The Madness Between

One year ago today, Mac and I woke up at 6am and did our routine morning call to the NICU to check on how Tommy did overnight.  I used to hold my breath during these phone calls because we quickly learned how fragile preemies are and how much can change in even just an hour in the NICU.  There were so many times we would make that morning call and hear “well he had a few episodes where he stopped breathing..” or “his oxygen level dipped a few times” or “he had a bradys episode”.  This may sound odd but the times we heard “he had a great night – had a bath, took all of his feedings, and slept well in between” were just as painful.  Whether Tommy had a scary night or spent the night acting like a healthy, newborn baby – it pained me knowing he was 45 minutes away and in the loving arms and care of a stranger.  So good news, bad news – it all felt the same.  All we ever wanted to hear was “today’s the day Tommy is going home!” and on March 8th we finally heard that beautiful, life-changing sentence.

Life in the NICU is incredibly, incredibly difficult.  I used to receive compliments from the nurses / doctors that I seemed so calm, gracious, and patient during our adventure in the NICU and I used to joke that while having a newborn living in intensive care for 8 weeks would be a parents’ worst nightmare.. it seemed like a piece of cake for us.  That statement could not be more false but compared to what our months prior to Tommy’s birth had been like, this was physically – emotionally – mentally easier for me.  Waiting for two babies hearts to stop beating, holding two stillborns in our arms, sending two babies to the morgue was what I was comparing life in the NICU against – so it was an easy win.  But that’s how I survived – I needed to convince myself that something out there could be worse.

On my morning drive to Lutheran General every morning – after saying goodbye to a very confused 3.5 year old as to why I had to leave everyday to go see her brother – I would treat myself to Starbucks, and then calm my emotions by repeating over and over ‘at least Tommy is alive and thriving’.  When I would finally get to the hospital, after an hour in traffic, fight for a spot in a parking lot that was constantly under construction, walk through the hospital (usually in pain following my c-section), take the elevator down, walk to the NICU unit, sign-in, and scrub my fingernails, hands, arms in order to prevent infecting my own child – I would force myself to focus on the fact that the next few hours would be spent with my precious son and this was all worth it.  But no matter what positive message my inner cheerleader chanted that morning – my heart always sank when I entered a bright, sterile room filled with busy nurses, 8 incubators containing teeny, tiny helpless and often times very sick babies, constant alarms and monitors blaring, and more tubes – wires – machines than you would ever want to see.  My stomach hurts even thinking about the anxious walk to Tommy’s incubator..  would he be crying all alone?  Would he be happily asleep, completely unaware that his mom was craving him all night?  Would he have new tubes attached – a sign that he’s regressing?  Would he open his eyes when I spoke his name?  Would he be assigned a nurse who wasn’t as comfortable with me changing his diaper, taking him out of his incubator at free will – would I have to earn someone’s trust in order to handle my own son.  It was always a flood of worries as I entered that room – but unless Tommy was in clear distress (which happened a few mornings), my concerns ceased the second I saw his beautiful face.  He was always so pink and rosy from the warm incubator – usually in a deep sleep with twitching eyes and a random smirk – and dressed in an enormous ‘preemie’ onesie, unbuttoned to allow for his feeding tube, IV, oxygen, heart monitors.  His station was decorated with signs that we had all made for him and there would often be new additions from the nurses – a growth chart, a picture from bath time, or a take-home craft that the child-life specialists dropped off for siblings at home.  I would find a chair to sit in – bring it as close to Tommy’s machines as possible, put up a room divider to give myself some privacy, sanitize one last time, and then begin the process of untangling Tommy’s wires and ever so cautiously laying him on my chest.  I cannot tell you the panic that you feel when handling a 3lb baby that is connected to a ton of wires and machines.. I was convinced that one wrong move would stop him from breathing.

Our days together varied based on how he was progressing – some days were calm and he would lay naked on my chest – and I would spend hours breathing calmly, and slowly and picturing his tiny little body healing.  Other days, my emotions would get the best of me and I would read a few chapters in Amy Poehler’s “Yes Please” to give myself a few laughs and pretend that my environment was something closer to what it would look like at home with him.  Some mornings I would just sit with Tommy and cry.  Other mornings were filled with doctor visits, assessments, updates, new feeding schedules, occupational therapists – and I would spend my short time with him, just watching, waiting, and longing to hold him.  The only common routine we had each day was trying our best to get to know one another in such an unnatural setting.  I would stare at Tommy and try to remember every inch of his face.. I would listen to his breathing and try to understand when his oxygen would dip… I memorized his monitors and became an expert in NICU lingo… I fought for him when I thought he needed to be pushed and spoke up when I thought they were pushing him too hard.  I was desperate for a motherly instinct and to be able to feel that I knew Tommy more than anyone else did – just like I felt when Riley was born.  The truth was – I didn’t know him best, and 50 days later when he was ready to come home – I still had a lot of learning to do but I was ready for the challenge.

