Their Story: Remembering

I want to tell their story. In a few years when we (by God's grace) have more children, and our lives are crazy (crazier?) I don't want to forget a single detail of their precious lives. I want to remember everything about them, every second we had with them. This is their story, our story, His Story.

I don't want to write this. I have to write this. I have to write it to remember. I have to write it to feel it again instead of this numbness that I've decided to come to terms with. I have to write it to heal. It won't be perfectly written. It might not make sense to anyone else. But then again, this really isn't for anyone else. Here goes.

I remember going to the bathroom that saturday before I put Wiggles down for her nap. I remember feeling my heart in my throat when I saw the first sign of blood. I remember calling my midwife. I remember she told me to take it easy; that some spotting was normal during twin pregnancies. I remember laying in bed all afternoon, not truly worried and even enjoying my day of rest. I remember Pat suggesting pizza for dinner. I remember getting up and sitting in the living room with Wiggles.

I remember going to the bathroom and feeling the blood begin to gush. I have never been so terrified. I remember a moment of panic before getting my head on straight. I didn't pray. I didn't think. There was only an all consuming, leg freezing, heart stopping fear.

I remember coming to my senses. I remember calling the midwife. I remember, a clearing in the terror as I remembered to grab a towel for the car seat. I remember driving with Pat. Then we prayed. We cried out.

I remember getting to the hospital. I remember Becky, dear sweet, life changing Becky with her calm nurses touch; an angel. I remember she thought Pat and I were sweet to each other. I remember getting into the hospital room and into bed. I remember changing into a gown. I remember the IV. My first ever.

I remember getting up to go to the bathroom. I remember a deeper terror. "Get a nurse there's a baby coming right now!" She came, Becky, my rock that first night. They weren't coming.

I remember the ultrasound. I remember telling Pat in half panic, half strength, "They're coming. It's going to happen. They're coming. It'll be ok." Willing it to be ok that we could lose them in that moment. I remember Dr. Bagdhadi. "20% chase he said." Hope. Not a lot, but more than enough for my God. I remember his next words. "Tomorrow we will just let you rest. We'll see how you are doing in two days." How fitting to rest on His day.

I remember two agonizingly slow days. I remember staying on one side for two hours and the calling the nurse to help me turn over. I remember thinking I was a giant pancake, absurdly wanting to call out over the nurses intercom, "Come flip me! I'm done on this side!" I remember the excruciating pain in my hips. I remember thinking it was so much more than worth it to save them.

And then Monday. I remember the terrible doctor who came in and tore the rug out from under us. I remember his terrible scoff when we told him we thought there had been a chance. I remember his ugly words about what it would be like when they came. I remember my husbands rage at his explicit and callous language about the horror that is losing a child nearly able to survive on their own, falling just short. Ten tiny days too short. Ten.

I remember waiting for 7 hours to see that mornings ultrasound. 7 hours. Thats a long time when your world is ending. God is still good. God can still heal me. God can still save them.

I remember when the new doctor came in. I remember she started talking. I remember being confused. I remember Pat begging her to stop. Explain. We don't know what the tests said. She's coming. Now. That's what the test said.

I remember sitting up. I remember grabbing Pat. I remember the terror. Oh the terror. "I don't have my ticket yet!" I said. "It's not time for your ticket," He said with tears.

She came. Without effort or pain she came. Fear. Thats all I felt in that moment. A different Becky. Equally angelic, "She's still alive. Sweet, she's still alive." "Give her to me." Not an acquiescence, a command. 

I remember her sweet hand. Her dainty thumb and palm. I remember her nose so much like Wiggles nose. I remember her tiny elbows. The way her chest felt. Her ribs. Her weight. Her feet. Her toes. There is no way to explain this part. Joy and ultimate sorrow all at once. Joy for her miracle body, with all it perfectly tiny parts. Unimaginable weight, grief, pain, physical pain, that this was the only time you were allowed to be with such perfection. A taste of her. A glimpse of her. And she was gone.

I remember waiting for him. I remember my midwife arriving. A gift from God. I didn't call her, but oh, I needed her. She came because she knew. I needed her. I remember the pitocin. I remember the contractions. More painful because of grief. I remember the pain medicine. A gift. Lovely, warm nearly happy relief. 

I remember his entrance. Bottom first and with more pain. I remember he was bigger. I remember feeling calmer. Dare I say peaceful. I'm so glad we had two. He redeemed his sisters birth. The terror of her sudden entrance was replaced by his calm. I could enjoy both of my children more because he was there. He was calm.

I remember his hand. So big. So manly. I remember his nose. His father's nose. In fact, his father in miniature. His toes. His feet. His belly. I remember think he's a boy! He's so different from his sisters. A little boy.

 I remember singing to them. Wiggles lullaby. I remember praying with them, for them, for us. I remember Pat holding them. "It's ok little baby. You get to be with Jesus real soon!" I remember when they were gone. I remember the empty. I remember the ache. I remember exhaustion.

I remember the time we went to bed. 3:30AM. I remember falling asleep holding my partners hand, both too weary to cry. Too weary to pray anymore. Too weary to live.

I remember.