on it also so every one knows what is inside. And I will keep it for the rest of my life.
Mostly I just never want to stop telling their story. I want the world to know them so everyone can see that all life matters and God intends all life for a purpose. My girls mattered. They mattered to me, they mattered to my husband, and most importantly, they mattered to God.

Empty Belly Pain

2008-09-27T17:51:00.000-07:00

I was running this morning with a good girlfriend of mine to get ready for a half marathon I will attempt in November. We ran four miles, just four, and it was hard for me. Seriously a challenge. The experience made me question if my half marathon goal is too lofty. I am still recovering from my c-section and I can also feel the toll that grieving has taken on my body. I am tired physically as well as emotionally and mentally. I feel as though something is weighing me down all the time. I guess that is because something is. Grief is a heaven burden. Heavy in so many ways.

As I ran I could feel a dull ache in my lower belly. I feel it every time I run and even for a few hours after. Truthfully I feel it even if I don't run. It is always there as a constant reminder that Aubrey and Ellie are gone. My belly is empty. My babies are not there anymore. And the ache I feel in my belly is the same ache I feel in my heart every day. For the rest of my life I will have a scar on my belly and on my heart to remind me that Aubrey and Ellie are not here with me. I think the scar on my heart still bleeds. It probably always will.

Not a second goes by that I don't wish to have my babies with me. I sit with one hand over my face and one hand on my belly and cry for them. My sadness comes from a place so deep within me that I didn't even know it existed. My pain runs as deep for Aubrey and Ellie as my love for them does. It is so unfair that the more you love some one the more it hurts to lose them. And I loved and lost two some ones at the same time. Maybe that is why my grief is so crushing? Or maybe grief is just crushing no matter what causes it? Regardless, my grief is crushing me. I don't know how much more I can take. Seriously, I need a rest. I need some relief. I need a chance to catch my breath. I need my babies back.

I don't want to be tough

2008-09-26T21:09:00.000-07:00

My son is just a little boy and he gets his fair share of scrapes and bumps. Sometimes he hurts himself and goes on like it never happened and other times he cries like his arm has fallen off. When he gets worked up over nothing my husband and I tell him to "be tough" and that there is no reason to cry. Today, after a minor injury of unknown origin, I encouraged him to be tough and he said in response, "I don't want to be tough mom," as he fended off tears.

I know exactly how he felt. Every day I tell God that I don't want to be tough anymore. It does not matter how many people tell me it is okay to feel however I feel, to let the emotions come uncensored, daily life requires me to toughen up. It takes a certain level of composure to function and go about normal daily activities. And I hate it. It is exhausting to press down all my sadness so that I can run to the grocery store or sit through church without bursting into tears. Because inside I am still so broken. I am not tough at all. I can pull myself up by my bootstraps for a while, but it is only a matter of time until I find myself curled up in a ball on my bed crying out every last tear in my body. I cry when I wake up, I cry in the shower, I cry in the car, I cry when I write, and I cry when I think about Aubrey and Ellie, which is constantly. I can't do a single chore or run a single errand without tears streaming down my face. Yet some how I manage to wipe the tears away and put a smile on before I face the world. The people that see me have no idea what kind of heartache lives inside of me. They would never suspect that less than three months ago I lost both of my baby girls. And I resent it. It bothers me more than I can even express. I want the world to know what happened to my girls and how much it has devastated me to lose them. But that is not how life works. The world does not stop for me. In the midst of my pain I have to find the strength to be tough, even if I don't want to be, even if I am only tough on the outside, just to get through the day.

What for?

2008-09-23T20:24:00.000-07:00

I have been struggling lately with the question of "what for?" "What for?" is a very different question than "why?". "Why?" is looking for answers to the past, "what for?" is looking for answers to the future. I get why. I have been a Christian for a long time and have walked closely with God for as long as I can remember. I understand the character of God and I also understand the consequences of the fall and the role of sin in our existence. This is an imperfect world corrupt in every way with sin. Nothing is untouched by the the consequences of the original sin. Therefore, in this life we will have suffering. There is pain and loss. There is death. And no one is exempt from experiencing it. Not me and not my sweet girls. The rain falls on the righteous and unrighteous. I get it. And I accept it. At least intellectually anyway. God also promises to comfort us, to carry us, and to work all things for good if we love Him. I get that too. My intellectual understanding is clear as day.