The morning we found out about Tommy being discharged was filled with overwhelming emotions.  We had been hearing for a few days prior that Tommy was getting close to being discharged but everyday there would be a set-back that would delay the doctor from approving it.  So while Mac was over the moon about getting to the hospital and picking him up – I was terrified.  I was scared that we would get there, have his car seat in hand, and then be told we had to wait another day.  I didn’t want to get excited until Tommy was buckled in and we were on the road.  I also had the emotions of what I pictured this day to be and how different it was;  we entered this hospital as parents of triplets – and we left 8 weeks later with our one surviving son.  On top of it all – we were finally going to be introducing Riley to her baby brother… the mysterious baby who lived far away.  Lutheran General’s NICU is extremely strict with visitors so she never had the chance to meet him during his stay there.  Pictures, videos, and stories only do so much.. I had no clue what it would look like to bring this baby into our home and watch her understand that he wasn’t leaving.  It was a lot.   A lot heavier, a lot deeper, a lot more emotional that I ever imagined Tommy’s homecoming day to be.

But as I titled this blog post – March 8th is a day to celebrate.  We signed off our discharge papers, unhooked Tommy from his machines, held him freely for the first time, hugged the nurses, cried plenty of tears, took pictures on our way out, strapped Tommy safely into the car and drove home one last time from Lutheran General.  Mac walked Tommy into our house to meet Riley and it could have been a scene out of a movie because she was so sweet and almost nervous to meet him.  We walked around the house with him and I remember getting excited about all the different places I could hold him since my only experience holding him was in a chair next to his incubator.  That night was the first night in 8 weeks that our family of four was in one place and though neither Mac or I (nor Tommy) slept a single second that night… my heart felt fuller than it had in months and months.

Today we celebrate this sweet boy – surviving his 8 week journey, beating all the odds, and gaining his “Tough Tommy” nickname.  I will never take for granted getting to wake up to this boy, or be the only ones kissing him goodnight.

New Years Eve.  A day that brings about the ultimate roller coaster of emotions.   Holding onto the good.  Wishing away the bad.  Hopeful for what’s to come.

Growing up, my family would dress up in fancy clothes (usually my mom’s old prom dresses we would find in her hope chest) and cook a fancy meal – write in our time capsules and read the memories from years past.  Once I reached high school, I was often bitter and annoyed on New Years Eve because I was still carrying on this tradition with my parents (and younger sister, Katie) but only because I had (by far) the strictest curfew of all my friends and I didn’t dare risk starting off the new year in trouble for being a minute late.  In college, I had a mix of celebrations but I never truly loved the holiday until New Years Eve 2004 when I met Mac.  I was invited by my cousin Shannon to a New Years Eve party at SpyBar (romantic) that year and did not know a single soul except for my cousin and her boyfriend John.  I will spare the cheesy details – but I saw Mac within seconds of walking into the bar and it was love it at first sight (the cheesiness stops there because Mac was actually too intoxicated to form a complete sentence so the sparks fizzled quickly).  The next day I told stories of the cute guy I met who had zero personality (little did I know..) while at the same time Mac was out a bar watching college football and floating my pic  (that he secretly snapped on his camera) around his group of friends to see if anyone knew who I was.  He landed upon my name and number and wah-la… history is made.  For the next few years to come, New Years Eve had a new energy to it because it was the anniversary of when we met and even though we broke up a few times over the years – we never spent that holiday apart.   Instead of wishing away the previous years like I had in the past, I looked forward to the countless possibilities of what the new year could bring – travel, adventures, engagement, marriage, babies.

New Years Eve has been different for the past 3 years however.  I’ve found myself trying very, very hard to focus on the positives that the prior year brought but desperate for that clock to strike midnight.  In 2012, we rang in the new year with some of our very favorite people at my best friend Laura’s wedding.  When Mac and I kissed at midnight – we cheers’ed to 2013 being THE year.  We had already been trying for baby #2 for almost a full year at that point and I was recovering from a terrifying emergency surgery that rocked our worlds.  In 2013, Mac and Riley were both sick so we stayed home and watched the countdown in our comfy pajamas.  I had tears in my eyes when Mac and I wished each other a “Happy 2014” because I had just found out 5 days prior that my 3rd IVF cycle failed.  That year was filled with 2 surgeries, 2 miscarriages, and 3 IVF cycles.  2014 HAD to be easier, right?

