Empty Arms

Written by Rachel

To see my previous posts, click on the label 'Rachel' at the bottom of this post.

It was the middle of the night, maybe 3 or 4 in the morning, when I was moved hospital rooms.  So just before they moved me, we said our goodbyes to our babies.  We had opted for autopsies, only because it was a service the hospital was providing us, so the nurse prepared to take them as I held my babies one last time.  As she walked out of the room with Maddox and Sampson, I remember blowing them my final kisses and whispering 'I love you' as they disappeared around the corner.  It was a peaceful goodbye, but I had silent tears streaming down my cheeks, still numb from the idea that I would not be taking them home with me.  My heart ached that my babies were really gone.  Then, as they wheeled me to my next room, I had one of 'those' moments.  We were headed toward the area where I had gone to recover after I had my first little girl, where the sign read"Maternal Newborn Care".  But just as we approached those doors, we turned left, and I looked up at the sign and read "Women's Care".  No newborn.  I didn't have a baby that needed care anymore.  It was just me, myself, and I.  My stomach just sunk.

When morning finally rolled around, I was held in the hospital for monitoring since I had lost so much blood because of my placenta issues.  I was right on the border of needing a blood transfusion, so they wanted to see how my body handled itself throughout the day.  We filled out all the paperwork and started to read through all the grief handouts the hospital and the Share group had provided us to take home (Share also generously provided little packets of mementos and clothing the boys were dressed in).  But it was overwhelming, so we put it away and just waited.  I wasn't prepared to read that yet.  I was asked if I wanted to stay another night for monitoring, but since I hadn't passed out yet, they allowed me to leave that evening if I promised to take it easy and eat a lot of iron.  So, out we went.

And there came another of 'those' moments.  We packed up our things, and Matt pushed my wheelchair onto the elevator.  We rode down next to another woman in a wheelchair holding her newborn, preparing to load up into their car and start their lives together.  But not me.  I had nothing to show for my hospital visit.  I should have been holding my two babies in my arms, happily leaving the hospital with the excitement and anticipation of what raising newborn twins should bring.  But instead, my arms were empty.  I was overcome.  I cried as we walked out the hospital doors under the dark sky.  I cried as we pulled the car away from the dreary parking lot.  I was empty.  I'm not usually a crier, but leaving the hospital with empty arms opened up some floodgates I was not prepared for.  I was unprepared for how empty yet how heavy my heart could feel at the same time.

I tried to distract myself on the way home by reading all the texts people had sent while I was in the hospital.  I remember smiling at one my sister had sent, saying that when she had told her roommates we named our boys Maddox and Sampson, they told her those were awesome names, that they sounded like warrior names.  I also had a lot of sweet messages from people asking what they could do for me or sending me their condolences.

When we arrived home, I was overwhelmed with gratitude at the notes, flowers, and gifts that people had brought us and also grateful (and slightly embarrassed) that someone (later to find out it was Alli and another friend) had gotten a key to the house and cleaned it.  Even though everything was unnecessary, the fact that so many people cared about us and rallied around us brought so much comfort to my heart.  It's been one of those things that, as I've looked back on my experience, was one of the best life lessons I have learned through the whole thing.  The little things that people did for us to show their concern and love made a world of difference.  It inspired me to show more love and compassion towards others, whether it be through little gifts, small acts of service, or even just a hug or asking how someone is doing, just so they know I am thinking of them.  I am still grossly inadequate and often have good intentions with no follow through, but I have learned that the follow through can mean the world to someone, so that's been one of my resolutions to work on.  I'm a work-in-progress.

But now, Matt and I were home alone.  My mom had our little girl so we didn't have to worry about her.  It was just the two of us.  I didn't know what to expect of myself.  How was I going to handle this new me?  I had just lost two of the most precious things in the world to me.  Now what?  It was one of those times when I really didn't know how I was going to function.  Was I supposed to just live as if nothing bad had happened, like everything would go back to normal after a while?  Do I smile and act okay when I talk to people, or do I actually tell them how I'm feeling?  Do I keep to myself as I grieve or do I try to keep up with doing normal things?  As Brianna has mentioned on our Facebook page, I would quickly learn that there would be a new 'normal' I would have to learn to navigate.  I would now have my own taste of how a woman (and family) who loses a child continues on behind closed doors.