A Long December

There were times in the past year where I found myself jotting down emotions and thoughts through those darker, harder moments. I've smushed them all together to make a post for anyone going through a difficult journey. We all walk different paths and our darkness can look different, but the one constant is that the Light and our faith are able to take precedence in the hardest of times. 

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And it's been a long December

And there's reason to believe

Maybe this year will be better than the last


December 2014.

That month seemed to carry on long after all the calendars were thrown away and forgotten. A couple weeks following their birth it was a new year, but nothing felt new. Nothing changed. There were no resolutions and no excitement. It was just another day. 




The weeks following December 15, 2014 felt like a bad dream - the kind where you know what's going on. You can see it all, but everything around you is blurred and dark. Except the fear in front of you. There's a spotlight shining down on that so you don't forget about it. All of your pain and fear is illuminated. And even worse than that, there is no escape. 




During that time, I feared this feeling would linger far longer than I wanted or could even handle. That the darkness that continuously hovered and hung over my shoulders would never lift away. It was difficult to see ahead because the fear and pain were blinding. Hope seemed out of my grasp. 

Shamefully, I was scared to love my daughter. Of course I loved her, but readily giving her any large part of myself seemed careless because the fear of losing her was greater than anything else in my small world. I wasn't capable of losing another child. I couldn’t do it. Fear took over my faith and life was miserable. 

Looking back and attempting to captivate the emotions I felt during this time is a bit overwhelming. My life had become the perfect storm for pain. The present was devastating and the future was unpredictable, but worse than being unpredictable, it was mostly grim. Those emotions and memories will forever be so vivid in my mind. When I think back, it becomes a feeling that I will always remember. The memories hit me in the gut and I remember what it felt like to have my life shattered into pieces just lying around me – out of reach and unrepairable. 

Those feelings, the sounds, the smells, the view of my fragile baby, and the wondering of my own thoughts, when revived in my mind, hurt just as badly as they did at the time, but coming out on the other side makes them bearable when I do go back to that time.

I've mentioned before I try to never question God. That's not my role. But I do specifically remember the drive to the funeral home. It was two days after the girls' birth and Mary Elliott's death. Chris and I were in the car alone. Hand in hand. It was dark and cloudy with a slight mist in the air. The weather seemed to mirror our emotions. As we turned off our street, I verbalized the cold truth. We were 30 years old and driving to the funeral home to discuss the plans for our late daughter. At that moment I confessed to God that I just didn't understand. Why are we driving to see and kiss our baby girl for the last time? With the gift of time, I’ve come to realize that trying to comprehend the whys in life isn’t always necessarily my role. It’s easy to worry yourself to the point of sickness when you dwell on trying to figure out everything. Thankfully, my faith has allowed me to have peace and trust in God’s reasons – it’s not always easy, but it is enough. 

The smell of hospitals in winter

And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls

All at once you look across a crowed room

To see the way that light attaches to a girl

Being in the hospital in winter - through the holiday and through the new year - it's a very eerie feeling. Something you don't want to experience. It's sad. Not just for the reasons you are there, but also for the unknown reasons everyone you pass is in there. It's uncomfortable. Like being homesick. There was nowhere else we would have been, but it also felt like being a prisoner. 

Despite the chilling sounds of monitors, the spotlight shining down on my fragile, weak daughter, and grim updates from doctors in those first few weeks, as time passed and I was able to pull myself together, deep in my heart, I had peace. I had this undeniable feeling that our daughter would leave that NICU perfectly healthy. All statistics were against her, but I was beginning to see a beautiful outcome - a healthy one we wanted for our daughter before she was even conceived. 

I've never talked about this feeling of peace I had, but it was very present. It wasn't immediate, but it wasn't long after the start of her journey. We hadn't received much good news and she wasn't close to passing any milestones, but I knew. 

