“When you remember me, it means that you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.
For as long as you remember me, I am never entirely lost. When I'm feeling most ghost-like, it is your remembering me that helps remind me that I actually exist. When I'm feeling sad, it's my consolation. When I'm feeling happy, it's part of why I feel that way.
If you forget me, one of the ways I remember who I am will be gone. If you forget, part of who I am will be gone. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." the good thief said from his cross (Luke 23:42). There are perhaps no more human words in all of Scripture, no prayer we can pray so well. ” - Frederick Beuchner
8/27/10
The autopsies
Well, it looks like the medical part of our long journey has nearly ended. Though we still have to go meet with the doctors in a few weeks, I was able to talk to the Pathologist and hear the results of the autopsies.
It is confirmed that the boys were identical: they had the same DNA and shared the same placenta. The latter is what introduced the problem. Commonly known as Twin-to-Twin-Transfusion-Syndrome (TTTS), the boys shared circulation because the blood vessels in the placenta were conjoined. This situation is common in identical twins and can be safe for both babies if the blood levels within the babies stays equal. If it is thrown off balance, the problems can be severe, and that is what happened in this case. Basically, Isaac (who died at 17 weeks) had too much blood in his body and John (who died at 20 weeks) had too little. The extra blood in Isaac's body caused him to die of a stroke. When that happened, all of the blood rushed into John's body, causing a stroke in him as well.
The doctor believes that this was a complication of having twins and is not connected to genetics whatsoever. She believes that the chances of it happening again are slim because the chances of getting pregnant with identical twins is slim. So, in a nutshell, this is the best of the worst: it's the most reassuring news we could have gotten considering the horrible situation.
Now, we keep moving forward. We are both feeling a bit more relieved knowing that we can move forward to have more children, but "the end" is sad as well: we didn't want to lose these. That said, we trust, and trusting is all we can do. We find comfort knowing that both of our sons are with God and we are so thankful for the love and support we've found as we've travelled -- and continue to travel -- this journey of grief and subsequent restoration. Thank you for all your continued prayers.
It is confirmed that the boys were identical: they had the same DNA and shared the same placenta. The latter is what introduced the problem. Commonly known as Twin-to-Twin-Transfusion-Syndrome (TTTS), the boys shared circulation because the blood vessels in the placenta were conjoined. This situation is common in identical twins and can be safe for both babies if the blood levels within the babies stays equal. If it is thrown off balance, the problems can be severe, and that is what happened in this case. Basically, Isaac (who died at 17 weeks) had too much blood in his body and John (who died at 20 weeks) had too little. The extra blood in Isaac's body caused him to die of a stroke. When that happened, all of the blood rushed into John's body, causing a stroke in him as well.
The doctor believes that this was a complication of having twins and is not connected to genetics whatsoever. She believes that the chances of it happening again are slim because the chances of getting pregnant with identical twins is slim. So, in a nutshell, this is the best of the worst: it's the most reassuring news we could have gotten considering the horrible situation.
Now, we keep moving forward. We are both feeling a bit more relieved knowing that we can move forward to have more children, but "the end" is sad as well: we didn't want to lose these. That said, we trust, and trusting is all we can do. We find comfort knowing that both of our sons are with God and we are so thankful for the love and support we've found as we've travelled -- and continue to travel -- this journey of grief and subsequent restoration. Thank you for all your continued prayers.
8/20/10
Dancing
On June 29th, my twin sons died; yesterday, a set of twin boys was born. Today, a dear student/friend/colleague died; yesterday, a beautiful little girl was born. The circle of life: one lives; another dies. There is no rhyme or reason, yet this is the rhythm that we dance to, the beat to which our feet tap: the sound of life and the sound of death. Short taps, long crescendos, ups and downs, a hiccup, a deep breath – and the hope that the circle will continue long after we are gone.
St. Theresa admonished all those who dance this great dance to trust: "Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you; everything passes away except God. God alone is sufficient." For decades, the angels have joined her, whispering softly to startled audiences, "Fear not." And yet, there are moments when the crack of the snare drum is sharp and startling, causing heads to turn, feet to trip, and hearts to skip a beat or two. And yet this is the rhythm of life: powerful, loud, all-encompassing moments that are so startling and frightening that no whisper of reassurance seems to matter in the face of the beat that just keeps marching on.