Yet my intellectual understanding of Aubrey and Ellie's death does nothing to ease my pain. It is still there, like a clenched fist around my heart, unrelenting. I hurt every moment of every day. And I can't help but ask God "what for?" It is impossible for me to believe that any blessing will come from this that is greater than the blessing of my baby girls. I also can't imagine that God is trying to teach me something through this that could not have been taught to me through other means. Did my girls truly have to be sacrificed for my own spiritual benefit or for the spiritual benefit of others? Were my girls' lives less important? Were they some how more expendable? Will the supposed good that comes from this be worth the pain? These are all very tough questions I wrestle with day and night. And if I am being honest they come from the angry and frustrated part of my heart. This whole tragic event just seems so unnecessary. Why does my heart have to be broken and my life changed forever? Why did my babies not get a chance to live their lives? What did all of this happen for? I have to know "what for?" or I will go crazy.

So I have decided to stop asking "what for?" in pathetic desperation like the answer might not even exist. I am not shouting to the universe, I am calling out to an Almighty God. I may never understand the cause of my daughters' deaths, but I can know what good will come out of it. I know there is a "what for?" because God promises to make one. That does not mean He made this happen, but He promises to use it for his glory. Instead of questions I now have requests of God, passionate and pleading requests bordering on demands. I desperately want to see how the death of my girls will serve a purpose. And I want to see it this side of heaven. I need to see how it is being used for good or my pain will never lessen. I need to see God's supernatural power make the death of my daughters matter. I need the peace of knowing their short lives were not meaningless. I need to know that my pain is not for nothing.

Looking back

2008-09-20T17:17:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant with Aubrey and Ellie I would put on worship songs and hold my son above my pregnant belly and dance around the room with him to the music. He would put his head on my shoulder and I would whirl around holding all my babies at once, one in my arms, two in my belly. I often reflect on this precious memory. It comforts me in a very sad way. I close my eyes and see myself dancing with all my children so contently, unaware that soon I would lose the two in my belly. It was one of those rare experiences in life when time seemed to stop and the blessing of that moment washed over me like warm rain. It became an imprint on my heart.

Looking back I see how God helped create that memory. He must have known how much I would need it in the days to come. I didn't know at the time that holding all my babies at once would be a memory of the past and not a normal part of my future. I thought I had the rest of my life to hold them. It is sad that my arms are empty now but I am thankful that I got to hold them at all, even if it was while they were still inside my belly. Once they were born my dreams of holding them were stolen from me. I was not allowed to hold Aubrey or Ellie because they were too small and sick to be handled. I could only look at them through the glass and touch their tiny hands. I would have given anything to hold them for just a minute. When I finally did get to hold them the first time was the last time. I held them in their final moments of life. Each one died in my arms. I regret never holding them both at the same time. I don't even know if I would have been allowed to, but I regret never even asking to. I wanted so badly to have a picture of me with a baby in each arm. I also wanted my son to get to hold them. It makes me sad that I never held both my girls together and that my son never got to hold his sisters. We lost so much when we lost Aubrey and Ellie.

I also regret that they never were able to touch each other after they were born. I always wondered if they knew they were not together anymore and if they missed each other. The evening Ellie died Aubrey took a turn for the worst and I have always wondered if she knew her sister died and she gave up trying to survive. Maybe she didn't want to live without her? I can't blame her. I didn't want to live without her either. I didn't want to live without either one of them and certainly not without both of them. Knowing they are together gives me peace though. That is why we had them buried in the same casket. I cannot imagine them without each other. If they couldn't be with us, at least they could be with one another. I know God is holding them both right now since I can't. They are not alone. To be honest though I would prefer to hold them myself. I would give anything to be holding them now.

