The Eleventh Hour

A liminality is a threshold one reaches within a process of change that introduces the chance of moving to a new phase or back to the old. Those in liminal spaces are “neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between positions” (Turner, 1969, p. 95). In this sense liminal people stand waiting on the doorstep, but are not yet welcome to enter a dwelling place. Eleven months after Matilda and Milo’s birth and his death, I find myself in such liminal purgatories as I learn to exist as a mother to a living and a dead child.

Getting to be Matilda’s mother has brought me more joy than I could have possibly imagined before she came to me. If I would have realized the extent of this love when my infertility journey began, I’m not sure if I would have been able to travel such a treacherous road. The longing for her and not knowing if she would ever come to me would have wounded me so deeply that I would not have been able to persevere. This joy is partnered with an unnamable sadness that I have gotten better at keeping below my surface. However, it is constantly there percolating, begging for those who dare ask about Milo to tempt it out of me. Betwixt joy and sadness I do dwell.

Matilda 9 Months, Milo 3 hours

Similar to the notion of liminal spaces Anzaldúa (1987) defines a borderland as “a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary, that is in a constant state of transition” (p. 7). Eleven months after my babies’ births, here at the border of transition is where I find my infertility. At Matilda’s daycare, I pass as just another fertile mother with my neatly labeled bags of frozen breast milk that I place in her classroom freezer each Monday morning. But pangs stab me when a father stops by to tell one of the teachers his wife is pregnant. My (in)fertility is a borderland, an undetermined space between finally birthing my child(ren) and not knowing if there can be more. As Calafell and Delgado (2004) contend about the borderland, “in this space the ability to manage the ambiguities of life, of social rules and roles, and of one’s own identity, become manifest” (Calafell & Delgado, 2004, p. 8). Indeed, who I have come to be remains in question. Existing in these spaces makes finding “my people” difficult. I don’t fit in with new moms; my son is dead. I don’t fit in with the infertile or bereaved; I have a daughter and she is alive. And so I seek out others who too are neither here nor there—a friend who just recently married and faces both the hope of getting pregnant and the fear of being barren, a friend whose husband has been given just months to live, a friend with an incredible mothering heart who chooses to be child free.

Liminalities render people without clear status, as if their former position has been filled as they wait to receive another that lies just beyond the corridor. Despite my own liminal space, yesterday I was reminded that Milo has arrived at a clear and unwavering homeplace. I finally got up the courage to go get Milo and Matilda’s birth certificates and his death certificate. After carefully filling out the forms, writing my check, and taking a number, I sat face-to-face with the woman helping me. We were so close yet so far away, as a glass panel with only a half-inch space below it to slide paperwork back and forth separated us. I held my breath while she clicked keys on her computer and asked for forgiveness, as her system was moving slowly. I felt sure some error would prevent me from being able to get the certificates. Her computer finally cooperated and she made check marks on Matilda’s form and then moved to Milo’s two forms. Check, check, check went her pen. My eyes began to well. It was true. His life and death were in the official system. She excused herself so she could go get the documents off of the printer. When she returned, she then slid them through the tiny space under the window. I was sure to take my time checking them despite the line behind me to be sure there were no mistakes. I was confused at first as the three documents were different. I was expecting two similar birth certificates and one death certificate. What I held in front of me at first glance appeared to be two death certificates and one birth document. I opened my mouth to question her, but then I realized what I was holding. Milo’s birth certificate, although similar to Matilda’s had the giant word, “DECEASED” stamped across it. My eyes about overflowed as I walked quickly to my car hoping the wind would not take these precious documents away from me. As I sat in my car, I again looked at Milo’s forms. His record of birth literally is stamped with his death. His death certificate is a reminder of what will never be: “Married—No,” “Education—0,” “Career—Infant.” Such beautiful and heartbreaking reminders that Milo has crossed over his border. His space is not liminal but permanent.

Milo's Birth Certificate

In one month I will make my way to a new year with Matilda and without Milo. I am afraid of what this will feel like. There is some comfort in remaining in a space that teeters between the sorrow inherent in grief and the elation of raising a child. Perhaps I fear that moving away from my heartache toward healing will mean that I love him less.

Despite this fear I take comfort in knowing I am forever grounded in one permanent position. Here I am never threatened to take a step backward toward a more liminal space. Here, after eleven months, I am still and forever will be Matilda and Milo’s mother.

References

Anzaldúa, G. (1987). Borderlands/la frontera: The new mestiza. San Francisco:

Aunt Lute.

Calafell, B. M., Delgado, F. P. (2004). Reading Latina/o images: Interrogating

Americanos. Critical Studies in Media Communication, 21, 1-21.

Turner, V. W. (1969). The ritual process: Structure and anti-structure. Ithaca, NY:

Cornell University Press.

*Thank you to Mark for his loving and thoughtful feedback on this post.