I specifically remember hearing from nurses or other professionals different possible scenarios - “preemies usually have… this or that... to deal with throughout the rest of their lives.” I received the information as something to possibly prepare us for if/when that time came, but I also remember, a lot of the time, thinking not our Sadie Ann, she’s strong and is an overcomer. Her story is different. I felt like her being a micropreemie was more so a means to an end. And that’s what my mindset became. This was the peace that passed all understanding (Philippians 4:7). It never made the journey easy, but it restored all my hope and did help me make it through those hard days. 

And that peace I had proved to be her story. 

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So it finally feels like that year is over. 

I'm thankful to put this past year behind me. I didn't know if it would ever end and then it was over before I could catch my breath. This year has been so significant in my life - it's has strengthened my faith, strengthened my relationship with my husband, it has taught me that even in the depths of great sorrow, great pain, great fear, and unpredictable futures there can be light. There can be significant lessons learned. It is possible to walk out of a storm better off and stronger than you ever imagined. 

Although the pain of loss carries on for a lifetime, the joy of children and motherhood (whether they are in your arms or not) also carries on. And it's a gift I’ll treasure for the rest of my life. 

Despite an undesirable year, we are thankful. 

We move forward. 

And we can laugh again.

She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.

Proverbs 31:25

Birth Story: Twins at 23 Weeks

Monday, December 15, started out like every other day since starting my bed rest. I was awake when Chris would leave for work - he spent every single night at the hospital with me, so we had our own bed rest routine. Around this time, my nurse would come in for my 6am medication - and after that, I would have my quiet time. I'd read Jesus Calling and spend some time in prayer. Every morning I thanked God for a new day, which meant another day behind us; I prayed for our girls and their specific needs and I prayed for Chris. Me being on bed rest was just as trying on him as it was me, if not more.

After my quiet time and the local news, my doctor came for her morning rounds. We chatted; talked about how exciting it was to be into my 23rd week and that in less than a week I'd be getting my steroid shots. We were both so excited for where I was and what the upcoming week meant.

After her visit, I closed my eyes and fell asleep until breakfast was brought in. Most mornings, I would be anxiously awaiting the delivery of my breakfast tray - but after my doctor left the room, I fell asleep. When breakfast was delivered, I remember being hungry and wanting to eat, but fatigue won and I fell back asleep. This never happened. I was always ready to eat.

This was the case throughout the day. I'd eat, then nap. Had my ultrasound, then nap. Got assessed by the nurse, then nap. Ate lunch, then nap. And that went on until the evening. I slept more this day than any other day. Looking back, I see God was giving me rest and preparing me for a long night and even longer day ahead.

Chris got "home" from work around 7pm. Once he ate dinner and settled in, we got out the computer. We'd been on a weekend binger watching The Killing on Netflix - and we were ready to dive back into the show.

As we started watching, I began to notice I was having several Braxton Hicks. I mentioned in previous updates, that I would have them fairly often, but it was never worrisome and my doctor was aware. Most days I would have 4-5 within an hour and then none the rest of the day. After subconsciously noticing that I was having several of them, I began to pay close attention. Within a 45 minute show, I had 10+ Braxton Hicks. I knew that was too many for that time frame, but I didn't think too much about it. I tried to steer clear of over thinking anything my body did. Let's be honest, when you're pregnant, you're hyperaware of any and everything your body does or feels. Even more so when on bed rest. So I always made an effort not to think too much - and definitely no Googling.

As we started a second episode, I noticed the Braxton Hicks continued and were more noticeable. I continued to brush it off because they still felt like the Braxton Hicks I'd been having for the past several weeks.

By the third episode, my Braxton Hicks began feeling different. My uterus was contracting, but instead of it being in the middle and upper portion of my belly, it was low. There was still no pain, just a change in their typical location.

After the third episode, we decide to call it a night.

