Natalie & Brooklyn's Story

Since Wednesday, October 15th was "Pregnancy and Infancy Loss Remembrance Day," I have come across many articles about suffering through such devastating tragedies. I know that a lot of women, like myself, have experienced this level of loss. There really aren't sufficient words to describe what losing a baby is like. Whether you had an early miscarriage at 5 weeks or a full-term stillbirth, the pain is excruciating. It feels like someone has ripped a portion of your heart out of your chest. A part of you, that was once alive and whole, died with your baby. You're never the same afterward and it forever changes your perspective about life, death, and everything in between. I know this well because in 2008 my life turned upside down. I lost my first babies at 28 weeks gestation. They were identical twin girls, delivered stillborn. Their names were Natalie Kate and Brooklyn Elizabeth. Even though they never took a breath on earth, they were very much alive. I listened to their heartbeats, I felt their little kicks, and I ate the house down - Honey Boo Boo style- because, let me tell you, those twins demanded a lot of food. :)

From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I was obsessed with becoming a mom. My daydreams were consumed with baby names, crib bedding, precious clothing for our new, little bundle. Well, weeks later I learned that my "baby" was actually "babies." Although I knew I was way out of my league carrying and raising twins, I was equally ecstatic about the idea of everything double. At my 20 week appointment, my excitement was turned up to a whole new level when the ultrasound technician looked at me and said, "You're having girls." My love for them was beyond any emotion I had ever experienced, and I wanted to hold them both right that second.

We knew early on that carrying twins included additional risks than a typical single pregnancy, one of those being premature delivery. With an identical pregnancy, there are other factors that must be considered and monitored, which meant I was even more high risk than a standard twin pregnancy. At the age of 22, I didn't think much about the risks involved though. My view of the world was cherries and rosebushes. Besides, every time I went to the doctor's office, everything looked perfectly fine.

I started feeling excessively lethargic around 25 weeks. I had never been pregnant before, so I didn't know what to expect concerning symptoms, signs of labor, etc. My main focus, really obsession, was to carry my babies as long as possible so that they could be born healthy, without much, if any, time in the NICU. The matter of "survival" never crossed my mind. I gave it zero thought. Once I hit the 24 week mark, I knew that my girls were viable, so it was just a matter of "baking" from that point forward.

I'll never forget THE day. It was a Sunday. The date was March 16, 2008. I woke up feeling terrible, worse than I ever had in my life. I didn't realize at the time that my body had been in labor the entire weekend. I pushed through the signs and kept moving. Although I wanted nothing more than to stay in bed all day, I got up and went to church. While I was there, a few things happened that made me realize I had to go to the hospital. My mom drove me, and we prayed the entire way. I was hurting too bad to even cry. I just wanted to 1. know my daughters were okay & 2. manage the pain. When I arrived at the hospital, I immediately went to Labor & Delivery. A nurse came in, searched for the heartbeats and left wordless. She came back with more nurses and they all did the same. The only thing I was told was that the doctor would be there soon. I ignored the panicked faces of my parents, my sisters, and friends that had followed us there. Even at that moment, I didn't know what message they were trying to communicate to me. The pain was too much and my mind was in a fog. Finally, the doctor made his way in, searched frantically for heartbeats, and then looked at me, shocked, before saying, "They're dead." I thought he was joking, and I asked him if he was. He replied, "I would never joke about that. I'm sorry. There are no heartbeats." That was the moment my life changed forever.

I could go into detail about the rest of the day. The long hours I spent, laboring, battling not only the physical pain, but the emotional heartbreak. People coming in and out, offering their comfort and condolences, and knowing that what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life just became the worst. I laid in bed after they were delivered. There were no newborn cries. The room was deafeningly silent, except my sobs. Finally, once it was over, I began to grieve. I cried the rest of the night, the next day, the next week, month, everyday for the next year. I still cry, almost 7 years later, when I think about that day.

The funeral was difficult, the days that followed were more difficult. I felt like everyone was looking at me to see how I would handle tragedy. I kept it together in front of people. Even my family didn't know how bad I was really hurting. I said the right things, quoted the pertinent Scriptures, and lead the perfect example of the grieving mother. Except - I was dying on the inside and no one knew. The desire to have a baby in my arms was so overpowering that I was desperate to get pregnant again. I told Zac just days after they were gone that I needed to try again as soon as possible. So, we did. I miscarried another baby 3 months after I lost them. I wasn't even 5 weeks yet, but the loss was significant. I've never felt more hopeless. People looked at me with pity in their eyes. I went to baby showers and the women became silent when I walked in the room. I had friends that discovered they were pregnant, but didn't want to tell me because they were afraid I would become upset. Babies would cry in public and I would want to cry. All I could think was, "I would have given anything for my babies to cry. Just once." I didn't want to feel that way anymore. I didn't want to be broken. Losing them was hard enough without having to deal with the aftermath of others' reactions. (I know everyone meant well. There is no easy way to handle things like this.)