HeARTfelt Goodbye

When we found out that Milo was going to die, we vowed to do all we could to be sure that the world recognized his life. One of the ways that we ensured that this happened was by having a funeral for him. We carefully planned out the event as much as we could ahead of time, with most of the details coming together the week between when the babies were born and the funeral date. We couldn't be prouder of the grace, creativity, and pure love that comprised the service. It truly was a work of art, from the music by our dear friend Mike, to the sermon by our pastor Cindy, and a letter Mark wrote to Milo. Below is the link to the audio of the funeral service. Thank you in advance for listening. Knowing that people out there are bearing witness to Milo's life heals my heart in unmeasurable ways.

In addition to the funeral celebrating Milo's life, at my shower each of the guests made a "quilt square" with a special message for Milo. We will be framing it and hanging it in our house so that we have a daily reminder of everyone who loved that baby so deeply despite never having met him. My mom did the cross stitch and she and my sister put all the squares together. Here are some photos of it so far.

Others also have shared their artistic talents in order to help us remember Milo. Our friend Gloria crocheted him this beautiful hat and blanket, which we had him photographed with on the day he was born and died. Another friend, Cassandra, had her mom make a quilt for Milo.

People often ask us how it is that we are able to bear so much heartache. I believe that part of the reason we are able to make it through is because of the ways in which we choose to celebrate and honor Milo. I also believe we are strengthened by the ways that others have acknowledged our suffering, both through their quiet support, such as simply attending his funeral, and by more creative means, such as the quilts above. These acts don't wash away the pain--nothing ever will--but they allow us to feel that Milo's life is worth attention and care and love.

On the Day You Were Born

Dearest Matilda,

The day you and Milo were born was more amazing than I could have possibly imagined. Every mother says that the day that she gave birth to her child is the best day of her life. This really is an understatement. Before telling you the story, I have to admit that many of the details are fuzzy because of the drugs I was on because of the c-section and because of the incredibly intense emotions I experienced meeting you and Milo and saying goodbye to him. I will do my best to remember as many details as possible. I will share some of the photos of the birth by Katherine Payne here to help tell the story.*

The night before you were born we went to one of my favorite restaurants in Denver--Stueben's--for our "last supper." We actually had reservations at a fancier place called Vesta but we decided to cancel because I just wasn't up for fancy food and I wanted something familiar. So after taking Porter to the kennel, we went to Stueben's. There is usually a wait but it was early so we were able to get right in. The waiter was particularly friendly, calling me "mama" the whole time. I liked that. I ordered a chocolate milkshake, a cheeseburger, and macaroni and cheese. I ate ALL my meal without apology. He asked if I was having my baby soon and I said, "I hope so."

That night and in the morning Daddy and I took care of last minute chores and made sure the house was completely ready to welcome you home. He took one last picture of me and my ginormous belly before heading out the door.

Picture by Daddy

As soon as we stepped outside, he said, "I'm hungry!" To which I replied, "What?! You didn't eat?!" I hadn't eaten either, but that was because I wasn't allowed to since I would be having the c-section. Thankfully we were leaving way ahead of time so we went to McDonalds and he got two egg McMuffins. Breakfast of champions. We called Dorotha (our doula) on the way to the hospital to let her know we were running a few minutes later than we expected (but still early). She was there already.

We arrived at the hospital and I was nervous but excited. I can't really explain in words what it was like to prepare myself emotionally for both you and your brother's birth and his death. Walking into that hospital I knew I would be facing the best and worst day of my life. One thing was for sure--I couldn't wait to see you. We made our way through the corridors, bypassing the triage area where mommies who give birth naturally get checked out to be sure they are really in labor. The nurses laughed at all our bags and said it was obvious we were there for a c-section based on how good we looked. We made it upstairs where we met Dorotha. We all chuckled when the administrative person called her "Grandma." We had to sign forms and provide information there. Everything happened very quickly, as the doctors decided to move up the surgery time that was originally scheduled for 10:30 a.m. given the nature of our complicated situation. I was not prepared for this feeling of hurriedness. I had anticipated the wait between checking in and the c-section being very long with lots of time to process what was about to happen.

After getting checked in we met our incredible nurse Jennifer who was with us the entire day. I changed into my lovely gown and Jennifer started an IV and asked questions and basically got me set to go. I had to explain to Jennifer what was going on with you and Milo. I teared up a little when I had to tell her, but I knew I couldn't break down so early. Katherine, our photographer, arrived by then and I was relieved she made it there to document all that was about to unfold. We had prepared a very detailed birth plan to try to be sure that you and Milo had the type of care we desired. Part of this included our wishes for resuscitating him and so the neonatologist came in to talk to us about that. Our OB, who I will call Dr. T., and his resident, Dr. G. also stopped by. Next, the anesthesiologist came in so we could ask her questions and talk through the birth plan. One of our wishes was for both Dorotha and Katherine to be in the operating room. Because this isn't typically allowed, we had to get permission from the anesthesiologist. Despite our desires she was adamant that the operating room was too small for all of us. Dorotha was stern and told her that having her there for support was important given all the losses we had already endured and given how emotional we were likely to be. The anesthesiologist bargained with us, saying that she was willing to let Dorotha and Katherine take turns coming in and out of the room. I agreed to this plan, not wanting to be a bothersome patient. I could tell Dorotha wished we would have fought harder.

