Clothes

Faded, barely readable, five strips of papers with purplish writing. Stock number, item description, price. Dug out from the back of a mixed up junk drawer, they were receipts from clothing purchased two years ago, dated June to September of '06. Before everything went to shit.

I remember telling myself not to go overboard buying those maternity clothes. Had I gone to term I would have spent more than the $249.10 that I calculated a few minutes ago, just before throwing the receipts away. I was able to use some of those clothes early on in my pregnancy with July, but given the s p r e a d of my hips from the twins even those didn't last very long.

Luckily my girlfriend came to the rescue with a huge plastic bin of clothes, hers and her sister's, both declaring their doneness with childbearing, and although they are both 3" shorter than me, crop pants were great for the summer and there were lots of t-shirts and many cute dresses. I also had lots of maternity tanks left over, and skirts that were helpful even after the baby was born.

Maternity clothes for babylost mamas are not just clothes with baggy bellies. They are a symbol of a past life or lives, never to be realized, of hope gone forever, of firsts that will happen only in our minds. I didn't have the financial luxury of dumping all of my old clothes and starting fresh, which is why I am so grateful for the donation, more than my girlfriend will ever know.

I did wear many of the clothes that I bought previously, but each and every time I put something on I remembered the girls and sighed that lost sigh. I was actually happy to stuff myself into clothes that I didn't choose. I wasn't attached to them and won't be sad should I have to return them or pass them on. 

The clothes I did buy, well, that's another story. I could possibly hold on to them for a very long time.

Give

I have the following twin-related items available for a free giveaway (sorry, shipping in the US only 'cuz I'm pretty darn broke after paying for that cerclage): 

1. Book entitled "Twins! Pregnancy, Birth, and the First Year of Life"

2. Maternity shirt, size M, that says "Babies Happen" (*shudder* I can't even look at it)

I doubt we'll be having twins anytime soon, so these have to leave my house. I'll update this post if/when these items are spoken for.

Changed

As wannabe dad said in the post below, it was a busy day, the two year anniversary since the twins died. I know he thought of them all day, and I was glad that we went to the cemetery the day before and sat with them, gourmet coffees in hand to ward off the chill, baby asleep in his carseat, cheeks rosy. But the actual day was like any other Monday: meetings, deadlines, copywriting, phone calls, consultations, bookkeeping, and add on baby's four month shots and a follow up dermatology appointment for his rashy cheeks. The day ended without even a nice dinner, no special meal prepared to remember them, just the early evening nursing tank filling before baby's bedtime.

We did light "their" candle before turning in, a small pumpkin-scented candle that wannabe dad picked up at Whole Foods two years ago, to thwart the hospital scent during those 10 days of extreme bedrest (hmm a new reality show?). It sat in the bathroom of all places after we got home, never getting lit, but occasionally getting picked up and sniffed and slamming the smeller back to the dread, the fear, the uncertainty, the darkness.

Wannabe dad composed his post on his pda, for me to post the next day since the keyboard wasn't showing up on blogger for some reason. The candle scent filled the room, it was past our bedtime, we shared a quiet moment before dozing off. I jumped up and forced myself to blow the candle out before really getting on that sleep train.

And that was it. Certainly a change from last year's little shindig. Most have moved on, we are in the process, thankfully not in such the deep hell that we were in the first year. My babies died. You could see it carved on my face that first year. I would venture to say that having our baby doesn't erase our hurt and sadness and longing for our twins. He helps, but having a baby is not a fix. I wish more people got that.

***

I should probably give him a name besides baby on this blog. That won't fly after he's done being one. For lack of any creativity here I'll call him July, the month of his birth, though I reserve the right to change it should inspiration strike, ever. I've always thought of July as a masculine month, maybe because my brother's birthday is in July (one day after July's. Oh goodness, is this going to be confusing?).

***

Oh my gosh, it was my birthday a few months ago. Completely slipped my mind to write about it, although it was a happier event than last year's. I missed my girls, but July filled some part of that hole in my heart.

Papa

How do I feel? I feel old. When I was young I could read a street sign a half a block away. When I was young I could hear footsteps outside my house. When I was young I could jump off my parents' rooftop and not feel a thing. When I was young I could remember the words of a song. 

Now it's hard to see, hear and remember the important things. I feel like a horrible father and husband when I have to look at my baby girls' bracelet to remember their birthday. I do miss them. Some things I do remember: walking with them to the NICU when they were born and how scared and helpless I felt. Having the worst turkey at the Marriott the day before we took our girls off the ventilators. The pain I felt calling my family to give them the bad news. The doctor coming into our small room and looking in our eyes and giving us the sad news. Designing our girls' gravemarker. I feel sad when I have a quiet moment alone with my girls in my head. 

Today was one of those days that it was too busy to think and remember until now. I love you my twin angels, Papa will always love you and remember your tiny hands and how you touched us two years ago and how you still touch us today. God bless you both.

Efforts

The night before their 2nd birthday was spent slaving away on a boxed cake mix.* Make that two boxes. Baby was put to sleep, and normally I try to jump in bed before he wakes up again. Not that night. In fact, the first box of mix went to hell in a handbasket, they were angel food cupcakes (how appropriate) and although it mixed up nicely with my handheld mixer, still with that new mixer smell, I blame the uneven heat of the gas oven and the cupcake pans and the weather and the economy for burning half of the batch, rendering it rough to the roofs of mouths and chewy like beef jerky.

Not good enough for my girls, even with the crackly orange glaze brought to life from the pages of Joy.