Yearning and Longing

2008-09-18T10:40:00.000-07:00

Before now I never felt true longing. I had never lost anything so important to me that I yearned to have it again with all my heart and soul. I have learned through this tragedy what it feels like to truly and deeply yearn for my girls, to long passionately and painfully to see them again. Yearning feels like hopeful sadness, longing like promising suffering. There will be an end to my heartache. My only comfort is that I will see them again. And that is what I long for, what I yearn for with every part of myself. I want to see my girls again. I yearn for heaven in a whole new way. I have always known that heaven is a glorious place and my heart's desire is perfect communion with God for the rest of eternity, but now I realize I did not have the longing for heaven I thought I had. I never felt as excited about heaven as I do now. I have never yearned to be there like I do when I cry for my girls. I used to pray for a long life. I was afraid to die, especially to die young before I could do the things on earth I hope to do. But now I am much more accepting of my own imminent death. I may live long, I may not, but either way I welcome the opportunity to go to heaven when it comes. I have two very special little girls waiting for me there. I don't hope to die soon, not at all. I hope to live and be around for my son and husband and fulfill God's calling on my life as best I can, but when my time comes I will not be sad or scared. I will be ready. I will welcome the end of my life on earth because it will be the beginning of a new existence with my daughters. To be honest I am anxious for that day. All the hours and days of yearning for my girls, of longing to hold them just once more, will finally come to an end. The pain that I feel day in and day out as I struggle to live a life without them will be no more. My broken heart will be healed. My arms will be full. I will finally get to hold my girls for as long as I want, for eternity, and we will never be apart again. In heaven I will hold my girls while God holds me and for the first time since Aubrey and Ellie's death I won't hurt anymore. I can't wait to go to heaven.

Not my life

2008-09-16T18:00:00.000-07:00

Since the day Aubrey and Ellie were born I have felt forced into an alternate reality against my will. Some other life that is not mine. Grief is like slavery. I am merely at its beck and call, subject to its whims, not sure when it will be merciful or merciless. It is a daily drudgery that I can't get away from no matter how hard I try. Grief has shackled me and I am defenseless to fight it off. And I resent it. I am so angry I could explode. I DON'T WANT THIS LIFE! I WANT MY GIRLS BACK! The bright and welcomed future of my girls was stolen from me and replaced with the dark, sorrowful nightmare of their death. I wander around thinking, "This is not my life, this is not how things were supposed to be." I have been in silent protest all the while, emotionally picketing this new reality, the one I don't want, the one forced upon me without my consent. I NEVER AGREED TO THIS! Everything should be so different than it is. But it isn't. It makes me so angry.

I woke up this morning and laid in bed for a few minutes. I listened to the silence and it sounded deafening. I should hear two crying babies. But I don't. I should be overwhelmed and exhausted adjusting to the demands of two new infants. But I'm not. Instead I am resentfully adjusting to the agonizing silence of an empty nursery. The silence is a relentless reminder of what is gone. I am exhausted from wrestling with my Aubrey and Ellie-less life. It truly is a daily internal battle for me. I know they are gone but I just can't believe it. I can't believe that this sickening ache in my heart is real and not just a bad dream I am going to wake up from any moment. WHERE ARE MY BABIES? I WANT MY BABIES! When Aubrey and Ellie were alive I would have visions of running into the NICU and snatching them out of their incubators and taking them somewhere else. I don't even know where, just somewhere with me, where no one could tell me I was not allowed to hold them, so that we could be together and not separated by glass, machines and tubes. Even now I occasionally imagine digging them up from their grave and holding them one more time. I imagine that I find them in there alive and healthy, holding hands with each other waiting for me to take them home. I just so desperately want this whole sad story to be untrue. But it isn't. My babies actually died. Both of them. It just shouldn't be this way. This should not be my life.