And yet, if you take a moment to simply listen, you will hear that the sharpness of the snare drum contrasts so beautifully with the ever-present reminder: "fear not, for I am with thee..." And in moments of fear, turmoil, despair, and confusion, we are reminded that the heart of the song is not the beat; it is the melody of truth that lasts from measure to measure to measure, the words that bring comfort, hope, and life – the words that give us the strength to keep dancing when the beat seems aimed specifically at us.
And so, to those who dance with me, I hum the melody that governs all of our lives: "let not your hearts faint, fear not, and do not tremble, neither be ye terrified..."
Fear no evil. He is dancing too.
St. Theresa admonished all those who dance this great dance to trust: "Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you; everything passes away except God. God alone is sufficient." For decades, the angels have joined her, whispering softly to startled audiences, "Fear not." And yet, there are moments when the crack of the snare drum is sharp and startling, causing heads to turn, feet to trip, and hearts to skip a beat or two. And yet this is the rhythm of life: powerful, loud, all-encompassing moments that are so startling and frightening that no whisper of reassurance seems to matter in the face of the beat that just keeps marching on.
And yet, if you take a moment to simply listen, you will hear that the sharpness of the snare drum contrasts so beautifully with the ever-present reminder: "fear not, for I am with thee..." And in moments of fear, turmoil, despair, and confusion, we are reminded that the heart of the song is not the beat; it is the melody of truth that lasts from measure to measure to measure, the words that bring comfort, hope, and life – the words that give us the strength to keep dancing when the beat seems aimed specifically at us.
And so, to those who dance with me, I hum the melody that governs all of our lives: "let not your hearts faint, fear not, and do not tremble, neither be ye terrified..."
Fear no evil. He is dancing too.
8/19/10
Hope and other dangerous pursuits
Hope always triumphs over experience...and love is stronger than death.
I forget who spoke these words initially, but that word "always" is one that I "always" tell students to avoid. It is an absolute - an unchangeable, unshakeable, fact - and nothing is truly absolute. And yet, in the uncertainty of life, I am aching for something to be absolute -- something to be unchanging, constant. And so, I decided I needed to focus on hope.
Hope is a concept that I don't remotely understand. It's undefinable to me because it is so abstract that there is nothing concrete about it. There is no hoping for something that you have, something that you can taste and see and touch. Hope, by its very definition, requires the absence of something and the deep depressing desire for that thing to become a reality.
I hope to have a baby -- a healthy, whole, living, breathing, perfect child that I birthed.
For me, this is not a reality. I understand that I gave birth, but right now, birth signifies nothingness more than it signifies something. And now, in the midst of grieving, I so long for a birth experience that brings tears of joy rather than of agony. I never expected to birth children that I didn't see. I never expected for my children to die before I did. But that is my reality. That is my absolute. But I don't want my absolute to become my always.
I want hope to become my always.
Right now, I can honestly say that I am terrified to hear the autopsy results next week. I am scared that the doctor will give us a percentage that is higher than we can risk, and in doing so, tell us that it's not safe for us to birth children of our own. I am scared to death because when it comes right down to it, all I want to be is a wife and a mom. I love my career; I love to teach. But in reality, all I've ever wanted is a family of my own. Granted, families are built in many ways and perhaps it is wrong for me to so desperately want children that come from my own body, but I do. And I'm scared that I might never get my wish.
But I hope that I do. And I so hope that for me, hope will triumph over this nightmarish experience and that, no matter the outcome, I will find some sense of calm and peace. Until then, please keep praying for us. We need it.
I forget who spoke these words initially, but that word "always" is one that I "always" tell students to avoid. It is an absolute - an unchangeable, unshakeable, fact - and nothing is truly absolute. And yet, in the uncertainty of life, I am aching for something to be absolute -- something to be unchanging, constant. And so, I decided I needed to focus on hope.
Hope is a concept that I don't remotely understand. It's undefinable to me because it is so abstract that there is nothing concrete about it. There is no hoping for something that you have, something that you can taste and see and touch. Hope, by its very definition, requires the absence of something and the deep depressing desire for that thing to become a reality.
I hope to have a baby -- a healthy, whole, living, breathing, perfect child that I birthed.
For me, this is not a reality. I understand that I gave birth, but right now, birth signifies nothingness more than it signifies something. And now, in the midst of grieving, I so long for a birth experience that brings tears of joy rather than of agony. I never expected to birth children that I didn't see. I never expected for my children to die before I did. But that is my reality. That is my absolute. But I don't want my absolute to become my always.
