I wish I could adequately describe what today feels like to me.

I know that yesterday, throughout the day, I would look at the clock several times and think:

this time five years ago, I was laying on the ultrasound table, Anna and Noah in the room, when the tech typed out “no cardiac movement.”

this time five years ago, I was driving home knowing I’d have to head to the hospital soon to be induced to deliver my babies who were no longer alive.

this time five years ago, I was eating a sandwich. Because my doctor told me to eat a sandwich before heading to the hospital. I ate a few bites. I can’t believe I ate at all.

this time five years ago, my doctor came into my hospital room, it was the first time I had seen her since receiving the news, she said “I’m so sorry.” and I looked at her, my heart pleading with her to tell me that someone was wrong, I said “what if you’re wrong? What if they come out and they’re still alive and then they can’t survive because they’re too young?” She replied by bringing an ultrasound machine into my room, showing me the lack of movement. The lack of life. For the second time that day, my own life felt like it had ended.

and right now, at this very moment five years ago…

I was sitting in a chair, still waiting for labor to start. My priest came into my room, maybe to give last rites? I know he prayed for the babies and our hearts and I know I appreciated his words but they weren’t soaking in at all, they just floated out of his mouth and landed on my skin. I felt something deep within me, a pain, a cramp…a contraction. I sat and listened and responded when I needed to but for a few moments I was the only one in the room who knew that labor had begun. He left and I let everyone know. It came on strong, fast, hard and lasted a long time.

Since I only had c-sections, this pain wasn’t a familiar feeling to me. I can remember the intensity of the pain and the knowledge that once one contraction ended, the relief would be brief. I remember my OB offering me pain medication, I declined it. I was so focused on spending this time on my boys knowing that in all of my life this experience was all I had with them, I wanted to feel it, no matter how painful it was. I miss that pain so much.

And the pain that I feel in my heart today, five years later, I hate it and I wish it didn’t exist, I wish I had just dropped them off at preschool, can you imagine? Those sweet twins walking into preschool together? My heart misses that dream so much. Everyday I get through it, my mind moves to other thoughts, another stress…but today, it consumes me, every inch of me. This pain I feel in my heart today is mine FOR them and it will remain there forever and I take it and I love it because somehow it’s theirs. It’s ours. Intertwined together.

My doctor came in later that evening. She broke my bags of water…they were in my arms shortly thereafter. And then we slept, the four of us, in a cold, quiet, dark, solemn room. Or maybe it was a warm room but their bodies were so cold. My heart broke that as their Mom I couldn’t make them warmer, no matter how hard I tried. The sun began to rise and I knew they’d have to physically leave me soon. But emotionally, mentally, they are forever with me. I’m so grateful for that.

I hope and pray that if they know anything right now, I hope they know how loved they are. How much we miss them. How we continue to grieve but also how we continue to LIVE for them, to live the best life we can…because we can. They’ve taught us so much and that will never, ever change.