Then it was time to go. Daddy and I walked down the hallway to the operating room.

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

Again, the fear and excitement were in my throat. I sat down on the table and the anesthesiologist did her thing, which included inserting a needle into my spine. This really is nothing in terms of pain for someone who has had hundreds of shots going through IVF numerous times. It only hurt a little. I laid down on the table and she started pinching me to see if I could feel anything. Eventually I could not. She asked if I could move my legs and I said, "No, which is really annoying for a control freak!" We all chuckled. Daddy (with a look of sheer terror) was by my side and Dorotha and Katherine were outside looking through the door. It was time to go.

Tears then started pouring out of my eyes. There was no stopping them. Last minute preparations were happening and I just laid there waiting for what seemed like hours. The anesthesiologist asked if I was okay, "Just the anticipation of it all?" I said "yes." The floating nurse started handing me tissues but all I can remember is the tears just pouring and pouring onto the floor. Daddy and I locked eyes, silently begging you and Milo to make it to us safely. After a few minutes when things started getting intense, he asked if we could get Dorotha in the room. She was by our side in a flash. The surgery started and she narrated everything that was happening behind the curtain. Katherine took pictures through the window and the anesthesiologist asked Dr. T if this was okay. He laughed, "Well I took a shower and brushed my hair today so I think it's fine!" Lots of pulling and tugging was going on and then Dr. G. let out a loud yelp. She quickly realized this was probably a scary thing for us to hear, so she said right away, "Everything's fine! There was just A LOT of amniotic fluid." She had gotten wet when they broke your sack!

Before I knew it, we heard "It's a girl!" and "What a beautiful baby!" You made it to the world. The anesthesiologist cheered, "And she peed and pooped all over Dr. T.!" He brought you around so we could see you and you were just the most beautiful baby ever. I know everyone says that, but really, you were so incredibly cute. You then went to get checked out. Then Dr. T. pulled out Milo and said, "It's a BOY! See I knew it!" (A couple of weeks earlier he thought he saw boy, not girl parts as had been expected all along by our perinatologist). The nurses again proclaimed, "What a beautiful baby!" I breathed a small sigh of relief. Milo did it. Despite all the odds, he made it to the world alive. And not only that, he let out a very loud high pitched CRY! He cried even before you. Dr. T. brought him around to see us. He was so small but long and he had what I could tell was a cleft lip. I had been worried about how he would look since finding out he was sick. The doctors had prepared us that he might look scary given not having much amniotic fluid around him in the womb. But I can honestly say, I was not scared one bit. He truly was just a gorgeous baby. My baby. Our baby.

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

Somehow Katherine was now in the room snapping pictures. The neonatology team went to work on Milo immediately because although he was alive, as expected his lungs were not in good shape. One of the most amazing parts of the day happened at this moment. As soon as Milo's team was working on helping him breath, your daddy seemed to come out of himself. His look of pure fear turned to one of pure determination. He turned to someone and asked, "Can I be with him?" He seemed to float up out of his chair as if he was the bravest, strongest man on Earth. He went to Milo and held his hand and said over and over again, "Daddy's here Milo, Daddy's here."

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

One of my fears going into the day was wondering if your dad would be able to make it through the surgery because he was so very afraid of what was going to happen to not only Milo, but he worried about your safety too. But he somehow found a way to do what he needed to do. It was absolutely remarkable. My love for him in that moment and thinking about it today is endless.

As they were working on Milo I asked how you were doing and Dorotha said you were just hanging out, happy as could be.

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

They finally brought you over and everyone was saying how beautiful you were and commenting on your adorable dimples. I finally got the moment I had been waiting for over the last five years--I held you in my arms and kissed your face. Again, the tears flooded. You held my fingers as if to say, "I finally made it mommy and I'm never letting you go."

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

The neonatologist then came over to me and said both what I wanted and did not want to hear. She gently said, "Erin, we are to the point where we need to make the decision to move Milo to the NICU or you can be with him and hold him." We had made it clear that we didn't want Milo to be incubated or to have any interventions that would simply prolong the inevitable fact that he would die. I choked out the words, "I want to hold him and be with him."

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

So we did. They brought him to me and I held him like I held you. He was much smaller than we had expected. His eyes were little slits and he looked out at me and I imagined him saying, "Hold me forever, mama."

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

By that time I was done being sown up. Before being wheeled out, I thanked the anesthesiologist for allowing both Katherine and Dorotha to be in the room. She just looked at me rather blankly and shook her head in acknowledgement, seemingly shocked by all that she had just witnessed.

