It’s been a rough day for me and hiding in the many things I could be doing isn’t going to serve me or anyone else right now.

It’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. As much as I’ve been pausing and unable to focus, I’m fully aware it was just another day for most people I know. My twins would be almost a year old right now. They might have been learning to walk, and I can’t stop imagining their babble of, “ma-ma-momomomom.”

I never got to hold them in my hands or sing them a lullaby, but they were as real as the rounding of my belly and the tenderness of my breasts. They survived my gallbladder surgery and the headaches and exhaustion of the first trimester were real. My babies were real.

Their Dad spent a week asking where his “blueberries” were and I can’t look at blueberries without thinking of that spring when we fell in love with my growing belly and the future we saw in it.

I lost my twins after 9 weeks but before 11 weeks. Their hearts simply stopped beating. I had no indication anything was different. My body wasn’t rejecting them and I walked into that last appointment with so much hope for them and left utterly broken. On April 21, 2017, my babies were removed from my body and I still haven’t healed.

I wanted my children for burial. It was so early in the pregnancy, I was persistently redirected and dissuaded. I was blocked by the cost until I was told about Natural Grace. If not for the gift of their time, gentleness and support, I would not have been able to collect Sunny and Rain and treasure them until I was able to release them.

I probably would have kept their ashes for the rest of my life, but releasing them was important to their Dad’s healing. I released them on October 12, 2017 at Will Rogers Beach. As much as I carefully held the stuffed lambs I had stuck in their Dad’s Easter basket and for as long as I held that last positive pregnancy test and my ultrasounds tonight, I couldn’t bring myself to watch the video I sent their Dad, hoping to give him closure.

Today is a day so close to the day I released them and just around the time they would have probably been born. I spend the free time I can with my great nephew, and it’s a balm on my heart. His sweet cry and the way he listens to me sing to him ease just a touch of that longing I have for my children.

I still get hit randomly with fantasies of what they might have looked like. I still wonder if there was anything I could have done differently, and I know there isn’t. The ache in my chest feels hollow and heavy.

Most parents had their vigil at 7:00 pm. It’s what is done each year so we don’t have to feel so alone. I was in traffic. I was rushing home to my children that aren’t aware that today is any different from any other day. I was working with people that want the rules bent for them and they wanted to stand in the authority of time served instead of lessons earned. I asked for opinions on my book cover and allowed the flagellation that comes from other authors to break over me. I wanted to whine that it’s not fair but the reality is none of it mattered. What was unfair to me is the loss I can never find again and the possibilities I can’t stop imagining.

I wanted to work on editing my book. I wanted to pretend it’s just another day and I wanted to fall asleep slightly soggy from a few glasses too many that would mute the silence ringing through the house as my older children sleep but I can not.

I’m awake by myself, and my candles are burning later than most, but I’m not alone. I’m one in four women that would suffer this kind of loss. I’m lending my voice for the mothers and fathers that couldn’t. For the parents that couldn’t find the words or weren’t given the space to share their pain, I stand. I rise. I’m making that space for us.

Our children were in our bodies and they live in our hearts. Our memories may fade but the hope and joy that was taken will always be remembered. You don’t need the answers or the right words to offer, but a hug can be enough. Or space to find the comfort on our own. It’s not an easy thing to support but maybe it’s enough to know that others would want to support us.

I’m not an orphan although I will be one day. This is the natural order of things. It’s so painfully wrong to lose your child and I lost two at once. There are no words to describe the pain of losing children you never got to know. I keep trying, and I will continue to try. For now, it’s enough that they are not forgotten. It’s enough to share how much they meant to me, if only for 11 weeks.