Can't breath

2008-09-15T09:33:00.000-07:00

I am hurting so badly today that I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like something is sitting on my chest with its hand around my throat. This is not the first time however. I have felt this way before. When the doctor told me that the only way to give the girls a chance to survive was to take them by emergency c-section at only 24 weeks I felt the air get sucked out of my lungs. I started to cry and said to the doctor, "This isn't good is it?" And he got choked up and said, "No honey, it isn't. I am so sorry." I knew then that my girls needed a miracle. I don't think I got my breath back for days. When we were told of the girls' brain damage I couldn't breathe either. I just sat in my bed while Kirk held me weeping "oh no, please no." When Ellie was dying I held my breath the whole time I held her. I watched her gasp for air as she slowly left us. My heart broke for her as she tried to breathe but couldn't. I knew how she felt. The moment she passed away the pain of her loss was so intense it forced me to take a breath. I had to breathe again to cry for her. When Aubrey was dying I felt so sick and frozen that it felt like I couldn't breathe or blink or even think. I was already anticipating the pain of her loss, wondering if I would even survive losing another baby, if the gut wrenching agony of grief might be too much for me this time. I couldn't stop staring at her, wishing for time to stop so that she would not leave us. When she finally passed away I took a deep breath and let the numbness wash over me. It was simply too much to bare. I could not believe it was all over. Both my babies were gone. As the numbness wore off the sorrow was overwhelming. All I could do was cry. I cried into the night and again the next morning. Sleep was my only break from my tears. During the funeral I quite honestly forgot to breathe. It was the worst day of my life. My heart ached so intensely that I felt nauseous and angry and empty all at the same time. All I could do was stare at their casket. I cried some, but mostly I just stared. I could feel the same heaviness on my chest then as I feel now. It comes and goes, leaving for days and then appearing again. Today I am practically suffocating in grief. I am choking on the pain and gasping for relief. God is holding my head above water so that I am not completely overcome by the ocean of hurt I am stranded in. I know God will sustain me and keep me from sinking while we weather this storm together. That does not make me exempt from the pain but it does give me hope that I will survive this, even on the worst of days.

The really hard days

2008-09-14T16:14:00.000-07:00

Today has been a really hard day. Tomorrow I would have been 37 weeks along with the girls which is considered full term for twins. At this point I could expect them any day if I were still pregnant. It has felt particularly hard today accepting that I am not. As their due date gets closer it gets harder for me to cope. I wanted them so badly. I was ready for more babies. I was ready for them. I keep drifting off to la la land to avoid crying today. I did the same thing when the doctors told us about Aubrey and Ellie's brain damage. I could hear the doctors talking, but my mind would go somewhere else. That is how I feel today. Not present at all. My mind is empty except with thoughts of my baby girls. I am not hungry, I have not showered yet, and I have not smiled once. This morning I wanted to stay in bed and cry all day, but I had to get up. I wish I could have just one day to stay in bed and really cry. When the girls died I could not cry as hard as I wanted to because my belly hurt too much from the c-section. Every time I got too worked up I would have to hold back because of the pain. I resent my c-section for inhibiting my crying. I know that at some point I am going to have to let it all out. Especially now that I feel better and my incision can't hold me back anymore. I am waiting for the day when the flood gates open. I just hope Kirk is home so that he can be with our son while I break down. I don't want our son to see me like that.

Take one day at a time

2008-09-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

I have never liked the phrase "take one day at a time." Just hearing it makes me feel weary and overwhelmed. And it isn't like I have other options. The days come and go and I make it through each one, but not by choice, time has a way of going on at its own pace whether I want it to or not. I am forced along minute by minute. I would much rather take one hundred days at a time, or even ten days at a time, anything to make these sad days go by faster. Experiencing this one day at a time is agonizing. I desperately hope for that one morning when I will wake up and no longer hurt so badly. Missing Aubrey and Ellie will feel more like a splinter than a dagger in my heart and I will experience some long awaited relief from my grief. And I know that day will come because it has to. I could not survive a lifetime feeling this devastated. My body might live, but emotionally I would die, and I don't want to live dead inside. I don't want to be a shell of myself. My husband deserves a wife and my son deserves a mother that is alive, that has something more to offer than simply going through the motions of life. And I want to be happy again. I want that for myself. I want to laugh and make memories with my family and bring honor to my girls by continuing to live the best life I can as a whole person. There is no question that I am forever changed by this. Losing my girls broke my heart in a way that can never be completely healed. I do not expect everything to eventually go back to normal, whatever normal is...I will always be sad because they are not in my life, I will always wonder about them, wonder what life would have been like with them, and I will miss them every day that I am alive...but my hope is that the pain becomes more manageable and less intense than it is now.

What is scary though is that the lessening of the pain feels like forgetting. Sometimes I am afraid to let go of the hurt because I feel like it makes me forget my girls. The pain is a reminder. And right now I don't know how to remember them without feeling sad and heartbroken. Their memory and my pain seem interconnected. Letting go of the pain means letting go of them. And I can't do that. Not ever. I will never forget them. Intellectually I realize that I don't have to forget them to feel better, but emotionally I don't know how to do it. It is too confusing to sort out right now. I hope with time I will learn how to remember them without feeling so sad, but right now I guess I need the sadness because I need their memory. It is worth the pain to have their memory. Their memory is all I have left of them.