In the recovery room we got right to work on skin-to-skin contact and breastfeeding. You latched on right away and seemed so pleased to finally be outside rather than inside my crowded belly.

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

Our nurse Jennifer and some other nurses were there to give you your shots and do whatever it is they did to make sure we were coming along okay. Dr. Stacey (our psychologist) came and was so happy to finally meet you and Milo. We all took turns holding you both.

Jennifer checked Milo's heartbeat every once in awhile. His breathing was somewhat labored the entire time he was with us. After about two and half hours, his breathing seemed barely there and then not at all. Jennifer told us that the heart still beats for a little while after breathing stops. I had been holding Milo for awhile so I wanted to be sure that daddy got more time with him, as it was clear the end was near. Around 1:30 Jennifer came to check his heart. Dr. Stacey and I held each others eyes, waiting to hear what we already knew. He was gone.

And then the most amazing thing happened. You fussed a little bit as if you knew something was going on. I said to you, "Yeah, it's sad isn't it?" Then as if I had confirmed your biggest fears, you wailed the most painful sounding cry imaginable. We all stopped and checked to make sure something wasn't poking you. There was nothing. Then Dorotha gasped for us all. It was if you knew your brother had just told you goodbye.

The remaining hours in the recovery room are a bit of a blur for me. We all continued to pass you and Milo around the room, cuddling and loving you. A pediatrician came to visit and said the most beautiful words ever to us after your check-up, "She is perfect." Daddy gave you and Milo your first baths. Katherine took hundreds of pictures of you both. Daddy and Dorotha scarfed down pizza that Dr. Stacey and our friend Sarah sent to the room. I read Milo the book, "On the Night You Were Born." Jennifer and Dorotha and another nurse made casts of Milo and your feet.

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

Eventually Daddy, me, you, and Milo moved to our regular room where we stayed for the rest of our hospital visit. On the day you were born our journey of infertility and loss both came to a close and opened up again. It was beautiful and tragic, but nonetheless lead us to you and Milo, our babies, our family.

Copyright Katherine Payne Photography

*Katherine Payne is a professional photographer who volunteers for the organization Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. NILMDTS is a non-profit organization that provides remembrance photography to families experiencing the death of a baby. We are so grateful to Katherine for the beautiful birth photography and the NILMDTS portraiture she did for us. The hundreds of pictures she took provide us with a memory of Matilda and Milo's birth that we wouldn't have otherwise had. In honor of Milo's legacy, please consider sharing the NILMDTS website with others and making a donation.  

 

Breeching Birth

The last trimester of my pregnancy involved a good deal of anxiety-filled anticipation. With each ultrasound we prayed that Milo's heart still would be flickering and that Matilda would still be the perfect baby she was from the beginning. In addition to the ultrasounds, I feared what my body would do, despite its constant efforts to prove to me that it was strong and healthy. Regardless of my worries, my body held its own. I gained the recommended 50 pounds for a woman my size. At 37 weeks although my belly measured 45-weeks pregnant, my cervix stayed tightly closed, never once threatening to open prematurely. I had no signs of preeclampsia or other problems that often plague the bodies of women carrying twins or more.

Although the babies and my body stayed healthy, one aspect of my anxiety was never dissuaded--the babies were breech from the beginning of the pregnancy and refused to flip into the head-down position. Over the years of struggling to get pregnant, having a vaginal delivery has been something that has became incredibly important and meaningful to me to say the least. I recognize that this may seem ridiculous, especially for someone like me who should thank her lucky stars that she finally got and stayed pregnant. However, for someone whose body has let her down so many times in so many ways and for someone who has had to go to such lengths to get her body to do what it is supposed to be able to do naturally, a non-medicated vaginal delivery was what I longed for. I wanted it almost to the same extent that I longed for a baby itself. I hated the thought of a c-section, such a seemingly violent birth--arms strapped down, body immobile, curtain preventing women from bearing witness to what is being done to their own bodies, a doctor (usually a man) slicing them open. Instead, I wanted an empowered birth and the chance to let me body do the most incredible thing humanly possible. A common saying from pregnant women who elect to having a c-section or use pain medication during delivery is "I don't need a gold star." I am unashamed to admit that I wanted the gold star. I admit that I am a whore for a feeling of accomplishment after a hard-fought battle. I wanted that feeling desperately after giving birth to Matilda and Milo. Of course the politically correct thing to say is that all I wanted was happy and healthy babies, but it wasn't. I wanted them to come to me after hours of horrific pain, delivered by my hands and my body unhinged. That was not the plan for me. And so another loss ensued.