I was laying in my bed, in complete silence and darkness aware of nothing else except what my body was doing. I began to realize that whatever I was feeling was becoming consistent and getting stronger. I grabbed my phone and watched the clock. Every four minutes, my uterus contracted. Each one a little stronger than the previous. I could feel pressure in my pelvic region that radiated to my back. After 30 minutes, I told myself, Ok, if I have one more, I'll call my nurse. I had another one, but I was in denial. One more, then I'll call her. Ok, one more.

I finally confronted what was going on and called my nurse.

I never called my nurse. My nurses knew I never called them. She popped her head into our dark room and the first words out of her mouth were, "Are you OK?"

I explained everything from the multiple Braxton Hicks to the worsening contractions. And from this moment on everything became a blur. For the next 8-12 hours, time stood still, yet it all happened in a flash.

She put the toco monitor on me, which measures contractions - and sure enough, I was having contractions four minutes apart. After my water broke at 17 weeks, the monitor showed I was having contractions, but never strong enough to the point that I felt them. I'm guessing I had contractions all day before giving birth, but never felt them until they were getting closer together that evening.

My nurse initially told me to start drinking as much water as I could, but it seemed like as soon as I reached for my water bottle, she had already decided I needed IV fluids. Once she got my IV going and called my doctor,  she gave me two shots, 30 minutes apart, to try and stop the contractions. The medication slowed them down. They were barely noticeable and further apart. A bit of a relief; however, this lasted for about an hour after the last shot. Then they came back. Stronger.

My nurse spoke with my doctor again at this point and she was given orders to check my cervix for any dilation. So she did. And after she did, she didn't say anything. So I asked.

Six centimeters.

My heart dropped. 

I had just noticed mild contractions and I was already six centimeters dilated. This can't be happening. She stepped out of the room to call my doctor again. When she came back into my room, she had my chart. My heart dropped again. She calmly told me I was going to Labor and Delivery.

If I've learned anything about myself since Halloween, when my water broke, it's that when I find myself in high, emotionally-charged situations, I go into shock-mode. I'm sure for everyone it is different, but for me, my shock-mode is a lot of different things, in no particular order. I'm calm. I'm freaking out in my head. I'm still. I react. I move forward. Then, in the blink of an eye, hours from when it all began, reality takes over and I cry.

As soon as she told me I was going to L&D, I went into shock-mode. My bed was being rolled out of room 205 and I was being pushed down the long, dark hall that led to the double doors of L&D. I was pushed through the double doors and passed by several familiar faces before entering into my room. None of us said anything, we just looked at each other. We exchanged silent looks that screamed fear and sadness; we knew what the near future held.

I was rolled into Room 11 that was already filled with several people. Two NICU beds were being prepared as I was being asked if I wanted an epidural or pain medication. What? I didn't know. Was I really about to have these babies? Somebody tell me what I need to do. I must have had a look on my face that read exactly that. One of the nurses informed me that the pain medication would reach the babies and could possibly make them lethargic if they were born - which would make things even harder for them.

At this point, a whole new level of shock hit me. I'm in L&D, talking about an epidural and delivering my babies. I had always wanted to have natural deliveries - I was even one of those women who considered a home birth, but these contractions were no joke. I'm not sure if I have a low tolerance for pain or if they were just that bad. They felt debilitating. I knew I didn't want my girls to be lethargic, so I got the epidural.

I was also given antibiotics, magnesium, steroid shots, and fluids. I had two dopplers and a toco on my belly. I spoke with many different people including the nurse anesthetist, a NICU nurse, my nurses, my OBGYN, a phlebotomist, my husband, and my mother in law; however, I don't remember much of what was said. I do remember asking the NICU nurse if she'd ever seen babies born this early survive. She told me she did, but I could read the sense of doubt in her voice and on her face.



At some point, things settled down. The room cleared out. Everything was set up. The room was ready for whatever the future held. So I tried to sleep. I wanted to take a break and escape the madness that had been going on for the past five, six, seven hours. But it was impossible.

All of a sudden it was shift change. My night nurses were leaving me. Surprisingly, I found myself scared and anxious about the fact that those who were with me since all this started so many hours ago weren't going to be here. I clung to them. I didn't want them to leave. They had gotten me through the chaos and all settled in my new room. For some reason, them leaving made me uneasy.

