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Six Years Out

May 3, 2018

*If you don’t like to read bad words, don’t read this. If you read it anyway, don’t write and chide me on it. I cuss pretty regularly in real life and censor a ton on here, but today wasn’t the day to censor and it certainly isn’t the day to call me on it. 

Six years. I never know where to begin on these. What to write. I had a host of things I wanted to type out on here as I stood by the mirror this morning, putting on my mascara and rehearsing what I would say on the last six years, on my first two sons, on my only set of twins, on the first brush with death I’d ever had beyond my grandpa and a beloved parakeet.

It’s hard because – there is nothing new with my boys. I wish I could list what kind of birthday party they insisted on having. How sometimes I call one the wrong name because they look so similar. How tall they are, what color their eyes are, if they love the same TV shows and food.

But I don’t know any of that.

And this isn’t really their birthday. It’s not supposed to be anyway. There was about a 0.001% chance of them ever living born this early, and they didn’t. Unlike Kaden, who was full term and so each year is truly a “Now you would be…” – theirs is more of an “I wonder when they would have been born so that they could have lived” kind of moment.

Their due date was the day Kaden died, the year before. So maybe it would be that.

I feel like most people have forgotten at this point. Or remember but vaguely. “She lost twins sometime in May.” I can’t blame them.

Last year at the Young Living convention, one of the speakers asked moms of multiples to stand up. I felt a nudge in my side as they did, and my friend Nicole whisper, “Hey, you, stand up!” I looked at her genuinely baffled.

And then I remembered.

Her instant thought of that still brings me to tears. Never even a hesitation that her friend, a mom who had lost twins, should be standing.

It never even crossed my mind.

I hadn’t forgotten them.

I’d forgotten me.

We talk a lot about the first year or two after loss in our communities. But as it gets further out, the voices fade away. Because what is there to say? Life moves on, it’s still painful, less people want to hear about it again, and our children aren’t coming back.

And it sucks.

So I’ll be really honest about how it feels six years out, and if it hurts someone’s feelings – I’m sorry.

I find myself dreading these days because I know, until I say something, only a handful of people will. It’s not that I wait for an onslaught of people to fawn over me – goodness knows that has its own set of problems and issues. Been there and over that.

I realize my sons were considered a miscarriage in most places. Even though they both have birth and death certificates and social security numbers. I know that at 20 weeks, our society doesn’t consider them babies. I know. I know I have a million pictures of Kaden so he’s “more real” to most. I understand that deeply.

Sometimes I’m even angry at myself in all of this.

Because I wish I didn’t have to grieve them. I wish they’d been born later so I could share them more. Lived so I’d only have to grieve Kaden. It’s all a huge jumble in my head too.

“Appropriate” grief is something that haunts me because I know it’s appropriate to grieve about whatever the hell I feel like. But then others don’t see it that way and at times I get weary fighting them and myself, even just mentally. Comments like that stick with me forever.

I don’t know what appropriate grief is. I had my sons over a toilet so I’m guessing that’s probably not appropriate. Maybe if I had them like Kaden, people might acknowledge them more.

So yes, on the day they were born and died, six years later I still have a lot of crap to unpack. A lot of anger. A lot of pain.

I wish this could have been a sweet, loving, reflection on these past six years. Something about how far I’ve come and how wonderful it is that we’ll all be reunited one day. Because I feel that, most days. I wish I could have written that today. It would have been easier than this, than dealing with the inevitable “You sound so angry/do you see a therapist/why are you still mad at God/I wish you didn’t say ‘hell’ in your post” bullshit I’ll have to deal with.









But I also wished they would have lived, so I guess we’re all disappointed.

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