In the final weeks of my pregnancy, I set out as I always do when faced with my heartbreaking losses to find the meaning in having to lose my dream birth. At first it was difficult, as all I could come up with was: at least if I have a scheduled c-section I am going to know when it will happen and my family can prepare their visits ahead of time. This wasn't enough. However, the week before my c-section the answer I was looking for finally came when I was talking to my doula. Throughout my pregnancy she often reminded me that her father, who was an obstetrician, always said that when it comes to childbirth it is important to trust the integrity of the baby, as he or she knows best what is the safest way to make his or her entrance into the world. On this particular day when we talked, my doula told me this again but she mentioned two new things that had dawned on her. First, she said that it is important to keep in mind that remaining breech is a choice the babies are making, not me. This helped me think about just how empowered the babies themselves were. Although I was seeking such a feeling for myself, knowing that they were ultimately in control helped me have new perspective. What a beautiful story I will have to tell Matilda about how even from the womb she was making her own choices despite her mommy's desires. Second, my doula said that a c-section may allow us to spend more time with Milo than we would have if he would have to go through the stress of a natural birth. That was all I needed to hear.

So today, three weeks after my c-section, I can say a couple of things for sure. It wasn't the birth I always wanted. I'm not sure if I will ever get my dream non-medicated vaginal delivery, as I'm not sure I will be pregnant or give birth again. But, the c-section allowed me to spend three amazing hours of my life with Milo--the biggest gold star I've ever received.

I am sharing others' artwork along with this post. Our beautiful photographer, Katherine Payne, took our maternity pictures, as well as pictures of our birth, which I will share in an upcoming post. Here are a few of my favorites from the maternity session, taken at 29-weeks pregnant. They remind me that my body is a strong body, capable of getting pregnant and giving life to two incredible gifts. If you've read my post My Boots Are Made for Keeping, I thought you'd appreciate the boots shot. The sash I am wearing in the pictures is by my friend Ahndea May, who is an incredible artist and stylist.

Copyright: Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright: Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright: Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright: Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright: Katherine Payne Photography

Copyright: Katherine Payne Photography

Prelude to the Next Chapter and a Note About Names

I am overjoyed, relieved, and thankful to announce the birth of our twins--our daughter Matilda Plum and our son (yes he surprised us by being a boy!) Milo Juniper, who were born on Friday, February 8th at 10:30 a.m. and 10:31 a.m.. I am also heartbroken to share that Milo lived three hours before passing away peacefully in his daddy's arms. Since my blogging was lacking at the end of my pregnancy, I have much to share both about it and about my babies' birth and current joys and sorrows. Although I was feeling down that I didn't do a lot of painting at the end of my pregnancy, I realized that there was actually a good deal of art-making going on. I will be sharing it along with my thoughts in my upcoming posts.

Before getting to those, however, I wanted to say a few things regarding using names in my blog. Up until this point, I have not been using my or my husband's name and I originally had planned not to use the babies' names either. When I started the blog and knew that I would like to make it public someday, I followed other bloggers' practices of remaining anonymous so as to protect my own and my family's privacy to some extent. Much of what I share here is pretty personal, so I thought that it would probably be best if I did not use our names so that someday down the road when our children were older they could decide if, where, and when to share their story. I didn't want some friend of theirs finding the blog lurking on the internet and using it to make fun of them about their unconventional conception or their kooky mom who shares things that should not be talked about publicly. However, since Matilda and Milo's birth I have changed my mind about using our names in the blog for a couple of reasons. First, it is inevitable that as the days and weeks and months pass by, those around us will be less and less inclined to speak of Milo or to mention his name. They will be afraid of bringing him up out of fear of upsetting us or making us cry. The truth is that we will long for people to ask about him and say his beautiful name day after day and year after year. So I am choosing, in part, to share our names here so that I have a place to say Milo's name, to type it and see it in print, so others will recognize that he will not be forgotten. Second, I will now share our names because I want my daughter to learn the power of sharing her story. I do not wish to teach her that we should shy away from sharing our names along with our tragedies simply because we are afraid of what others might think, say, or do. If Matilda's friends find out her story someday by reading my blog, it is my hope that I will have taught her that our story of infertility and loss is something to be embraced. I hope that she will have learned to recognize that sharing her story when so many will not and cannot is heroic. Having said this, my name is Erin and my husband's name is Mark. The names of our first babies, whom we lost to miscarriage, are O.B., which stands for Our Baby, and B.W., which is for Baby Willer (our last name). And now, we have our Matilda and our Milo, the sweetest sounding names we could possibly imagine.

