Our twin girls fought hard…but chose to take their last breaths on Momma
Please be aware that I’m sharing photos of our premature twin girls and some readers might find them difficult to look at.
When the doctor came back again we knew it wasn’t good. She said Parker didn’t respond to the transfusion at all and we should come NOW to be with her. We were given a minute of hope, in that Montana’s numbers weren’t great, but she seemed to be responding to her transfusion.
This ride (I was in a wheelchair due to the c-section) was the longest and worst of my life. The entire time I just couldn’t help but think I was living in some hellish nightmare that I just needed to wake up from. How could this be happening? I know terrible things happen but that doesn’t actually happen, right?
I carefully got out of bed (having a c-section makes moving very challenging) and into the wheelchair. They let me keep one in our room since our girls were in the NICU and it’s quite a far walk. This way we could easily see them whenever we wanted. This roll down the hall was anything but exciting. Looking back I honestly can’t even put into words how I was feeling. I think I was somewhere between “there is no way this can actually be happening, there must be some mistake and when we get there everything will be fine,” and feeling like every ounce of happiness and feeling left my body. I may have even had to remind myself to breathe many times.
On all trips to the NICU prior to this one, we would always chat with the guard who lets you in (all guests must check in and then the guard has to open the door for you). On this trip I remember him starting to talk to us and thankfully he understood and stopped talking when Sean said, “We just need to go to our girls.”
He wheeled me in and they had a chair set up next to Parker’s bed. I carefully got myself out of the wheelchair and settled down in the other chair. Parker’s nurse (each baby had their own nurse full time) and the doctor were there. They told us they would take her off all her machines and let me hold her while the respiratory therapist used the hand pump to help her breathe while she’s in my arms. I remember holding her and I just wanted her against my skin. We were as ready as one can be in such a miserable situation as this, to say goodbye. Neither of us wanted her to suffer any longer. They detached the breathing tube and helped me take her fragile body out of her blanket and place her on my chest.
Those ten-plus minutes were the first and last time I was skin to skin with my Parker. Apparently the doctor was shocked at how long she stayed breathing as she had to come back three times to listen to her heart. Sean said she just wanted to be with her Mom a little longer. These moments were so incredible and devastating all in one. Sean held me and Parker as I held her. We kissed her, kissed each other and cried together, told her how much we loved her, and I told her it was okay.
When my Grandma passed her whole family was there. I was holding her hand as she took her last breath and I just kept telling her that it was okay. I mention this because it helped me understand; I wasn’t mad and I just wanted her to not be in pain any longer. I felt I needed to say that to Parker as well. I know she was only barely two days old but I needed her to know that I understood and it was alright.
After the doctor finally told us she was gone, Sean and I said our last goodbyes and I love yous, and we gave her back to the nurse. The nurse took her footprints and gave us one of her blankets (that I sleep with every night). We could have stayed as long as we wanted but we were in this very uncomfortable place where we just said goodbye to one of our our brand new babies and were still hoping with all our might that her sister was going to be okay. Sean wheeled me back to our room and we just layed there. We stared at the wall, holding hands, and barely speaking.
However, about three hours later (time is an absolute blur) the doctor came back and told us we needed to come be with Montana. I remember just saying, “NO, this can’t be really happening.” Tears instantly appeared in my eyes as I pulled myself off the bed and onto the wheelchair, again. This time the guard just opened the door and didn’t say any words to either of us. The whole time I was just in disbelief. We had so much hope just hours prior and were planning what our life was going to look like in Eugene - then everything crumbled.
I got off my wheelchair and pretty quickly wanted Montana off the breathing tube and just on my body. At 24 weeks I had barely just begun feeling them move inside of me and I yearned for that connection. The doctor came back multiple times to check her heart as well, and even mentioned how it seemed neither of our girls wanted to say goodbye…but they did.
As soul crushing as this situation is, there were two things that made me feel like it was unfortunately meant to be. The first is that they both passed. Throughout my entire pregnancy up until they took their last breath, they were so in sync. From one of my first ultrasounds where they were kicking each others feet back and forth, to one of my last ones where there were kicking each other (in the head this time), their heart rates, their size and weight, their blood levels going up and down one right after the other, they just seemed to already share such a tight bond that they must have needed to be together wherever that may be. The other piece is that while I was holding each sweet girl as they took their final breaths, Sean was able to look at their precious faces. He said that for both Parker and Montana, as soon as they were placed on my chest, they both looked at home. Like they knew I was their mom and that was exactly where they wanted to be. He said it was weirdly peaceful and I understood it completely.
I am not exactly positive on the timing that Parker and Montana took their last breaths but at some point we went into Sunday. Coming back from saying goodbye to Montana we both got into bed and I fell asleep holding Sean’s hand, crying, and covered in my baby girls’ blankets. I think the only reason I was even able to sleep was pure mental and emotional exhaustion.
I woke up to a nurse coming in a few hours later (they finally gave us time to just be). They came in to check my vitals and replenish me with all of the drugs. The doctor who delivered the girls came by to share his condolences and ask me what I’d like to do in terms of staying at the hospital. After a c-section they typically keep you for three days if everything is “typical” but offer you a fourth if you’d like. I was on day two and I told him I needed to go home now.
He said not a problem, he’d let the nurses know I’d been cleared and then, as tears came to his eyes, he jetted out of the room.
Aside from feeling hollow inside, this is where the outpouring of love began. I know people grieve in all different ways but when people you don’t even know are sending love, you just take it. You don’t have your own love at the moment so, with the help of others, you slowly start to gain it back.