I want hope to become my always.
Right now, I can honestly say that I am terrified to hear the autopsy results next week. I am scared that the doctor will give us a percentage that is higher than we can risk, and in doing so, tell us that it's not safe for us to birth children of our own. I am scared to death because when it comes right down to it, all I want to be is a wife and a mom. I love my career; I love to teach. But in reality, all I've ever wanted is a family of my own. Granted, families are built in many ways and perhaps it is wrong for me to so desperately want children that come from my own body, but I do. And I'm scared that I might never get my wish.
But I hope that I do. And I so hope that for me, hope will triumph over this nightmarish experience and that, no matter the outcome, I will find some sense of calm and peace. Until then, please keep praying for us. We need it.
8/12/10
Happy Birthday to me
Today is my birthday. I spent the day at home, recovering from the d&c. But tonight, I am going to go to dinner with my husband, and I will be thankful for the parts of my life that are wonderful.
From the beginning of this experience, I have feared depression. I have never suffered from depression myself, but I know many who have. And of those who have suffered, I've seen many spiral into a darkness so all-encompassing that they can barely claw their way out of the pit. I have feared this overwhelming cloud and have done everything I can to avoid it. On most days, I'm successful.
Yesterday, I wasn't so successful. Today has been a bit better. My goal for tomorrow is simple: remember. Remember the wonderful people who consistently demonstrate concern and interest in my life. Remember my husband who passionately follows his heart, searching for his God, for truth, for hope. Remember my sons, who did more than just exist: they lived. Remember my God who, in the same way I love my sons who I never even saw and who did nothing to "earn" my love and pride, loves me. I will remember...
From the beginning of this experience, I have feared depression. I have never suffered from depression myself, but I know many who have. And of those who have suffered, I've seen many spiral into a darkness so all-encompassing that they can barely claw their way out of the pit. I have feared this overwhelming cloud and have done everything I can to avoid it. On most days, I'm successful.
Yesterday, I wasn't so successful. Today has been a bit better. My goal for tomorrow is simple: remember. Remember the wonderful people who consistently demonstrate concern and interest in my life. Remember my husband who passionately follows his heart, searching for his God, for truth, for hope. Remember my sons, who did more than just exist: they lived. Remember my God who, in the same way I love my sons who I never even saw and who did nothing to "earn" my love and pride, loves me. I will remember...
8/11/10
Unanswerable questions...
Yesterday, they scraped the remaining placenta out of my uterus. Tonight, someone that I love told me that I should be over this already. Tomorrow is my birthday.
I will be 27 years old, but I feel much, much older. I feel like life has made me older than I am. I went into this week hoping that I could just relax and have fun, but after landing in the hospital (again) and after being sent home to sit on my couch (again), all I want to do is scream and crawl into a corner to cry.
I don't even know how to vocalize or explain everything in my heart right now. I've tried so hard to keep a good perspective on everything that has gone on, but at the same time, I feel so strangely lost and confused, and I don't want to just skip over the events of this summer in a feeble attempt to "get over it."
We aren't the first to lose our babies and I know that we won't be the last, but I wasn't ready for this. It was one thing to fear not being able to get pregnant; it's another thing to have tasted and seen what it was like and then to lose both boys. Part of me asks why this happened; part of me is 100% sure that I don't want to know the answer because I don't think that any reason will be good enough.
But now, I'm faced with so many questions that I don't know how to answer. How do I face my life and the things that happen in my life without feeling like I'm grasping at dangled carrots that will be snatched away before I can grab them? How do I trust His good intention when I don't even know how to find him or what his plan is? How do I face the possibility of getting pregnant again when I don't think I could survive even the possibility of losing another baby?
Maybe I'm asking all the wrong questions and maybe there just aren't answers to these kinds of things, but I just need help knowing where to start. More than that, I just need to know that He hasn't forgotten about me, that He's good, and that somewhere in this mess, there is hope for the future. Right now, I need to know that it's ok that I'm not over it. I need to know that it's ok for me to grieve for a little bit longer. I need to know that it's ok for this to hurt like hell and that it's ok for me to miss my sons. And in that, I need to find a way to communicate that my grief is not my attempt to change the unchangeable or wallow in something that I can't control. It's just my way of finding healing and answers and someday, it will be my way of making peace with this loss that has moved in and made its home somewhere in the pit of my stomach.
