The Madness Between

One year ago today, December 11th 2014 – our sweet baby Oliver McCarthy, triplet baby A, became an angel.  Today is his ‘angel day’.  This is how I explained it to Riley this morning as we left Party City with white balloons in hand.  I fought back tears and pretended, for the hundredth time, that we had a celebration to look forward to at the cemetery tonight.  While, deep down, I’ve wanted to cry in bed all day.

When the doctor’s told us our boys’ condition was grave and they would not survive, I believed all but 1% of it.  I left that 1% to an absolute miracle. It was a miracle that we created triplets in the first place… so why couldn’t a miracle happen again?   We had picked out two of the very best and strongest embryos during our IVF transfer… we ran every single test, ultrasound, scan possible during our first 20 weeks of pregnancy to ensure these three boys were healthy.  And they were.  The nurse said she had never seen such incredible results in a triplet pregnancy.  Not one single abnormality or area of concern.   Three weeks later they were diagnosed with the most severe stage of twin-to-twin transfusion and the doctors believed they would not live more than a day or two.  I had an ultrasound done every 3 hours around the clock, everyday for a week straight to see if their hearts had finally given out.  Then the next week, ultrasounds were done every other day.  By the third week, after begging for mercy, they agreed to only scan our three boys every 3 days – to give my own heart a break from the helpless rollercoaster I was stuck on.  For three weeks we were told that Oliver and Greyson were in heart failure – yet their tiny hearts kept beating, strong.  Oliver’s the strongest.  Every single ultrasound over those weeks – I held my breath, frantically searching the screen for that flickering white light, not knowing whether to feel relieved or tortured.  I prayed that the doctors were wrong and that a miracle would take place right before their eyes.  And at the end of each appointment, when Dr. I would schedule our next follow-up appointment 3 days later – I cried hysterically wondering when this madness would end.  How much longer could I watch my boys slowly die?

The night of December 10th, I was sitting on the couch next to Riley.  While all three boys continued to kick and squirm and move around in my belly – the movements from Oliver and Greyson had changed.  They didn’t move as often or as strong.  But on this night, Oliver was taking charge and kicking non-stop.  Mac was in the kitchen and I yelled for him, panic in my voice.  He walked into the living room quickly and I grabbed his hand and placed it on the lower portion of my belly where Oliver was.  We both looked at each other with excitement as we felt him kick beneath our hands.  This little boy was a fighter and he was trying to tell us something.  I didn’t know at the time that he was saying goodbye.

I had a sick feeling in my stomach the whole way to the doctor’s the next morning.  My stomach felt more still than usual and my mother’s intuition was setting in, heavy.  Mac was out of town on a business trip, so my dad joined me in the ultrasound room.  Our ultrasound tech pulled up the screen, and as I’ve watched with previously losses – she scanned our baby’s body over and over and over.  I noticed right away that Ollie was still – and my eyes zeroed in on the darkness that surrounded his heart.  No more flickering light.  No more beautiful rhythmic sound waves.  Just my sweet, sweet baby – gone, but still there.

My dad hugged me tightly and I fought back tears.  For some reason I felt silly breaking down crying when the doctor’s had prepared us for this outcome weeks prior.  In hindsight, I recognize this as entering survival mode.   And in hindsight, I want to rush into that room and hug my former self and tell her that it’s okay to hurt so f’n badly.

I called Mac on our way home to tell him the news, walked in my house and laid down right away with Riley.  I could not process what had just happened or what was ahead of me.  The doctors were sure that once one of the boys passed away, the other would go shortly after.  But they weren’t sure when I would actually deliver them – and for the sake of Tommy, they hoped it was at least a month away.  The waves of this disturbing reality started to set in.  I was carrying one still baby, one very sick baby, and one healthy baby.  I closed my eyes and prayed to be put out of my misery – in any form God felt appropriate.

It’s been a year since that day, and I still have a hard time believing that this is my own life story.  Tonight we went to the cemetery, decorated Oliver’s side of the grave with balloons, a puppy dog and card from Daddy, and I cried my tired eyes out while holding the very blanket I held my sweet angel in.  I will go to sleep tonight staring at the picture of his beautiful lips, cute button nose, and dream of the day that I get to hold him again.

Rest in peace, Oliver McCarthy.  I miss you and love you forever.