New Years Eve 2014… I was pregnant with our triplet boys – but only 1 still alive and thriving.  I was on strict, full-time bed rest (no activity unless I had to walk to the bathroom)… but luckily at home.  Mac, Riley and I sat on the couch and watched the Netflix Kid’s Countdown at 8:00pm and we were all in bed before 9:00pm.  I turned off my phone because I didn’t want to receive any “Happy New Years!” texts and I didn’t want to be tempted to scroll through social media feeds and feel even sorrier for myself.  What used to be a day spent focused on how glitzy my outfit was and bets made on if Mac would remember it was our ‘anniversary’ was now such a somber day.  2014 was filled with the incredible high of finally achieving pregnancy, finding out I received the miracle of all miracles and was pregnant with triplets, watching and learning my three sons every moves within my body, and then watching two of those boy slowly die.  That night when I laid in bed next to my “New Years Eve crush”, I sobbed. Why were our years getting so much harder and trumping themselves?  I’ve never been naive to think that life is easy or perfect – but how much more was ahead?   And the scariest part was I wasn’t convinced the hard days were behind us and I could just wish it away.  We did not have any reassurance that our third son would survive and if he did, I knew I still had to go through the delivery of his brothers and our final goodbye.  For the first time in 3 years, I felt torn between wishing the year away and terrified of moving into the next.

But here we are – one year later.  We survived 2015.  We are different people than we were in 2004, 2008, 20013, even 2014.  But we’re here.

I’m overwhelmed today thinking about all that has happened in this past year and I have more words than I have time to write – so I will let pictures speak for this years’ lowest of lows and highest of highs.

January 9th, 2015 – We said goodbye to my Uncle Terry after a 8 month battle with glioblastoma.  I’ve watched my cousins grieve an enormous loss and yet have never been more proud of the incredible legacy they carry in honor of their father.

January 19th, 2015 – We gave birth to Oliver, Greyson & Tommy.  A day that I will never forget and one that makes my heart ache every time I think of it.  We held all three of our precious boys – said goodbye to two, and goodnight to the other.  In the course of one week we signed birth certificates and death certificate – and left the hospital with Tommy in the NICU and a bag of memories.

In March, 2015 – after 8 weeks in the NICU we brought home our little 3lb miracle boy Tommy.   8 weeks of traveling 40 minutes away to a NICU, watching your fragile son come close to losing his battle, tucking him away every night for the nurses to feed, rock, soothe, and pumping around the clock – alone, for a baby who is miles and miles away – is absolutely, 100% gut-wrenching and life changing.  I wouldn’t wish this experience on my worst enemy but I am thankful for the lesson in taught me in true miracles.

In May 2015, we celebrated Riley as big as we could for a 4th birthday.  Riley was an absolute rockstar through all of our ups and downs and she deserved one hell of a celebration.  I could not love this girl more.

In June 2015, we had a memorial service for Greyson and Oliver and buried them together in their final resting spot.  I can still remember the smell of the air on this day – the sound of the silence – and the pounding of my heart.  It was the most devastating, yet perfect way to honor the most perfect angels.

July 2015 – We baptized our precious Tommy – another day that sent my emotions on a tailspin.  It was a magical day full of love for the most precious gift of all.

In September, Riley started 4 year old preschool and has impressed us daily with how much she’s grown (socially and academically)

We were blessed to watch the the most beautiful sibling relationship develop…

This year has been filled to the brim… so much that my heart still hasn’t quite figured out how to digest it.  Maybe that’s what 2016 will be for.  To sink further into the reality of what has happened, where life has taken us, and who it’s shaped us to be.  In one year, I’ve learned what it’s like to deliver triplets, bury two infants, be a NICU mom, a loss mom, and mother of two, how to enjoy life’s smallest pleasures and appreciate every microfiber of my children’s lives, and how to feel deep, love deep and ache deep.  I learned what a toll infertility, health, and loss can take on a marriage – and how it may take a lot of therapy, blood, sweat and tears to work through it.

I’ve learned that life is complex, complicated, joyful, scary, and exciting. And I’ve learned that it’s so much bigger than just one holiday can define. So tonight, when I kiss my husband, my daughter, and my son (who just learned how to give the best sloppy kisses) – I will cheers to us surviving.  Not just the past 12 months… but for surviving this life.

XO – Sara

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.

