Written by: Diana Blindert
Photo Cred: Krysthol Davis Photography
There is an envelope in the top drawer of my night stand. It looks like a normal padded kraft envelope, no writing on it. I take it out of the drawer two or three times a year and go through the contents—alone. I just did that last night—the first time this year. This is my 35th year of doing that. The contents of this envelope are so precious to me. It holds a big part of my heart.
The story about the envelope starts with finding out I was pregnant for the first time. I really wasn’t sick, and most of my pregnancy was normal and I felt good. When I was in my sixth month or so I started getting pretty large and having some issues with becoming light headed when laying or sitting. On February 28, 1984, at 29 weeks into my pregnancy, I found out I was having twins. I had gained a lot of weight that month, and had the light headed issues, so they decided to do an ultrasound to see what was going on and found the twin pregnancy. Their size was normal for the number of weeks pregnant I was, and all seemed well. It was a bit of a shock, but exciting news, and our family and friends were just as excited as us.
A little over a week later all the excitement came to an abrupt end. On March 8, I went in for a routine doctor’s appointment and the nurse couldn’t find a heartbeat. The babies’ movements had slowed a bit, but they told me that would happen as they were a good size already and running out of space. I also said I hadn’t felt very good for a couple days. They searched a while longer for the heartbeats and called the doctor in, but no one could find the heartbeats. The doctor decided to send me to the hospital for a sonogram to see what was going on. That would show more than an ultrasound. By this time, I was very upset and scared. This was my first pregnancy, I was young, and really never thought anything could go wrong. We went to the hospital for the sonogram and I remember them taking a long time with the sonogram. They found the babies’ positions had drastically changed, and they were trying to tell what limbs went with what baby, and they searched for movement and heartbeats. When they finished, they said the doctor would be in to talk to us about the results. I remember still holding out hope, but when the doctor came in, he said the babies had died. He wasn’t sure how long they had been dead and the movement I was feeling was because I carried them high and when they passed away, they started to drop, displacing fluid that mimicked movement. He was not very compassionate, just matter of fact. My head was spinning, and I was trying to take in this news. I remember breaking down and crying hysterically. He said they didn’t know what had happened and wouldn’t until they were born. I remember asking if they would just take them cesarean and he said no I had to deliver them normally. He was not my normal doctor, so this news was difficult to take from someone I had not seen previously. At that time, you had a main doctor and saw them most of your pregnancy, then did a rotation towards the end of your pregnancy so you could meet all the other doctors that might be on call when you went in. He went on to tell me they would be doing some prep work on me that evening to prepare me to deliver the next day. Because they didn’t know how long it had been since the babies passed away, they had to check my blood and make sure my system wasn’t being negatively affected. Most of the rest of that day was a blur, but I do remember a nurse sitting with me for a short time and crying with me as she had lost a baby at some point. She tried to calm me down and explain things to us in a not so clinical way, to try to prepare us for what would happen. At some point during that time I called my mom and my parents came to the hospital. That evening they performed a procedure to try to get me to start dilatating in hopes of it making things a bit easier the next day when they started my labor. It was an uncomfortable procedure and the same doctor was caring for me and very matter of fact, no compassion. After that things blur more. I’m sure they medicated me so I could sleep, my parents left, and I must have fell asleep. Early the next morning my regular doctor came in to see me before his clinic hours, and he was compassionate and expressed how sorry he was and explained that sometimes there is no way to tell when things will go wrong. He confirmed they had no idea what had happened, but I needed to have the twins as soon as possible, so my well-being didn’t become compromised because of the situation. He said a natural delivery was important, especially if I planned on having other children. He told me they would work to keep me as comfortable as possible during the labor and delivery. Shortly after that they came in to start my labor. I was pretty medicated, and don’t really remember much after that except my mom coming in and out for a while and the pastor from my church coming in and saying a prayer with us. The next thing I remember is I was in the delivery room, being told to push, but there was an issue, so I had to stop for a bit. Soon I was back to pushing and delivered twin boys. I remember looking at them and briefly holding them, but I was pretty out of it from the medication they had given me. I don’t think I really grasped the whole situation at that time.
That day, March 9, my twin sons, Jesse and Joshua, were born into heaven. I honestly don’t remember if I went home the next day or had to stay for two. One day blurred into the next the first week. On March 13, at a private family funeral, the boys were buried in a single small white casket in a country cemetery not far from our home. Sometime in the next week or so I had to go back to the doctor for a checkup and bloodwork to make sure all was OK. At that time, they told me the twins were identical and shared the same amniotic sack. Their cords had become wrapped and were actually tied in a knot at the bottom. During delivery this caused some issues as they both wanted to come out at once, so they had to hold one in and separate them before they could deliver them. They said it was a rare occurrence and something they could not see on the ultrasound. Usually with this sort of condition, the babies don’t survive because their oxygen is cut off gradually as they grow because of the cord situation. The good news out of all of it was I could have other children, and I think they felt I should hold on to that and move on. There wasn’t any information given to me about how to deal with my grief. I feel they tried to be supportive and comforting to the best of their ability, but I don’t think there was much education for medical staff in how to deal with grieving parents.
So, I did what I think many women and men did during that time when they suffered infant loss—grieve, deal, and struggle to move on. Not really feeling that they could share their experience because it made others uncomfortable. Remaining numb, but functional. There weren’t support groups, or open conversations happening about still birth and miscarriage that I was aware of.
