Happy Sad

It's taken me a long time to get to the point where I could, needed and wanted to write this. It's been almost 2 years since the day we were blessed with our miracle children; and devasted by the loss of one. It's THAT time of year again where we are narrowing in on the birth & death of my little miracle(s). Summer time will forever remind me of my pregnancy. That journey of uncertainty that went day by day, and sometimes hour by hour. As we hit that 19 week mark in late June 2006, the days seemed like they were so long and my hopes and dreams were so uncertain.

Each and every day since the first day I arrived in the hospital with a weak cervix, I tried to be strong and think positive. But to be honest, my intuition told me that something wasn't right. Of course, I tried to ignore this consistent feeling - and I did most of the time. Looking back, I feel like I absolutely knew that the ending wasn't going to be as we wished and prayed it would be.

During that 10 week period of time, approximately 70 some days, every day was a blessing. Especially as we got further along, particularly at the 23 week mark when we were told that Baby A was not looking the same as the other babies. I remember that day so clearly, when the sono tech was doing her measuring and she stopped at Baby A for a long period of time. She tried to be non-chalant about it but I knew that she saw something that needed extra attention. She would not tell me what was wrong but sent the perinatologist in immediately (who I loved, if you're a long time reader, Dr. Hot Pants was his M.O.).

At this time, I had my best friend with me for my appointment; it was after I had been put on bedrest so I had to have someone take me to and from the doctor appointments. Usually my Mom or C was with me but this time, it was L. since she wanted to see the babies in my belly. She regrets to this day that she was there, I'm sure.

Once the sono tech left the room, I turned to her and said "I know it's bad". She asked why I knew and tried to console me that I was just jumping to conclusions but I knew. When the peri returned, he spent a while looking around and eventually told me to get dressed and he would be back in. Frankly, I have no memory of what he said. I presume that he told me that the amniotic fluid was low and the baby was in danger. I do remember something about "we have no idea how long he will live and/or how it will affect the other identical twin". And I remember him sending me back home on bedrest, saying he was going to be in contact with a twin to twin specialist at the University of MD immediately who might be able to help us determine what to do. Our options were: to just let nature take it's course and see what happened (nobody thought he would live more than a few days longer) OR to talk to a specialist to see if they would recommend some sort of an in-utero surgery to stop the blood flow to the ailing baby and make sure the other baby could survive; this in essence would be terminating the life of the ailing baby in order to save the pregnancy and other babies. I remember being wheeled out of the doctors office in the wheelchair, completely stunned and dazed. It was really hot outside and I remember the nurse wheeling me out while L went to get the car and thinking "how am I going to tell C this news". What am I going to say? How will I tell my family? I don't even think I could cry because I was bewildered and scared. Up to this point, we had already been through the cerclage surgery where they told us that we had a 50% chance of losing the pregnancy. I thought that was our scary time. That paled in comparison to what I had just learned - one of my babies was going to die. It was just a matter of time and whether or not this would affect the other babies was unknown. I could lose all three of them. There were so many variables.

I remember being dropped back off at home, alone that afternoon. I had called C. on my ride home but he was at work and not going to be home for at least a couple of hours. He was rushing home but working in DC, there's nothing fast about getting home. I had a few hours alone - and I remember it being the hardest few hours of my entire life to date. Not long after C's return home from work, I started noticing contractions. I tried to ignore them. I didn't tell anyone I was having them. I tried to will them away. All the while thinking, the baby had died and my body is trying to get him out. After about 2 hours, my anxiety level was increasing by the minute and I became very agitated. It was about 9pm and I told C we needed to go to the hospital. I had a bag packed already, in case of this emergency, so we grabbed the bag and headed out. By the time I got to the hospital, contractions were 2 minutes apart.

They knocked down the contractions immediately with Tributaline (sp) and within about an hour, they had slowed, but not stopped. My Mom came shortly after we arrived; and she was as scared as we were. I was admitted to the hospital that night. I never left. The sonogram showed that Baby A was still hanging strong; he was moving.

Within a few days, the contractions flared up again; they knocked them down with Magnesium sulfate (the worst drug I can ever imagine being on). I was on mag for about 10 days, at a low dose since the contractions were not going away completely. During this time I was cathetarized and couldn't get out of bed alone. They found a new drug for me called indicin, which was a miracle drug. The only problem was that after a certain point in the pregnancy, it can harm the fetus(s). I stayed on that for many weeks, with the babies being closely monitored.

EVERY SINGLE MORNING, between 6am-7am, my wonderful doctor wheeled in an ultrasound machine and looked at my babies. They were checking them DAILY, with extra concentration on Baby A. Every day the doctors and nurses walked out of my room in awe that he was still living, and growing, and moving. My perinatologists were in twice a week do a sono and measure the babies. Every time they came and went, we breathed a sigh of relief. Although, nobody ever said Baby A would or would not live; I knew that if he did live after birth, he would be severely damaged due to the lack of amniotic fluid. But nobody knew why he was still able to live. None of the doctors understood what was going on - but they all just kept saying, every day we get is good; the other babies were doing well and that was we were hanging on.