We have had Matilda's name picked out for years. It's been my favorite name and I can say that one of the most tragic aspects of my infertility for me has not being able to use it. Mark and I choose it for a number of reasons. First, it comes from the book Matilda by Roald Dahl, which is a beautiful story of redemption for an unusually smart, sassy, and sweet little girl. Second, Mark is a huge Tom's Wait's fan and the lovely song "Tom Traubert's Blues" hosts the lyrics "waltzing Matilda." Third, one of my favorite beers is Matilda made by Goose Island. We lived in Lincoln, Nebraska for a few years, a time that we treasure deeply. During that time, I drank a lot of Matildas in the bar below our apartment. I remember sitting at the bar and telling Mark and the bartender that I loved the name Matilda. The bartender said, "Yeah, and you could call her Mati." And so we do sometimes. We thought of Milo's name at the start of the pregnancy. It was actually our second girl name rather than our first choice for a boy. (For those of you who know I love the show Gossip Girl, we had the name picked out before nasty Regina came into the picture with her baby Milo!) Because our Milo had little amniotic fluid around him the entire pregnancy, it was difficult to see his sex on ultrasound. We had the perinatologist and sonographers check a number of times, and their best guess was always girl (up until a couple of weeks before the birth when our OB thought he saw a penis). Since we were never positive and we wanted to be able to call him by name during the pregnancy, we decided that Milo would work if he ended up being a boy even though it was our girl name originally. The babies' middle names, Matilda Plum and Milo Juniper, are both names of trees. When Mark and I got married, the theme for our wedding was "growth" which involved such things as planting a unity flower and giving out vegetable seeds as favors to our guests. We loved the metaphor then for planting a life together as a couple and wanted to carry it through to our new family. I also love the color purple so plum was fitting for Matilda (and fit Mark's criteria for a one-syllable name following a lengthy three-syllable name!).

I don't have a painting to go along with this post yet. Instead of feeling guilty and waiting to post until I do, I am accepting that motherhood is busy and that sometimes my words will have to be enough. Instead of a painting too I also thought I would share some pictures of the tree that Mark and I made for Matilda's room. It serves as a reminder of that love that inspired Matilda and Milo's names. The tree is made out of paint tarps, twine, and pvc pipe. The flower (by stylist Ahndea May, http://heirblooms.com/) and purple silk embellishments were a part of our maternity picture session (see my post Breeching Birth).

Pretty Please With a Cherry on Top

There was a set of twin girls in my grade in elementary school. I secretly envied them, wishing I had a sister who would dress like me, who would play pranks on people by switching places, who would hold my hand on the first day of school when I was all alone. Thinking back about it now, I don't think that getting to do these twin acts per se was what I so desired, but rather the bond that forms as a result of going through life with such a close partner in crime.

As my infertility journey showed signs of a long haul and IVF became a necessity, so too did the possibility of having twins. My personal longing for an age mate turned to a desire for children who would share the connection that struck a chord in my heart back in elementary school. For all three of my IVF cycles, we transferred two embryos in hopes that both would stick. During my first IVF cycle, the night before my first ultrasound that would allow us to see if we had more than one baby, I prayed hard that there would be two. I feel a little kookie admitting it, but I felt as if someone, perhaps God himself, grabbed my face and said, "You will get your twins." The next day's ultrasound was a little disappointing, as there was only one baby, but that in itself was enough to cancel out my greediness for two. For our next two IVF cycles, I never forgot I had been told, very definitively in my mind, that someday I would have my two. When it didn't happen the second IVF cycle, the third time I believed my chances had to be good. Plus, using a young egg donor increases your likelihood for success, so I let myself be more confident that my babies were on their way. When my pregnancy results were in, my hCG levels were very high, a good sign that this was finally it. An ultrasound a month or so later confirmed--I was going to get my twins.

I recognize that hoping for twins isn't necessarily popular. There are the possible risks to babies and to mothers, and there are the financial obligations. But for me these are worth it; I not only have waited so long to have a baby in the first place, but I can't imagine anything more special than sharing a childhood with the person with whom you shared a womb. I want that desperately for our daughters. 

But today as I remain in this purgatory that lies between Baby B's life and death, I grieve the loss, not only of my baby, but of this bond between her and her sister. Although they are spending their first nine months together, upon their birth they will be connected merely in spirit. Baby A will reach milestones--first days of school, getting her driver's license, graduations--without Baby B beside her. Knowing that Baby B will die shatters me deeply, but what feels even more devastating is knowing that Baby A will not have her sister by her side on her life journey. For her loss I grieve even more deeply than I do my own.

This quote from A Midsummer Night's Dream in my painting is Helena's attempt to remind Hermia of the incredibly special bond they used to share. I think it captures perfectly the beautiful connection between twin girls.