Shortly after shift change and getting acquainted with my new nurses, my OBGYN came in again - she had checked me earlier that morning when I first got into my new L&D room and I was still six cm, but she wanted to check my cervix one more time before she headed over to her office for the day.

She checked.

I was completely dilated.

She told me in a very quiet, calm voice that she could feel Mary Elliott's head and arm and that she was ready to come out. I felt tears running down my face. I called out Chris's name. Between my tears and my doctor beginning to suit up, he knew too.

Just like that. I was going to deliver. Within seconds, before I could even process what just came out of her mouth, she was dressed in blue from head to toe, there was a table full of sterilized tools at the end of the bed, and my legs were bent up.

There I was, four months before any of this should be happening - my husband holding my hand, a nurse at each of my legs, and my doctor at the end of the bed saying, it's time to push. 




I found it incredibly difficult to really know if I was pushing because of the epidural. The coaching and encouragement I received from everyone during the pushing let me know I was doing something right. So I kept on.

I pushed. Maybe three or four times… and there she was.

Our first born daughter. I burst into tears that both celebrated the life of our child, but also feared for the future. She was out. No longer safe inside of me. She was impossibly small. I could only see tiny hands and tiny feet over my belly that still housed Sadie Ann. I cried. And cried. I was overjoyed to see her, but scared because all odds were against her. I could no longer do anything for her. She was taken across the room to her NICU bed where it seemed like dozens of people were surrounding her. I laid my head back and prayed for her.

WIthin minutes my doctor looked up at me and said Sadie Ann was coming too. Before I could even process that Sadie Ann was coming too, she broke my water and told me to start pushing again. So I pushed. Pushed. Pushed. And there she was. Four minutes later. Our second born daughter. I could see her a little bit better. She was moving and kicking. Then quickly whisked away to her NICU bed.

The room was chaotic once again. Lots of voices talking at one time. People in and out. Surrounding both of our girls. People cleaning up the bed. Asking me to roll left, roll right. Taking out my epidural. Taking off the dopplers. Cleaning me up.

Just like that it was all over. I was no longer pregnant. No longer on bed rest. I could no longer provide a calm, safe environment for my girls. I could only lay there and watch the backs of several nurses as they did everything they could for two babies born 17 weeks early. 17 weeks early. 

Although in the moment, time did not seem to exist, it was after about 30 minutes of working on Mary Elliott, that her neonatologist came over to my bed. She told us that they tried everything that they could, but her lungs would not inflate. They were just too premature; too firm from the lack of fluid in the past seven weeks. She told us that she still had a heartbeat and thought it would be best if we held her rather than for them to keep working on her.

With tears pouring down our faces, we agreed.

A nurse brought her over. There she was. Finally in our arms.

Perfect. Beautiful. She was showered with kisses. Told hundreds of times how much she was loved. Told how proud we were of how strong she had been in mommy's belly. We smiled and celebrated the beautiful life we created. A life that God decided to place in our arms. How blessed to be hand-picked by God to be this little girl's parents during her short life here on earth.

Since this day, I often find myself overwhelmed with sadness, sometimes even anger, at how fleeting my time was with Mary Elliott. However, when those feeling strike, I redirect my thoughts to this fact: as she took her last breath on this earth and left my arms, she then opened her eyes for the first time and saw Jesus. My daughter never had to see or experience this broken world. She's only ever seen heaven. And although I selfishly want her here with me, I'm oh-so thankful she knows no pain or sorrow. Having faith and confidence in this makes it all bearable.

After our time with Mary Elliott, Chris went to the NICU to see Sadie Ann before she was transferred to a different hospital with a higher-level NICU that she needed. Before she left, the NICU transport team brought her by my room. I held her little hand and told her how much I loved her. Then she was off to what would be her home for the next several weeks to come.