My sunny day came in November 2008, though. I took a positive pregnancy test. I was so excited with the result that I barged in on Zac while he was using the bathroom and did a happy dance in the doorway. I laugh every time I think about what he said, "You're telling me while I'm on the pot? Are you kidding me?!" It was hilarious. I was overjoyed, and for the first time in a long time- hopeful. On March 16, 2009, on their 1st birthday, I went to Natalie and Brooklyn's graves and mourned their loss. The following day, I went to an early ultrasound appointment to find out that my precious baby was another girl. I knew that she was God's gift to me and Zac. She was our rainbow, our joy in the morning. She was born perfectly healthy and screaming her head off on August 1, 2009. (For the record, she has made her presence very well-known since the day she was born. That girl is one of a kind.)

Since Audrey, I have been blessed to add 2 boys to our family. Micah is 2 and Colton is 1. (He was our big surprise, in case you were wondering!) We have a beautiful, happy, chaotic family, and I appreciate every second that I spend with my babies. The road to here wasn't always easy. We had to endure loss before gaining the abundance of our family of five. Our joy now rests in that one day we will be reunited with Natalie and Brooklyn in heaven and make up for all the time we weren't granted on earth.

 *Thank you all for reading. I know that this was lengthy and descriptive, but I have never sat down and wrote everything out like this. I'll be honest - I cried a lot while I typed, but it has been therapeutic. My hope is that, in sharing, someone can relate or, even, be encouraged. I speak with a lot of moms that have dealt with miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss, and that is the one good thing that came out of their early departure. The ability to empathize with others has given me a wonderful testimony and ministry. Once again, I'm glad you read! Natalie and Brooklyn's story deserved to be told. They will always be remembered as our sweet, little angels.*


-Lindsey

You Might Be a TMI Mom If...

*This blog entry is dedicated to all of the proud, usually well-meaning, always TMI moms (like me) out there representin'.*

You Might Be a TMI Mom If...

1. You have discussed the condition of your cervix with "friends" or strangers.

"Update: The doctor says I have dilated 2 cm and am 50% effaced. I can practically feel the baby's head at this point!"

Ok. This sentence makes perfect sense to me and when I read Facebook statuses like this I think to myself, "Good for her. She's almost there. All she needs is a little castor oil and we could have a baby by the end of the day!" HOWEVER, to normal people, this tidbit is TMI. I mean, the word "effaced" is yucky and should never be used outside of a doctor's office or, better yet, let's not use it. Ever.

2. Your milk supply is your pride and joy.

"I just pumped 4 ounces! #liquidgold #happybaby"

Listen, 4 ounces a few days post-partum is something that you should be proud of --- you had to go through a lot to get that! I know ... trust me, I. KNOW. Should that be public knowledge though? Ehhh, your call.

3. You brag about your kid's potty-training exploits. 

Really, I just put this on here because I'm bitter that, at this rate, my 2 1/2 year old son might be wearing diapers in Kindergarten. 

4. You make a big deal when your baby sleeps more than 4 hours.

All the "we don't have kids yet" people laugh at us when we do this. They snicker and make jokes behind our backs and then, when the laughing subsides, they feel sorry for us. 

(FYI: This isn't really a TMI point. It's just my not-so-subtle way of calling you out for finding humor in my distress. How rude. ;)  )

5. You share your child's stats with the world.

"Billy is 6 months old, weighs 18.4 lbs, is 30 in. long, head circumference is blah, blah, blah.."

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but only moms get excited about their kids' head size. Sadly, no one else cares. This TMI means nothing to them, and when they make a nice comment in response, they're just being polite. (I really am sorry to break that news. Someone had to break it to me too. I was heartbroken.)

6. You post selfies of your post-baby weight loss.

Hey! You carry a human in your belly for 9 months that demands you eat brownies and drink Dr. Pepper every day and then see if you can fit in your regular jeans a month after you deliver! Any progress in this department deserves a flattering picture of us sucking in (to the point of not breathing) with words like "Wearing pre-baby clothes!" typed all cutesy across the pic. You go, girl. You go! 

7. You quote your child on social media & script the dialogue for all to see.

Kid: "Mommy, you're the best in the world!"
Mom: "Awww, honey ... I know, I know."

I do this all the time. It's TMI; I'm very aware. Now, ask me if I care.

(Answer: No. No, I don't.)

8. You announce all your kids accomplishments.

You're a good, proud parent. You are and don't let anyone tell you different. HOWEVER, sharing every test grade, boy scout honor, homerun, touchdown etc., etc. might be a little TMI for the masses... Most people don't really care all that much. They just think you're (we're) bragging. Obviously, we are, but maybe we should find a less obvious way to announce that our kid is the best/perfect... ? Thoughts & suggestions welcome!


*Thanks to all of my "friends" that inspired this blog. Your TMI ways keep me going and entertained. I just hope that I do the same for you :)  Much love & keep it up!*

-Lindsey