So the next box was opened, a devil's food. How can one go wrong with chocolate? Whirr went the mixer. Scrape went the spatula. Bake went the oven. It looked ok, then I felt satisfied with it so I went to bed.

The next morning, we prepped to go to the cemetery. I made a chocolate frosting, with soy milk (hubby can't do lactose), and since this house doesn't have an offset spatula the cake was frosted with the best looking rice paddle we have.

Cake was packed, what do I know about plastic wrap and frosting? Obviously nothing, because patches of cake and frosting stuck. No worries, the patches were carefully hidden behind the cards with their names. It was a nice day, uncrowded for a Tuesday morning. I desperately wanted to share the cake with someone, to let them know we had twins and that it was their birthday.

In the supermarket I was pissed that there weren't two potted plants that were the same size, with the same number of flowers. I didn't want the girls to think I was playing favorites.

We took pictures, first of the marker with their picture and with the cake. Then with their baby brother. As I continued snapping away I realized I was taking pictures of the baby, focusing on him and not on the girls. Couldn't I give them a few moments for their birthday? How the heck do you mother babies on both ends of the heaven and the earth?

***

This time two years ago, they were alive. Alive! I can hardly believe it. Cerina was breathing on her own by the third day. They were both hooked up to ventilators, IVs in their heels, their tiny tiny heels. Little glimmers of hope with each passing minute, hour, that they might be able to come home, that we would have to rent an apartment in that city for a few months to be close to them, until that final ultrasound of their brains that told us they weren't coming home, that there was no nursery to organize, no registry to scramble together, no breast pump to rent, no sleepless nights due to feeding rather than crying and asking why.

*I've always admired how Monica celebrates her Sam & Jack's birthdays. Her efforts for her boys inspired me to do a little more this year, better than last year's store bought piece of cake piled high with too sweet frosting. And though I'll never be the awesome baker that she is (I was probably 15 before I found out that you could make a cake not from a box!), the least I could do for the girls was make them a birthday cake from a box. If they were alive, I would do that for them, and for years we'd laugh about how awful a baker their mommy was.

Approaching

It's been a whirlwind four months since our son was born. Those first weeks, months were a blur. I frequently look at his pictures from just a few months ago and I can't believe we are at the four month mark. Every parent I've come across says the same thing: it goes by so fast. And it has.

Yet, I remember when it went so slow, this time thing. And still, so fast since it is once again November. Slammed back into two years ago, god the feelings just overtook me as I remembered the exact words of my doctor: your bag is bulging. My naïveté of the moment, carried over to the day they were born, even at 24w5d, to not wanting to hear their doctor utter the words of their condition, having to plan a fucking funeral instead of figuring how to fit two cribs in the room designated as the nursery.

For us, each year is marked not by one day of despair, but seemingly a season. Our season is the beginning of the holidays, starting with November 8. Specifically, the 8th to the 18th for 10 days of strict bedrest with my feet above my head, then the 18th to the 24th, their 6 days of life. Then December 2, the date of their funeral, then the rest of the season without them.

So the next 2 1/2 weeks plus, not so fun.

We have done so much to honor their memories. From our matching rubber bracelets (ala live.strong but black), to attending group memorial events, to telling our story in a local magazine. So much reminds us of that dark time, like Wh.ole Fo.ods of all places, because that's what wannabe dad subsisted on while we were at the hospital. We are occasionally at that particular store and we get the same feeling. Coincidentally, the support group meeting place is across the street. What else...oh yes, that empty bottle of gourmet shampoo purchased down the street from the hospital, still in our bathroom, that we take the occasional whiff of, that reminds me of the cramped shower stall in the post delivery wing where I cried and cried and cried, sore from the surgery, trying to wash off all the damn adhesive left on my skin in every nook and cranny it seemed, asking why us, why it didn't work out for us as it had always done in the past.

Sometimes I feel like, Hey, I haven't cried in a while so I must be doing ok, then it turned into November.

And a momma cat found her way into our attic, again. Don't know if it's the same one.

Them

Sundays were usually reserved for visits to the girls at the cemetery. It was a day that we looked forward to, and we were religious about going for I can honestly say one year. Every Sunday (or Saturday) was a visit to the cemetery. We felt awful if we didn't go.

Then I got pregnant, and we went as often as I was able to. As I got bigger it was more difficult for me to bend over to do the ritualistic cleaning of the grave marker. Dump the old rotted flowers. Pour some water on the marker. Clean the engraving with a toothbrush. Wipe dry. Spray a granite countertop cleaner. Polish. The marker got more and more worn due to the hard water and the sun.

This past Sunday we didn't go. In fact, we haven't gone in a while, probably three times since the baby was born. Instead, we went to the pumpkin patch in town, a well-organized place where parents have taken children since pumpkins were invented.

We met up with friends -- parents for a longer while than we -- and we've seen them be parents and dote and dress and decorate. At this patch, there were farm animals, the corn maze, the haystack maze, the hayride, the barn where children's songs are sung and children participate and parents take photos and videotape and cheer their children along.

We walked in to the barn after the show had started, everyone already seated on their bales of hay. I refused to look at anyone else as I carried the baby in, a proud mama. I became one of them, a parent, and I was freaked out. So this is what parents do. Now we are in their boat, we are to dote and dress and decorate and record and videotape and cheer. And we did, our 3-month old plopped on pumpkins, bounced to the music, face stuck in a cutout of plywood painted with a farm motif, many many pictures of him taken to show to anyone with eyes.

And we were happy.

This is how one parent of dead babies and a living one thinks of a seemingly innocent pumpkin patch. I never thought my life would ever be so complicated.