It’s a sentence I have heard twice in my life – from two different doctors – and for near polar opposite reasons.  The first time was in July 2014.  We were at our first ultrasound appointment after receiving a positive pregnancy test.  Just a few weeks prior, we had completed our 4th IVF cycle and had transferred two embryos with the hopes of becoming pregnant with one healthy baby.   Now I was laying in an examination room awaiting my fate.  Our reproductive endocrinologist, Dr. S., moved the ultrasound machine around and paused for a second.  Took another look and then paused again.. this time for a few seconds longer.

“In all my years, I haven’t seen this happen” he said.

My mind raced as to what my crazy body could have done this time.  I feared the worst, but never expected him to say:

“Both of the embryos implanted.  And one split.  You are pregnant with three babies.  You are pregnant with triplets”.

He ran through the odds of triplets occurring (.0001% chance), the risks involved, follow-up instructions, and I could hardly hear a word he was saying.  I was out of body and in complete shock.   I could not wrap my head around the news and I immediately felt my identity shift.  I was no longer Riley’s mom.  I was a mother of four.

On November 24th, 2014 – we had a routine appointment with our maternal fetal medicine specialist (high-risk doctor), Dr. I.   Mac dropped me off at the entrance and went to go park the car.  I was looking at my phone when I walked into the elevator and it wasn’t until the doors closed that I was aware of my surrounding.  Standing in the elevator was a petite, mid-30’s woman with three boys next to her, all the same height, all the same dark hair, all dressed in the same black winter hat and black Northface coat.   I immediately asked if they were triplets and she answered ‘yes’ enthusiastically.  I told her that I was pregnant with triplet boys myself and we quickly compared notes before they reached their floor and were on their way.  I had tears in my eyes and goosebumps covering my body as I walked into my doctor’s office.   Not once in my life had I come face to face with real life triplets.  I had spent the past 5 months googling everything triplet related but I had yet to cross paths with any.  Watching this mom and her little army of men lit a fire in me and I approached my appointment with confidence and an excitement I now long for.

Our weekly appointments consisted of the same ‘risk checks’… weight, blood pressure, babies’ heart rates, measurement of amniotic fluid surround each of them.   The ultrasound tech scanned all three babies and I held my breath, then exhaled in relief as I watched my three boys kick around and their hearts beat loudly.   She left the room to grab Dr. I – and Mac and I laughed at a funny video that had popped up on his Facebook newsfeed.

Dr. I walked into the room and his casual, warm, friendly aura was boldly missing.  He pulled up a stool, kept his files closed and tucked under his arm, and when we finally made eye contact I noticed that his were filled with tears.

“Sara, in all my years here.. I have never seen this happen”

The familiar words rang loudly in my head as I flashbacked to our first ultrasound with the boys.  I ignored the concern I heard in Dr. I’s voice and forced myself to believe the next words out of his mouth would be positive ones.

“Your twin boys are very very sick and we need to admit you into labor and delivery immediately.  We are at risk of losing all three of these babies”

He went off into a full explanation of how within just one short week, our twin boys had developed Stage IV TTTS (Twin-to-twin transfusion – I will post more about this in a separate blog entry).  Dr. I was always so good at explaining any and all risks – and he always finished our appointments on a reassuring note.  So while he explained the medical condition of our twin boys – I shut down and stopped listening.  All of the information seemed irrelevant – I just wanted to hear his final reassurance that ‘everything is great and we will follow up again next week’.  I waited.  And waited.  Until he said:

“Sara, do you have any questions?”

I casually responded “wait, so will our boys be okay or are you saying they are dying?”

“Your twin boys are in heart failure and will not survive.  They are dying.  We need to admit you and do our best to save your third son”.

I looked at Mac and then back at Dr. I…. and I let out a howl.  A loud, painful, gut-wretching cry that I can still hear to this day.  I immediately grabbed my phone and called my sister Katie.  I screamed into the phone in hysterics as she asked over and over and over what was wrong.  It took me the longest time to formulate an answer “Katie, my boys are dying”.

Within ten minutes, I was in a wheelchair being admitted to the hospital for fear that I was going to go into labor at a mere 23 weeks.  The next few hours were filled with blood draws, exams, ultrasounds, consultations with labor & delivery, NICU and the bereavement team.  I sat in my hospital bed, waivering between complete hysteria and utter confusion. Our evening nurse gave me a heavy dose of anti-anxiety meds in hopes that I would be able to doze off but instead I stayed up all night holding onto my belly for dear life.  My three boys were alive, kicking and I was too afraid to believe they would be taken from me any second.