Living on the outside, dying on the inside

2008-09-12T07:26:00.000-07:00

Some mornings I wake up and I wish I could put on a t-shirt that says MY BABIES JUST DIED on it so that everyone I come in contact with would know what I am going through. I hate going through the day like everything is fine. I hate saying "good" when asked how I am doing today by the check out lady at the grocery store or the receptionist at the doctor's office. I want to blurt out the whole sad story, but keeping in line with social norms I don't. My desire is not to embarrass people, I just want them to know how badly I hurt and that everything is not fine with me. Not because I want sympathy, but because it is the truth. I AM NOT GOOD! I want to be real. Faking fine is hard work. It is like living underwater. I feel like I am moving in slow motion while everything passes me by. I see everyone moving about but I can't seem to catch up. I see peoples' mouths moving, but all I hear is muffled garble. It is my own personal twilight zone. And it is lonely. It is awkward. And mostly it is uncomfortable.

Losing my girls has been tragic, sad and sorrowful, but more than anything it has been the most lonely and uncomfortable time of my life. I don't know how to feel or act most of the time. I only feel comfortable alone because I know no one is judging me. It is embarrassing to burst into tears in the baby clothes section of a department store or to get up and leave a store suddenly because a woman with twin baby daughters just walked in. I wonder if people can tell that when I hold my sister's baby girl I wish she was mine because I want a baby daughter so badly? Living with grief is a constant internal battle. What thoughts are healthy? What thoughts are crazy? How should I be acting? What should I say? The hardest is when people ask me if my son is my only child. I promised myself I would never say yes to that question. I literally feel sick to my stomach when people ask me that. And to people's shock and horror I say no, I say that I have two daughters in heaven as well. I don't go into the whole story, and I say it with a smile, but I do say it. And I don't feel bad about it either. If they didn't really want to know they shouldn't have asked. My girls are my children regardless of how long they lived. They deserve to be recognized and not kept hidden like an embarrassing secret. They are as much a part of my life as my living child and I will not pretend them away. I don't even know why I feel the need to justify it so adamantly. I guess I feel compelled to speak for my girls since they cannot speak for themselves. It is sad that we live in a society that feels uncomfortable acknowledging children that died. Length of life does not equate to value. Children are meaningful simply because they existed. My girls were loved and wanted and important to us from the moment we found out about them. We loved them and that love has not changed because their lives were so short. I wish people could get that. I am not ashamed of my girls. They are a part of me and I will not keep their existence to myself. Holding it in only feeds the loneliness anyway.

Grief makes me feel lonely, even in a room full of people. The more people I am surrounded by the more lonely I feel. The truth is I am not alone at all, just lonely. My husband, friends, and family have reached out in countless ways and made their support known to me. I am surrounded by people that love me. But their love does not lessen the pain, it just sustains me through it. And I don't blame them for not understanding. It is impossible to relate unless they have lost a child also. So as a result, weathering this storm is a lonely journey. Even my husband, who is the only person on earth who has walked in my shoes, has his own unique way of grieving, a path he has to walk alone as well. We walk alone together through the most painful experience of our lives. Some things you just have to do on your own I guess. I accept it but I hate it. That pretty much sums up how I feel about Aubrey and Ellie's death in general, I accept it, but I hate it. And I really do hate it with every ounce of my being.

When happiness sneaks in

2008-09-11T20:11:00.000-07:00

Not every minute of the day is miserable. Some days are harder than others, but I do experience moments of great comfort. I'll admit that some of my smiling and laughing is fake, I do it so that others don't feel uncomfortable around me. But some of is isn't. It is real and it feels good. The happy moments often catch me off guard and disappear as quietly as they came. They are often fleeting, followed by feelings of guilt, sadness or confusion as I wonder how I could possibly be happy at a time like this. But nonetheless I can still see blessings through all the tears. I know it is God's grace comforting me, giving me a break from the relentless grief that seems so all-consuming, showing me glimpses of the light at the end of the tunnel. Without these moments I think I would crumble under the weight of my pain. The happy moments make the hard moments hurt more, but the reprieve is worth it. It allows me to take a breath and gives me just enough time to recoup some strength to grieve more fully, to face my pain, to cry harder, to push on. My son brings joy to my life every single day. At times I look at him and feel simultaneous joy and grief, thankfulness and disappointment, peace and anger. He is such a blessing, so full of life and innocence. He is the reason I get up in the morning. He gets me out of bed and forces me to start the day when all I really want to do is curl up and cry all day long. He gives me hugs and kisses when he knows I am sad. He is the two year old embodiment of God's grace in my life and I am more thankful to have him today than I ever have been. But he is also a living example and daily reminder of what I am missing. Every hug from him reminds me of the two hugs I am missing from Aubrey and Ellie. Every time I tuck him in bed I feel the sting of knowing I will never tuck my girls in. I know how much a child can bless our life and it makes me more aware of just how much we lost. Yet I still feel joy. Amidst the loss I recognize what was not lost. And I see that God is so good. That is amazing to me.

