This isn't a pretty story, it's a very sad story.

I never realized how important the touch of my husbands skin was until it was the only thing keeping me grounded.

When I lay in my bed, I remember that it was a normal Saturday and Rob went to the store to get a soda, and I decided to lay down because my belly felt weird, and after he got home things happened so quickly, the contractions, and shaking uncontrollably, and being so afraid. We called the doctor on call, and he told us to take a hot bath, and if nothing changed in 30 minutes to go to the hospital. I got up to pee, and was in so much pain, I was squeezing my counter, and every time I go in there, I remember that. Rob got the bath started in our spare bathroom, and I got in, still having contractions. I remember thinking I had to pee, and I just had to pee in the bath because I hurt so bad, and later wondered if that was actually my water, and not pee. After about 10 minutes, I told rob I had to use the toilet, and he helped me up and I sat down and he left and closed the door. I hurt really bad, so I stood up, and when it hurt so bad that I had to sit back down, I felt my baby drop out of my body. There was no pain with her coming out, like in a normal delivery, she literally just slipped out, and I remember screaming a scream I'd never screamed in my life, and I'm sure my neighbors have heard at this point. Rob came in and I just held him and screamed and cried, and I kept trying to tell him she'd come out, but I couldn't say anything other than "No", so I stood up, and he saw her. I moved back to the tub so she wouldn't be hanging in the toilet, and I held her between my legs, as she kicked me. Rob called 911 and proceeded to give this tiny human, whos feet were no longer than the tip of my index finger and weighed less than a pound, cpr, with tears streaming down his face.

Moments later my apartment was flooded with EMT's. Young men who tried reassuring me they'd do everything they could, but everyone in that tiny bathroom, myself included but not Rob, because he was pushed out to make room for the EMT's, knew that, at 19 weeks and 6 days along, there was nothing that could be done. They cut her cord and took her out to the ambulance to keep working with her. Then they tried putting a carrying thing under me to lift me out of the tub, and the second I moved my hips to help adjust, the carrying thing that I was laying on was filled with my amniotic fluids and blood. They lifted me up out of the tub and onto the floor to get a better position, because my bathroom is tiny, and there are 4 men trying to grab handles, and when they tried to lift, baby B came out. Again, the baby just slipped out. There was no possible way I could have even tried to keep her in. They set me back down, cut her cord, started trying to help her breathe and took her to the ambulance. They carried me out, still naked, into the stairwell of my apartments, where I asked them to please cover me before all of my neighbors could see. Our apartments never have emergency vehicles, I can only imagine all of my neighbors were watching and trying to figure out what was going on. Then they got me in the ambulance. Rob and baby A were in the other. I was still contracting because my placenta hadn't come out. There was one lady EMT who was massaging my uterus while I was contracting to try and get it to come out, while one man was cuffing my forearm, and slapping my hand to get a vein to shove a needle in, while the other two men laid baby B on my chest and continued to help her breathe. They told me she was a boy, and I was angry and sad and confused, as I touched her head. After about 5 minutes, they informed me that she'd stopped breathing, but asked if I wanted them to keep trying, while telling me that, this early, there wasn't much they could do. How the fuck do you answer that? Of course I want you to keep trying, but what's the fucking point?

When we got to the hospital, baby B was gone, and I had no idea where rob and A were. They got me out of the ambulance and wheeled me through the halls, where what felt like every nurse and doctor was standing still, lining the hallways, watching me be wheeled in, sobbing and in pain, and then they wheeled me into this tiny room, with an adjacent room behind a curtain to my left. As I had OB's introducing themselves, and holding my hands, and a nurse on each side shoving needles into my arms and legs, I looked to my left and watched my husband walk through the curtain, sobbing, holding both of our dead babies. They were troopers. A held on much longer than B and I don't know how Rob has been able to hand all of this, plus me. Every time I looked up in this tiny room, there were 10+ nurses and doctors just standing at the foot of my bed staring at me, and 3 or 4 behind me actually doing something. Then they wheeled us to room 12 on the 12th floor. I still didn't have any clothes, so he then had to tell his brother so that he could ask his to bring me some clothes. I had three OB's come up and tell me they were so sorry they were meeting me this way, everyone who came into any room we were in said that, and every time I lost any control I had in my body, and it felt like I'd deflate, but in reality, I couldn't relax. My back hurt so bad, and my placenta would not come out. Every 4 hours, they gave me two dissolvable tablets under my tongue to help, every time they wouldn't dissolve and they wouldn't help. Finally they gave me ativan and dilaudid, and I was able to slightly relax, while my husband sat next to me in shock and heartbreak, having to watch me go through this. When I finally had a moment to think, I kept wondering, did baby A hit her head in the toilet? Did it hurt her? When I moved to the tub, did I accidentally hold her back under the water? Did I make her few moments of life painful? And I just couldn't handle that…I cried any moment I was awake, that includes this whole past week. After around 10 hours of pain and being checked to see where the placenta was, they finally decided we needed a D&C. I didn't even care that they were about to shove a giant needle into my back. They wheeled me down, and I had to move onto the OR bed, which hurt so bad, then I had to readjust and sit up, which hurt way more than the numbing needle in my back. My feet were falling asleep before I could even fully lay back down. Finally, I couldn't feel anything, but I remember the anesthesiologist telling me he could definitely see the premature ventricular contractions on my heart monitor, and after rob got in the room and saw, he said it was happening for most of my heartbeats. I don't remember much after that except for someone rubbing my face and my cheek. Honestly, I thought it was the anesthesiologist for a while, until I was able to look back and see rob. He said that during the procedure my body was just moving back and forth what he said felt like 3 feet. We went to the recovery room, where I was hooked up to pressure cuffs on my legs. I have no idea how long we were in there, or much about it at all at that point.

