On the afternoon of Sophia's first birthday party, after the last guest had left, the family headed down to the memorial to visit Lily and Lucas. In a moment of quiet stillness, I snapped this picture.
It instantly brought tears to my eyes, the rawness of it, the beautiful handiwork of my in-laws who spent hours clearing up the area and planting flowers, the fact that I missed my babies more than anything in that second. Swiping at the tears running down my face, I said a little sheepishly, "I don't know why I'm crying. Some days are harder than others."
After a pregnant pause, my father-in-law responded, "Well, Gloria... Think of all you have now."
It's an honest sentiment. I think about that all the time, and it's a consistent topic between Anthony and me. If we hadn't had and lost the twins, we may never have had Sophia... and it's an odd and heartbreaking realization to bear.
The twins would be nearly three now, and with every milestone that Sophia achieves, I can't help but to think of all they didn't have a chance to have. I vividly remember the first time we discovered there were two heartbeats, crying when we saw the flickers on the screen. I remember the feel of them inside, carrying them for 21 weeks. I remember giving birth to Lily at home, of almost being swallowed by panic when I saw her sweet face and still form and jumped into action to perform CPR. I remember being in labor with Lucas for over 15 hours, pushing him out and hearing his cry, holding him close until his last breath. I remember us having the hardest time naming our babies because it didn't feel completely right giving them the original names we had picked out. I remember healing at home with empty arms and engorged breasts, the quiet at some points overwhelming.
I remember becoming pregnant with Sophia and the close to crippling anxiety, the decision not to tell Anthony's parents the happy news before 20 weeks (and 24 in the case of my parents) because we didn't want to risk breaking their hearts again.
There are times that I think back to all of these things and it becomes hard to breathe... and then Sophia looks at me in a way that speaks volumes of understanding, reaches for my face, and snuggles in, and suddenly the tightness in my chest subsides.
Her existence doesn't replace the void of the babies we've lost, but it's helped to heal our grieving hearts. It's a little like scar tissue -- the wound has healed but the composition has changed forever.
I remember becoming pregnant with Sophia and the close to crippling anxiety, the decision not to tell Anthony's parents the happy news before 20 weeks (and 24 in the case of my parents) because we didn't want to risk breaking their hearts again.
There are times that I think back to all of these things and it becomes hard to breathe... and then Sophia looks at me in a way that speaks volumes of understanding, reaches for my face, and snuggles in, and suddenly the tightness in my chest subsides.
Her existence doesn't replace the void of the babies we've lost, but it's helped to heal our grieving hearts. It's a little like scar tissue -- the wound has healed but the composition has changed forever.
Our rainbow baby is one. It's remarkable, and I never, ever forget that. She'll grow up knowing her sister and brother. She'll learn how fragile and precious this life is. She'll recognize how incredibly much she is loved.
Since birth, Sophia has always looked over my shoulder or reached out or waved (and now babbling) to something beside us... and I'm comforted by the thought that she's communicating with her siblings, that they're watching over us, that they're never too far beyond.