A different kind of loss

2008-09-11T08:03:00.000-07:00

The death of an infant, in my case, two infant daughters at the same time, is different from other kinds of death I think. It is a unique loss because it is out of order and backwards. My girls lives were over before they really even began. They had passed away months before they were ever supposed to be born. And although it is agonizing to watch life leave their little bodies, to watch their chests stop rising and falling as they are whisked away to heaven, it hurts more to know that they each were a life not yet lived. We didn't just lose their bodies and the physical presence of them in our lives, we also lost their future, our future. We lost the experience of being impacted and changed by them and the privilege of watching them grow and become who they were meant to be. All their potential, their specialness and all that they had to contribute to the world died with their bodies. I will never get to know them. And that is really sad to me.

When Aubrey and Ellie died so did all my hopes and dreams of them. They were already intertwined in my life and heart in every way. Kirk and I picked out names for them. We purchased a double stroller and two infant car seats in anticipation of their arrival. I had two cribs in their nursery. I imagined the holidays this year with them in my arms. I could feel them moving in my belly constantly and I talked to them daily. We even bought a house so that we would have enough room for them because our old apartment was too small for two new babies to come home to. Every decision we made factored in our soon to be arriving little girls. And when they died so did something inside of me. It felt like time stopped. I just couldn't bring myself to accept a life without them. Unfortunately I don't have a choice in the matter. On the inside I often feel like a two year old throwing a tantrum because I can't have my way. I JUST WANT MY GIRLS BACK!!!! Yet I remain calm on the outside, occasionally letting a tear or two roll down my face. Some days I feel on the verge of an explosion. Other days I feel on the verge of a breakdown. It is a crazy roller coaster that leaves me exhausted and hurting. WHY MY GIRLS? WHY LIKE THIS? Children are supposed to outlive their parents. It is unnatural for parents to bury their children, to pick their plot in a cemetery, to design their headstone, to plan their funeral, to visit their grave site. I never expected to do any of these things in my lifetime. Every aspect of their death has thrown me for a loop. And I have yet to find my footing. I just hurt inside all the time. I miss my girls. I really miss my girls.

Angry, but not at God

2008-09-10T08:48:00.000-07:00

I can honestly say that I have not felt anger toward God even once since Aubrey and Ellie died. I have felt anger toward myself, toward doctors, toward the natural laws that govern the universe, and toward the sin in the world...but never toward God. I know enough about God and his character to know that God did not take our girls from us. He is not teaching us some lesson or punishing us for our sins or mistakes. God is not unfeeling or vindictive like that. He suffered with us and suffers with us still as we live out these days with such heartache. His heart was broken like ours and He was holding our girls when we could not. And when we finally could hold our daughters, as they were dying in our arms, God held us. He never left our side for a moment. Now he holds them in heaven.

I don't know why this happened. The simple truth is there is tragedy in this world and we are not exempt from it. And there is no rhyme or reason to it either. People keep telling me it was God's will and blah blah blah. But I don't believe it. God never intends for babies to die. His will is life, not death. They died because we live in a fallen world, because bad things happen, not because God picks and chooses who dies and who lives like some supernatural chess game. I have also been told that God needed them in heaven more than we needed them here. That does not even make sense. God is outside of time. What does it matter if they go to heaven now or in 75 years, it is all but a blink to Him. And God loves us all equally. He does not need some of us more than others. If that was the case he would take us all to heaven to be with Him right now. I have also heard that God allowed this to happen so that He could bless us in the future, that someday we will understand why Aubrey and Ellie had to die. I don't agree. What future blessing could possibly surpass the blessing of Aubrey and Ellie in our life? God knows no future blessing could replace our daughters. It is a permanent loss. I believe we will see how God used it and how His grace gave our daughters' short lives purpose and meaning, but there will never be a reason. That is why it is tragic, it is meaningless this side of heaven, not because we will finally have answers in heaven, but because once we are in heaven I don't think it will matter anymore.

