There are some memories that never got a chance to be played in real-time . . . only thought up in my head in played in my heart.
There are those memories - real memories - of the morning we found out we were expecting for a second time and the shock and joy that surrounded.
There are those memories - real memories - of seeing two babies on the screen and the smiling and laughing that filled my soul as I watched Emmerson kick Vivienne and Vivi acting as if she could enjoy the rocking caused by her sisters kicks all day.
There are those memories - real memories - of planning the nursery, shopping for everything in twos, and shopping for mini-vans.
There are those memories - real memories - of my husband and I being in shock while basking in the glow of thankfulness.
There are those memories - dream memories - of coordinating outfits for two identical babies, a baby in each arm, and three girls playing together.
There are those memories - dream memories - of birthday parties, halloween costumes, and the first day of school.
There are those memories - dream memories - of first loves, broken hearts, proms, wedding days, and Father-Daughter dances.
There are those memories - dream memories - of my babies expecting life, seeing them hold their babies, witnessing the women they became.
All of these memories to be played while watching in amazement of the unique relationship between identical twins.
You see?
It wasn't just that my babies were born too soon. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.
I loved them with a Mother's Love before I ever got to hold them in my arms.
You see?
My babies died.
There are also those memories - real memories - of the air standing still and hushed, mumbled whispers while staring at a screen.
There are those memories - real memories - of a conference room, highly specialized doctors and words. So. Many. Words. Of shivering, uncontrollably and someone placing a blanket around my shoulders.
There are those memories - real memories - of a pain wanting to split my body in two, worried glances, an ambulance, more worried faces, no one looking me in the eye and me pleading with my God.
There are those memories - real memories - of "I'm so sorry . . . ", tiny fingers and toes, kisses and swaddles and snuggles and me still pleading with my God.
There are those memories - real memories - of flowers that were too beautiful and sweet, cemeteries, funeral homes, a casket and a too-big-hole in the ground.
You see?
It wasn't just that my babies were born too early. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.
I have memories and dreams and all of them are bittersweet. All of them carry the same weight because they all occupy a space in me.
You see?
It wasn't just that our babies were born too early. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.
We lost pieces of our hearts . . . members of our family.
It wasn't just that our babies were born too soon.
Our babies died. While holding them, they died.
Stephanie