After we got back to our room, we tried to sleep for a while. Our nurses were great. Our first nurse, Mackenzie, made the girls some memory boxes, with pictures of them included, however they spelled my first name and our last name wrong. They also have knitted roses, and teeny tiny beanies. Then I felt hungry. I couldn't figure out why I was hungry. I was sad and angry, I didn't want to eat, but my body is still filled with hormones (that will likely last a few more weeks) and still thinks I need to eat for 3, which makes me even more sad and angry. The hospital gave us a "grievance platter" with crackers, fruit, cheese, and cookies. It was pretty good, which was good because the mac and cheese from the cafeteria was inedible.  At one point our second nurse brought in a sandwich and a sprite to make sure rob was getting food. I don't remember her name, but she was also really nice.  It wasn’t long before we had to start speaking with admin, my lower half was still numb. They brought in a folder with papers for us to fill out, and as she's kind of showing them to explain, I can read that they are death reports. Our babies were not stillborn. They breathed for 10-30 minutes. We, two young adults, in their 20's, who the day before were happy and excited about their growing family, had to fill out death reports. The day your babies are born is supposed to be such a happy time, and we were filling out death reports. We tried for almost 2 years to get pregnant, and we were so lucky to have conceived two babies, AND NOW WE WERE FILLING OUT FUCKING DEATH REPORTS. How fucking unfair. That was when my anger really set in. A lady from admin came in to talk to us about what was next. Whether or not we wanted an autopsy and a genetic testing on our babies to see if there was any kind of answer, whether we wanted to bury them, or cremate them, or donate their bodies. Again, how the fuck do you answer these kinds of questions in this state of mind? It makes my heart so sad to know that Rob had to go through so much, and had his heart broken by this experience, but if I didn't have him through all of this, I have no idea what I would have done. Every time I would feel overwhelmed or confused, I could always feel his hand grabbing mine. We decided to do the autopsy and genetic testing. My curiosity made me want the genetic testing because, my mom went through this same experience. Her first pregnancy was two little boys, who only made it to 26 weeks. She has been a huge support through this as well, even though I know how her heart is feeling right now. So, I'm hoping there will be some sort of answer, though I'm sure I will get no answers, or at least not answers that will help me.

After I was able to eat, get up to pee, and get up to pee while walking on my own, we were finally able to be discharged. This brought on so much more anxiety. Robs brother picked us up and drove us home, and the moment I walked through my door, I broke down. I had to walk past the bathroom I'd delivered my babies in less than 24 hours prior, and their bedroom to get to my bed, and I as I laid there, my brain attached a negative memory from that night to every room in our tiny apartment. In the kitchen, rob and I made that apple pie I'd been craving for like 2 weeks. In the living room, I uncomfortably ate the spaghetti I'd craved for days, on my bed I'd started laboring my babies, in my bathroom I realized something was wrong, in my spare bathroom I'd given birth to my two babies, and earlier that day we'd worked more on their room. Every. Room. In. My. House. I hate that I have to live here anymore.

On top of now hating every single thing about my apartment, I also really started to hate everything about my body. I've dealt with hating my body for 10+ years, but this was a whole new kind of hate. I would touch my belly, and it wouldn't have these little hard spots where a baby was sitting. I would stand up and remember the feeling of them coming out of me. My skin cleared up, and that pissed me off more than anything. I complained so much about my skin hurting and being dry, and all I wanted was for my skin to still be dry and hurt and to still be carrying two babies. My back and my belly hurt from the crazy trauma my body had been through, no amount of ibuprofen can keep up with it, and every time the spot in my back where the needle had gone in hurt, I remember all of the pain I was in. My nipples got lighter really fast, and even that upset me. There isn't a single thing about my body that I like anymore.

Then I started thinking about how I could have stopped this from happening. If I'd just gone in instead of calling that doctor, would we have made it in time to try and stop them from coming? Was something wrong with them? Can  my body just not carry babies? We tried for almost 2 years to get pregnant, made it 5 months into a twin pregnancy that we'd become very excited about, and now it's just all gone? When do we even try getting pregnant again? When can you? Because if my doctor really wants me to wait 6-12 months, I don't think I can handle that. The 1 year and 8 months (to the day) that we tried getting pregnant were very difficult for us, I really don't want to put Rob through that again. I don't want to go through that again. And the chances that we conceived them (twins) were 1 in 10,000 and now the chances are 1 in 50,000. I want to have twins. I want my twins back. I regret ever being sad that they weren't boys. If I could take back that thought to save them, I would.

This past week has been the worst week of our lives. Sleep has been difficult, even if I can fall asleep, I don't stay asleep long. I wake up sobbing, and I just cry as I watch the sunlight creep into the room. I wake Rob up, and we just lay there as I sob. My Dr. finally prescribed me sleeping meds. It still didn't work as well as I'd hoped. 

This past week is a week I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I feel empty and numb, but I'm so heartbroken that even my heart has beat differently. I find myself wondering if this is just a crazy vivid pregnancy dream, and I want to wake up so badly, and then I realize I am awake and there's no escaping any of this. Do I spend every August 12th sad because it's the day my babies died, or do I celebrate their short lives every year? 

This is just a short glimpse into all of the racing thoughts that haven't stopped in a week. I'm a mess. I'm heartbroken. I'm angry. I'm not ok. I miss my babies.