I asked God why a lot? I was angry with God, but didn’t lose my faith, because I needed to hang on to him to keep my sanity. I knew the twins were in heaven and I would see them someday, so I have hung onto that.
I was required to take six weeks off work, and it was a long six weeks. I spent a lot of time with my mom, but we really didn’t talk a lot about the loss much. She had experienced a few miscarriages but hadn’t talked about it openly. She just dealt with it and moved forward. I think that was the practice of how my family dealt with death. It happened, you cried and were sad, you went through the services and burial, then you buttoned it inside and moved on. Very little group discussion took place. Tears were shed in private.
Because of that what followed for me was many years of opening that envelope alone, going through the contents, and not dealing with the feelings that were tucked away in there, just viewing the tangible contents and shedding some tears. I kept the intangible things in there, as I thought I should. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with them or talk to anyone about them. The boys’ names did come up every once in a while, mostly when people were talking about someone else’s loss, just to say it had happened to me. Sometimes someone would ask a few questions, and I would answer them. But no deep conversations.
I went on to be blessed with three other beautiful children, who I love dearly, but the memory of my first children has never faded. I visit their grave a few times a year and go through the envelope.
Fast forward to today. The envelope is a little lighter now, some of the unneeded contents have been discarded. In the last year or so I have discarded a few things—guilt, anger, confusion, loneliness, and many other negative feelings. There isn’t room for them anymore. Acceptance, forgiveness, hope, and love are some of the things left in the envelope, along with some other items. You wonder what they are? There are 5 cards that I saved for various reasons. One from an aunt, who suffered loss like I did, that contained a prayer “To Her Infant In Heaven.” Two cards from mothers who also experienced the loss of a child, who just wanted to reach out, so I knew I wasn’t alone. In one there was a prayer “Safely Home.” Another card was from someone from my church community at that time. She shared kind words to comfort me. The final card was from my very special cousin, who always has the right words to say in difficult situations. There is also a baptismal cloth with a single candle on it with three friendship pins attached to it that were made with the little fingers of a young caring cousin, and a drawing by a little artist, my niece. She drew some shapes and put her name on it because she wanted us to know she was thinking about us. Other things in the envelope include my hospital bracelet, a baby shower announcement, ultrasound and baby belly photos, a funeral booklet, and bills for a funeral and gravestone. There are two other poems in the envelope, although I cannot remember where they came from. They are titled “I must leave you” and “Mommy don’t cry.” But the most precious things in that envelope include 2 baptismal certificates with 2 footprints on each, and three faded polaroids that would make most people cringe, except a mother, that prove I am a mom of two precious angels.
The journey to get to the point of being able to discard some of those unneeded items has been a long one. It took another dark experience to actually help me begin that process. On November 17, 2017, I watched my son and wife go through the same horrible experience as their twin daughters were born into heaven. It brought so many feelings back, the ones I had tucked away in that envelope. I tried to comfort them and wondered how they would get through this loss. I didn’t feel I was a lot of help because internally I was dealing with feelings coming out from so many years ago. Anger, confusion, guilt, jealousy, hopelessness, and other negative feelings. Also, the question that went through my mind many times was – How could this happen to one of my children? I attempted to try to keep those negative feelings in the envelope, but it was more difficult than before. I think I cried more for the loss of Ember and Esther than I did for my sons, because I could not hold it back any more.
But what I saw happen before and after Ember and Esther were born was so much different than my experience with infant loss. They and their families were allowed to spend hours with Ember and Esther after their birth, thanks to a cuddle cot that was donated to the hospital. It was a time of many tears, but also a time to hold the girls, and say goodbye. These hours allowed some closure. A volunteer from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, an organization of volunteer photographers, came in and took beautiful photos of the girls. The woman taking the photos was so wonderful as was the nursing staff. They dressed the girls and treated them with so much respect. All of us have photos to cherish.
I don’t feel there was the compassion and understanding by the medical community at the time of my loss, of the importance of saying goodbye to your baby and allowing other family members to do the same. I feel there is more compassion among staff who deal with families experiencing loss. The medical community has made positive strides in the way they handle the mother and father during their loss. Giving the parents more than just a few minutes to see the baby, is important. There are also groups out there like Babies Gone Too Soon that reach out and help those experiencing infant loss. People also talk more openly about miscarriage and infant loss. The internet and social media have also provided resources for those experiencing infant loss. There are stories, blogs, groups, communities, etc. All these resources help you to realize there are many others going through a similar situation, and you are not alone. People reach out more openly also.
The girls’ loss started a grieving/healing process for me too, that I don’t think happened so many years ago. It wasn’t easy, but I was able to talk about Jesse and Joshua as people asked questions about how things were handled so many years ago. Even though my loss was many years ago, I have been involved in activities that address infant loss. It opened my eyes to other’s stories and also allowed me to slowly let my voice heard. I witnessed others’ strength in dealing with their situations. I saw the hope they had for the future. I saw terrible loss bring a community of people together that allowed each other to openly grieve and not judge the emotions they were going through.
It is a continual process, and I will work to slowly move forward. In the meantime, there is an envelope in the top drawer of my night stand. It looks like a normal padded kraft envelope, no writing on it. I take it out of the drawer two or three times a year and go through the contents—alone. Someday soon, I will share it as that is the next step in my healing.
Written by: Brooke Hanson
Thinking of you,
The Butterfly Effect Project 