I will be 27 years old, but I feel much, much older. I feel like life has made me older than I am. I went into this week hoping that I could just relax and have fun, but after landing in the hospital (again) and after being sent home to sit on my couch (again), all I want to do is scream and crawl into a corner to cry.
I don't even know how to vocalize or explain everything in my heart right now. I've tried so hard to keep a good perspective on everything that has gone on, but at the same time, I feel so strangely lost and confused, and I don't want to just skip over the events of this summer in a feeble attempt to "get over it."
We aren't the first to lose our babies and I know that we won't be the last, but I wasn't ready for this. It was one thing to fear not being able to get pregnant; it's another thing to have tasted and seen what it was like and then to lose both boys. Part of me asks why this happened; part of me is 100% sure that I don't want to know the answer because I don't think that any reason will be good enough.
But now, I'm faced with so many questions that I don't know how to answer. How do I face my life and the things that happen in my life without feeling like I'm grasping at dangled carrots that will be snatched away before I can grab them? How do I trust His good intention when I don't even know how to find him or what his plan is? How do I face the possibility of getting pregnant again when I don't think I could survive even the possibility of losing another baby?
Maybe I'm asking all the wrong questions and maybe there just aren't answers to these kinds of things, but I just need help knowing where to start. More than that, I just need to know that He hasn't forgotten about me, that He's good, and that somewhere in this mess, there is hope for the future. Right now, I need to know that it's ok that I'm not over it. I need to know that it's ok for me to grieve for a little bit longer. I need to know that it's ok for this to hurt like hell and that it's ok for me to miss my sons. And in that, I need to find a way to communicate that my grief is not my attempt to change the unchangeable or wallow in something that I can't control. It's just my way of finding healing and answers and someday, it will be my way of making peace with this loss that has moved in and made its home somewhere in the pit of my stomach.
8/8/10
So what...
I haven't had much to say over the last few weeks. After being gone for the last two weeks, I'm realizing how quickly life moves on. And, to be honest, I have mixed feelings about this type of progress. I'm still "supposed" to be pregnant. Seven and half months pregnant to be precise. But I'm not pregnant, and I won't be pregnant tomorrow. In fact, I might not ever be pregnant again, and that is a terrifying thought.
We are still waiting on the autopsy results and while I know that the likelihood is good that this was not a genetic/hereditary issue, I am still afraid. I SO want to get pregnant again. I want to have the opportunity to birth more children -- ones who are healthy and ok. I know that families are made in many different ways. I know that adoption is always an option, and it's a great option. But I still want to birth children.
So what happens if we find out that we shouldn't have more kids? What happens if we do get pregnant and this happens again? What happens if I have to keep watching everyone else get pregnant, have kids, grow families and we can't? What happens if this and what happens if that -- the possibilities seem endless, and my life seems full of the bad scenarios that were almost completely unlikely. And I don't know how to answer the questions that, well, I'm not supposed to be able to answer.
Sigh.
I know that no one will be able to replace my sons, and I know that future children will never make what happened "ok". I know that, and I'm ok with that. I just want to feel like my life has some sense of security. I want to feel like there are answers, like there's hope...like my life has a future. And right now, I don't feel like I have any of that.
And yet, life goes on...
We are still waiting on the autopsy results and while I know that the likelihood is good that this was not a genetic/hereditary issue, I am still afraid. I SO want to get pregnant again. I want to have the opportunity to birth more children -- ones who are healthy and ok. I know that families are made in many different ways. I know that adoption is always an option, and it's a great option. But I still want to birth children.
So what happens if we find out that we shouldn't have more kids? What happens if we do get pregnant and this happens again? What happens if I have to keep watching everyone else get pregnant, have kids, grow families and we can't? What happens if this and what happens if that -- the possibilities seem endless, and my life seems full of the bad scenarios that were almost completely unlikely. And I don't know how to answer the questions that, well, I'm not supposed to be able to answer.
Sigh.
I know that no one will be able to replace my sons, and I know that future children will never make what happened "ok". I know that, and I'm ok with that. I just want to feel like my life has some sense of security. I want to feel like there are answers, like there's hope...like my life has a future. And right now, I don't feel like I have any of that.
And yet, life goes on...
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