   

  

My Boots Are Made for Keeping

A year ago I had a series of extremely vivid dreams related to coping with the loss of our second baby and making sense of the upcoming egg donor IVF cycle that lead to my current pregnancy. I had a lot to work out in my mind related to my grief over my miscarriage and figuring out how I felt about another woman giving my future babies life. I dreamed in brilliant metaphor. Here is an example: I was at an indoor swimming pool and I jumped off the diving board two times. On my third time up the ladder I was paralyzed with fear. I was shaking so badly that I could barely move. I realized that the diving board had turned into a high dive, whereas the first two times I dove off, it was a low dive. I don’t think I even jumped off of it the third time, but I remember having an intense desire to go to the top to get my shaving cream. I did make it to the top, but when I got there, I was disappointed to see that there was no shaving cream, but rather deodorant waiting for me. Interpretation: I believe that the first two diving boards represent my first two attempts at IVF. The high dive represents the third egg donor cycle. The shaving cream comes in because I had gone to Target a few days before the dream. I was in the shaving cream aisle and a dad and his little girl were there and he was telling her that he needed to call her mommy because he can never remember what kind of shaving cream she likes. I thought it was so cute and became very envious that my husband doesn't get to do that. I think the deodorant in the dream represents my fear that the high dive/egg donor cycle will ultimately lead to the disappointment of having something that comes close to shaving cream (deodorant/a baby that dies) rather than the real thing (my husband and kid shopping for me at Target). 

Here is another example, which I have been reflecting back to over the last few days: In this dream I was waiting to find out if I was pregnant. If I received a shoebox with a pair of boots in it, then I was pregnant, and if it was empty, I was not pregnant. Time was ticking and I was putting off doing the shoebox test. When I finally got up the nerve to hold the box in my hands, my heart fell because I could tell without even opening it that it was empty. However, when I did look inside, there was a note from Zappos saying that the boots were damaged during shipping and that I could use the enclosed gift card to purchase another pair. When the new box arrived and I held it, I could tell the boots were indeed inside this time. I excitedly opened the box but unfortunately, I was disappointed to find that the purple boots inside were almost exactly the same as the pair I already have. Interpretation: I have used buying Frye boots as a coping mechanism for making it through IVF and my miscarriages. I bought one pair in New York before embarking on my first IVF attempt. I bought a second pair of purple boots (the reference in this dream) as a reward for making it through the first out of two IVF cycles during our second attempt (you actually do two cycles when genetic testing is involved). I bought a third pair after losing our second baby. During the entire second attempt, I told myself that if I didn’t get the baby, I would get boots instead. I almost had a panic attack one day when I realized that the boots I had been pining over were no longer available in my size through the Frye website. I began to shake and tear up, but thankfully, I was able to find them on another website. I think that the dream represents my fear of getting pregnant again, only to face another loss.

Today, in some ways, I feel that this dream foreshadowed my current reality as I face the excitement of holding a full shoe box and the simultaneous disappointment that I've walked a mile in this pair of boots before (although this time they are even more uncomfortable and painful). With the impending loss of my Baby B, I fear that any day now I will open the shoebox, the one I was so overjoyed to receive, only to find it filled with both one new shoe and one old, with both joy and despair. But back to Zappos my box will not go. I hold on tightly, knowing that despite the heartache that looms under the lid, there lives more joy than I could ever imagine.

This painting of my purple boot serves as a reminder that I wouldn't trade my babies, despite my heartache, for anything. 

Pour Me Another Glass of Lemonade

Well it has been about three and a half months since my last post. A lot has transpired since then. I am overjoyed to report that I am 24 weeks pregnant with twins. I am unbelievably sad to report that one of our babies is going to die. At our 18 week appointment, our perinatologist confirmed that Baby A is a perfectly healthy baby girl. Unfortunately, he also found numerous cysts on Baby B's kidneys. Because her (at least that is the best guess for sex so far) kidneys are not functioning properly, she has very little amniotic fluid around her. Amniotic fluid is what makes lungs develop. Babies don't need lungs in the womb because the placenta does the work for them. However, as soon as they are born, the lungs need to do their thing. Since Baby B will barely have any lung development, she will not be able to breathe and therefore live. She may die in utero or make it to birth and die shortly afterward. Yes, it's shocking. If you know my story, you know that it doesn't seem fathomable that someone who has gone through so much is not only facing another loss, but the biggest one of her entire journey.

At the beginning of my pregnancy, I felt paralyzed in the sense that could not make myself work on my art. Part of it was that I had morning sickness day and night up until about 15 weeks and part of me didn't want to jinx anything by painting or blogging. I finally had an idea and was set to start painting when we got the news about our Baby B. I have so much to write, so much to paint. Just finally being pregnant in and of itself was an emotional roller coaster, but now as I straddle the world of the pregnant and the infertile, trying to celebrate the incredible life of Baby A and mourn the incredible loss that awaits us with Baby B, I again find myself paralyzed when it comes to knowing what my heart needs me to paint. I am trying to remind myself that I have a lifetime to get it all down on paper and that all of it cannot be explicated in one day. So I share my first painting after my long hiatus, hoping that anyone who sees it will understand that this is just one very tiny fleck of all that encompasses my joy and sorrow.

This painting represents one of the many gifts resulting from my pregnancy. As is evident from a few of my other posts (e.g., Human Reproduction, Bodily Forgiveness), I have been working hard on believing in my body after it has let me down numerous times in the past in regards to trying to get and stay pregnant. With each day my belly gets a little more ginormous and I become more and more confident that this time, even in spite of the upcoming loss of Baby B, my body is a strong body. My body is carrying two babies and it knows what it's doing. My body is mushy and rotund just like I've always wanted. My body has what it takes to do the most incredible thing humanly possible. I love it so much, finally. 