I remember thinking a lot about losing the baby, and what would that be like. But I also remember thinking and praying that he could just hold on a little longer so that his brothers would have a chance. I tried to stay positive; I tried not to dwell on losing one.

Despite this, I do feel like I had a chance to grieve a bit before they were born. I contacted the social work dept at the hospital to find out what my options were when you have a stillborn baby. What happens to them. How does it all work? C. and I had time to talk about what we wanted to do in terms of recognizing his life. We made those hard decisions before hand. I am still so thankful for that. Luckily I still feel like we made the right decisions for us; and I don't regret anything we did or didn't do.

I don't think I can explain the thoughts that were in my head during that time. Every morning as he put that ultrasound thing on my belly, I had no idea what he was going to see. Most of my nights were sleepless - and I hated the night time. My mind went to all of the wrong places - the hospital was quiet and I was haunted every single night. Most nights someone stayed with me. But still, I layed awake most of the night, a complete basket case. Eventually they gave me ambien to help me sleep - but that made my dreams weird. I slept but it wasn't restful.

Every week was a milestone. The 28 week mark was a big one. I remember the day I hit 28 weeks. I didn't feel well at all; and had some really strange blood pressure spikes. A week prior, I had gained about 12 pounds in water weight, which went away after about 3 days. Strange things were happening to my body by this time. The night of the 28 week mark, C. couldn't stay with me for some reason. So I remember my Mom asking if I wanted to her to stay. My answer was an emphatic YES, but I'm not sure why I knew to have her there. Nonetheless, I must have known something.

At 7am the following morning (28 weeks + 1 day), my doctor arrived to do the ultrasound, as he did every other day for the last 4+ weeks. He had been on vacation the prior week and this was his first day back after vacation. Within a minute, I knew something was wrong. He looked at me and said, "we're going to surgery, as quickly as possible". I remember asking "is he gone?" and he said "yes. we need to deliver now". Mom was with me.

I cried. Hard. The kind of cry where it's silent and you can't catch your breath. For only a short time. There were so many people in my room poking and proding; I couldn't even concentrate on my own sadness. The scurrying began. Everything was STAT. Mom called Chuck at home and got him just as he stepped out of the shower. He came immediately and caught me as my bed was wheeling to the OR. Mom was already scrubbed and ready to go with me in case he didn't make it. He came running down the corridor and they threw scrubs at him. He dressed as he walked next to me. We didn't even get a chance to converse about the fact that we lost our angel.

At 7:57 & 7:58am, the boys were born. Cole first, JD second, and Calvin last. The NICU team was there, and they took the living babies. One of the L&D nurses, who happened to be a friend of mine with whom we discussed our wishes for Calvin prior to this day, took our angel baby and treated him just like a living baby. Thank God for her. To this day, I feel as though I owe her so much. She wrapped him, took pictures of him, and made sure he was safe. C. was able to see him briefly but also was keeping tabs on the other 2 kids as they were being worked on.

It was not until later that day, perhaps around 12pm maybe, that we were back in my room and quietly resting. We had expressed that we wanted to spend some time with Calvin; it was time. We held him and talked to him. I looked at his entire body, unwrapped him and saw every inch of his being. He was peaceful looking. He was very dark in color, for a few reasons. One of which was that he was not living; but more than that, it was due to the fact that he was receiving a majority of the blood while in utero - his identical twin (Cole) was not getting everything he needed. It turned out to be a twin to twin transfusion situation - which the doctors did not think it was initially. I remember kissing his face; and wiping my tears from his cheeks. I held his little hand; and felt his baby feet. I prayed that his spirit was safe in heaven, and thanked him for being so brave and unselfish. I told him how much I loved him, and how much we will miss him.

To this day, there is not a single day that goes by that I don't think of him. Very recently, I said the name Calvin to JD & Cole and heard them repeat it. Although they still have no idea that they have a brother in heaven, I can't explain what it was like hearing them try to say his name. I want so much for them to understand all about him. I look forward to the day that I can tell them the story, in their terms, and they get it. What a hard concept for children to understand....I hope I can make them understand his purpose and they will be able to carry that with them forever. I have a photo of the three boys together. It represents so many things to me when I look at it - our hopes and dreams, a selfless human being, the brother of JD & Cole's, another son of my husbands, a beautiful life that ended much too soon, and finally, my flesh and blood that I can't wait to see again someday.

It's been a busy 2 years; an amazing 2 years. There are many days that I know I still have a long way to go. When you're busy and having fun, the grief takes a back seat; subconciously. Certain things trigger my thoughts about Calvin; and I stop dead in my tracks. Time heals I guess. But it still feels raw - a lot. I struggle when people ask me how many kids I have. Sometimes I tell them "three, but we lost one so now only two". But most times I just say two. It's easier that way. Although I often feel guilty for leaving him out, I am instantly reminded of how blessed we are each and every day.