Radio Silence

I apologize for the long delay in writing. In the immediate aftermath of losing Heston, much of my blogging silence was simply about pain. There was not much I could say except how much it hurt. To borrow again from Edna St. Vincent Millay, “time does not heal all wounds.” But it does lessen the pain.  As grief does, the wound eventually scabs over and begins to heal. 

Lately, it has been more acute. I am not sure if it is all of the baby preparations, or just all the pregnancy hormones, but I am in tears more now about our lost son than I was in many of the days after surgery. I am reminded each time I say “twins” how it is no longer three. I am not sure how to explain it, and to some it may seem unimaginable, but picturing and preparing for two boys now seems so very lonely.  One third of them is missing. In particular, I am worried about the birth. Our Heston must be born as well. By far, this is where most of my anxiety is centered. 

I have understood for a long time that men and women grieve differently. I also understood that mothers and fathers approached things differently. Experiencing these things for myself in my relationship with my husband has reminded me even more what a good man I married. I cannot brag enough on my husband. He has been such a rock and a comfort to me and to our boys. He takes care of me and of them each day when I am too tired to manage on my own.  He has worked hard on helping to get our house ready and he even thanks me for carrying our babies. While Brian feels the loss of our son, he, admittedly, was not as attached to his life as I am. He has said that he is sad, but far more grateful for the lives of our other two babies, and for my safety. He does not experience the pain of a mother, but he has not belittled it in any way. While allowing me my grief and sadness, he also reminds me to be grateful. And I am. Please do not think that I am not so unimaginably grateful and happy each time our two boy move inside me. It’s just that for some parts of some days, the wound in my heart hurts more than the joy can overcome. 

I think this is guilt. I feel guilty that my pregnancy has stabilized with two rather than three babies to carry. I am no longer considered high-risk and have been transferred to Twin Falls for care. I even feel guilty in buying a car and a stroller knowing that the difference between two and three influenced what we could afford to buy. Maybe it’s irrational. I just know that I would not have traded the life of my baby for the convenience of any of these things. Things are what they are. I know that.  Maybe it is that I really think that the loss of my son should be marked by things getting worse and not easier. Not that I want that. But the heart does not understand these distinctions. 

I don’t feel this way every day. Just some parts of some days.  And I’m still in the stage where, to me, forgetting any sadness means forgetting Heston.

A painful metaphor

One of the hardest things to deal with is the knowledge that our baby died, but he is still in there. The first ultrasound after surgery was hard. Two heartbeats. One tiny baby, so very still. I will see this every week.

I will carry him until it is time to deliver. His little body will get pushed aside as his brothers grow.

I had a moment of panic thinking, What will happen to my son when he is finally born? With a fierceness I cannot describe, I told Brian that I would not allow our baby to be discarded as medical waste.

We will have him cremated. 

Heston always occupied a specific spot in my belly. It was a place for him. Space for him.

A cross now marks the spot where my son lived-- band aids and surgical tape covering my incision. It is a painful metaphor.

I am a womb; I am also a tomb.

It’s not time to come out yet, little one. I will carry you the rest of the way.

I carry your heart with me

I carry it in my heart                          

                                          -e.e. cummings

Home again

Today is my first day back home. It feels good to be back in my own bed. I slept for over 12 hours. 

The seasons are changing. It is raining outside- tears for my little boy. The house is cold and empty while the dogs are still at day care.

When they come home, there is the pure and shining dog joy on their faces to see me and to be home. They explore the house and the yard. They smell me. Their noses ask, “Are things the same here?”

When they get to me, I wonder, Can they tell? Do they know?

I know.

It is good to have my boys back. I just wish I had them all.

Heston

You are so loved. We chose you. We named you. We fought for you. We are so sad to say goodbye to you without getting to hold you or getting to see you open your eyes for the first time. From the beginning, you were our fighter and our mover. We watched your little heart work so hard. We watched you suck your thumb and admired your little face. Ten fingers, ten perfect toes. For 23 weeks and 3 days, you were our Baby A.

Heston. Our littlest boy. Our son.

Farewell

“It’s done.”

“He’s gone.”

As I lay on the operating table, these are the words that I hear. First the doctor. Then Brian leans in and whispers to me the fate of our smallest son. He wipes away the tears from my eyes and from around my oxygen mask. 

The other heart beats are strong. Our two other boys look fine. Our doctor saved them.

Relief and grief.  

I had four hearts in me. One is now silent. 

The fourth one weeps without ceasing.

Week 23- A difficult choice

We have been going to the doctor twice a week in Boise to have fluids, Doppler, and heart rates monitored for our babies, but especially for the twins. We track growth on all three every two weeks and growth on our littlest baby, Heston, once a week.

We do all of this on the advice of our specialist in Seattle. We have had no further issues with TTTS, but the growth restriction (IUGR) for our smallest little guy has been our primary concern. Because of the intimate connection that Mono-Di twins share, what happens to one baby affects the other. If Heston stops growing and passes away, so could his twin. 

Over the last month or so, we have watched weight and Doppler carefully. Heston is growing, but is in the 3% percentile. His cord Doppler shifted about 3 weeks ago to persistent reverse flow. This means that the blood is flowing backwards toward his heart in between beats. The placental pressure is too much for his heart to push against. This week we noticed his heart was enlarged and there was pericardial effusion (fluid around the heart). There was so much fluid, I could see it right away.  His little heart is working so heart against all of these obstacles. While isolated pericardial effusion can be caused by a number of factors, I am carrying triplets, and Heston already has IUGR. Our doctors have confirmed that this is probably a sign of heart failure in our baby. 

We are going to Seattle again this week- this time to have surgery. We are going to separate the connection between our twins in the hopes that they both survive. There is a 10% risk of losing the whole pregnancy. 

Needless to say, we are devastated. We traveled this road before. While we feared the loss of our twins last time, it is almost certain we will lose Heston sometime in the next few days.