This painting was inspired by the brilliant mother of all midwives, Ina May Gaskin, and a quote from her book Ina May's Guide to Childbirth. "Remember this, for it is as true as true gets: Your body is not a lemon. You are not a machine. The Creator is not a careless mechanic. Human female bodies have the same potential to give birth as aardvarks, lions, rhinoceri, elephants, moose, and water buffalo. Even if it has not been your habit throughout life so far, I recommend you learn to think positively about your body."

Giving the Eggstraordinary Part II

This IVF cycle has proved to be full of times of celebration, drama, and unease. Things moved along beautifully for the first couple of weeks. Our egg donor made it through the follicle stimulation with no trouble and it felt so good to be able to breathe easily at every update on her progress. My body also has been holding up its end of the deal, building up a nice thick uterine lining. I also finally figured out what else to give the donor in addition to the painting I did for her. One of the reasons why we picked her in addition to her medical history, proven success in previous cycles, age, etc. was because her favorite book growing up was To Kill a Mockingbird. This is also my favorite book and so I took this as a sign that she is the one. So I got her a 50th anniversary edition copy of the book and another one that includes interviews of people who talk about how the book has impacted their lives. I also found the perfect card and thought of the perfect things to say. As I mentioned in my previous post, this gift meant so much to me and I was so relieved that I was at peace with it. I indeed had found THE gift. Or so I thought.

As seems to always happen at some point during IVF treatment, my hope and optimism came to a crashing halt. I had an appointment to check in on my uterine lining. Although it continued to look good, the ultrasound technician found a hydrosalpinx (fluid pocket) in the remaining piece of my right fallopian tube (I had it removed it 2009). This was a Saturday so we waited all day to hear from the doctor who was on call about what this might mean. After a day of overwhelming anxiety, she called and said that my doctor wanted to look at it himself and that worst case scenario I would need to have the remaining piece of tube removed or blocked before moving forward with IVF. If the fluid from the hydrosalpinx makes it into the uterus, it can impact embryo implantation. This would mean freezing the embryos and me starting all over again with a new cycle. Of course this happened on a Saturday and so we had a long wait until Monday when we were scheduled to meet with my doctor.

In the meantime, the following day was egg retrieval day. My husband went in to give his sample (in the navy room as he likes to call it ;)) and despite the news of the previous day, we were feeling excited that this was the day the embryos would begin their journey. However, again our hopefulness was bitch slapped. We got a call from one of the embryologists that they were only able to get six eggs, four of which were mature. Now, this may seem like a good number and it is if you are a typical infertility patient. However, for a donor this is a horrible number. During our donor's last cycle with another couple she had 18 mature eggs! She admitted that she had taken her trigger shot (the one that tells the follicles to release the eggs) almost three hours early the night before. They have this timed perfectly so that by retrieval time, the eggs are ready to be "harvested." Since she took the shot so early, she ovulated out most of the eggs by the time they went in to retrieve them. We were speechless. The ridiculousness of it all seemed so unfathomable.

After making it through yet another intense day, Monday came and we had our appointment with our doctor. We prepared ourselves for the worst, but surprisingly he determined that the hydrosalpinx is in such a place that there is not a threat of it making it to my uterus. We were clear for transfer on Friday. In the meantime, we prayed that we would have embryos left to transfer. With so few we were unsure if the transfer would happen despite the good news on Monday. Thankfully, we ended up with two perfect embryos and transferred those. The other two did not make it so we have none to freeze. We are in the two-week wait currently and will find out if we are pregnant next week.

Ok, now to the point of this post. Geesh. Last week was a really hard time for me regarding what happened with the donor. We took such care to choose her, each of us ranking numerous donors on our own and then coming together to discuss our top choices. I put so much care into choosing the perfect gift for her. Despite this she let us down. She took away any chance to have future siblings that share a genetic connection with one another even if they don't share one with me. She took away the beautiful story I had intended to tell my children about what an amazing person she is to have given them life. I fumed. I wanted to ask for the painting I made for her back. After a couple of days though, I decided that I could not keep up such anger, such bitterness and regret. So I decided to give her one last gift: I chose to forgive her. For the sake of my health and the babies that are hopefully rocking it out inside me, I let go. Like me and like all of us have done, she is a good person who has made a big mistake. If there is one thing that I have learned over the last year, it is that I am not perfect and that I don't need to be. As I learn to be gentler on myself, I learn to do the same for others. I was lying in bed thinking all of this through last week and as soon as I came to this decision a palpable feeling washed over me. I felt a sense of relief and I felt like a mother. What an even more beautiful story to tell our children than the one I had originally planned--another invaluable gift she is giving to all of us.