I wish somehow I could be exempt from suffering, more importantly I wish my girls could have been. What happened to them was so unfair. They truly are innocent in all of this. It is a sobering reality to come face to face with just how much is really out of my control. I thought I was protecting my girls, keeping them safe in my belly, only to discover that I was helpless to save them when they needed me most. I depended on my body and it failed me in the worst way. Making peace with my body has been difficult. I resent my c-section scar. It is a constant reminder of what I lost. And I am plagued with the what ifs...what if I would have gone in a day sooner? Would they have been able to stop the labor? What if I did something or didn't do something that caused them to be born so early? Is it my fault? I can't help but feel like ultimately the responsibility was mine to keep them safe. I have been able to slowely let go of the guilt, but not the questions.

I don't understand what happened and I most likely never will. Thinking about it too much conjures up an intellectual nightmare that doesn't offer an iota of emotional peace. There are no answers. At the end of the day my babies are gone and they are never coming back. Answers will not bring them back. A friend commented that answers would just beg more questions. And he is right, seeking answers is a vicious cycle that brings no resolution, just frustration and confusion. With or without answers the pain is permanent, the loss is forever, my girls are gone.

Although I know it was not God's will that my girls died, that He did not make it happen, I do know that He could have intervened at any moment and saved them. And I don't like that He didn't. I have never prayed so intensely in my life. It was less like praying and more like begging. Kirk and I prayed wholeheartedly for a miracle everyday the girls were alive. Lack of sincere and bold prayer was certainly not a factor in their death. Ultimately God did restore our girls, just not in the way I had hoped. They are whole in heaven. And I am thankful knowing they are not suffering, they are not sick, and that I will see them again someday. But what I really wanted was to see them here, now, in this world, in this lifetime. I have been very honest with God that I don't like his decision to allow the girls to pass away instead of allowing them to live. I think it is completely possible to trust God, to trust his sovereignty, to surrender to his Will, and still not be happy about it. I will never be happy that my girls died. Never. And I don't think God expects me to. And I will always wonder why God could have saved them but didn't. So this is where my faith is tested. I think faith is more than believing what you cannot see, it is believing when what you cannot see is also excruciatingly painful and seemingly meaningless. And the truth is I do have faith. I trust Him. I do believe He is working all of this for good because I love Him. At this moment I do not see the light at the end of the tunnel. The pain and grief is overwhelming. But I know that God is carrying me. I don't have to carry myself. He didn't make this happen, it just did, but He will make it okay. His grace IS sufficient. But knowing all this does not take the hurt away. It hurts badly and it will for a long time.

My Babies

2008-09-09T18:38:00.000-07:00

Aubrey Elizabeth Crawford
June 24th, 2008 -July 7th, 2008

Ellie Alexandra Crawford
June 24th, 2008-July 1st, 2008

What am I suppose to do now?

2008-09-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

The death of my daughters has been the single most painful thing I have ever experienced in my life. I cannot describe the depth of the hurt. It literally has left me hollow inside. And as I struggle to move on day after day I can't help but feel completely lost in my grief. I don't know how to feel or how to cope as the world and everything in it keeps moving forward. From the outside I may appear to be functioning normally, but inside I am hurting so intensely that I can't seem to put one foot in front of the other. I feel paralyzed in my pain, frozen, and confused. What am I supposed to do now? Life for me has changed so profoundly and suddenly that I feel completely blindsided. I am still disoriented from the trauma of their death, lost in my sadness, and directionless. Where do I go from here? How do I move on? I mean really move on, as a whole person, not just parts of me a fraction at a time. Does the pain really ever go away? Will I ever be able to remember my girls and see their little faces in my mind without feeling like my heart has been ripped out of my chest, without tears streaming down my face? I honestly don't know. But what I do know is that the only thing that has brought me any comfort or helped me to gain any clarity in the midst of the emotional fog I exist in since their death is to write. So here I go.