My husband and I were married for two years when we decided that we were ready to start trying to conceive a child. We were very blessed. It only took one month for me to get pregnant. I found out that I was pregnant when I was only two weeks along. I was so thrilled. My whole life was about to change and I was ready! My pregnancy was quite normal until I was 12 weeks, and I started bleeding vaginally. I called my doctor who instructed me to go to the hospital. They admitted me and ordered an ultrasound. What a surprise we were about to receive. I was pregnant with twins! All of my hopes and dreams at that moment came true. I was having a rough time with morning sickness. I always wanted two children, but I was unsure after those first three months if I wanted to be pregnant again. What luck; I was going to have my two children, but only one pregnancy!! It really was a dream come true. I watched my two children inside of me on the ultrasound machine and was overwhelmed with joy. I had never experienced such complete joy and happiness. They were somersaulting, swimming, flipping, playing and were so much fun to watch. I cried so many tears of happiness. It was the best feeling I have ever had. Both babies were thriving perfectly. There was nothing wrong with them. I was released that same evening. I was so excited that I could not sleep a wink. I couldn't wait to wake up the next morning and tell the world that I was pregnant with twins!
The rest of my pregnancy was really pretty normal (well, as normal as a twin pregnancy could be). I did everything right. I ate all of the right foods. I drank tons of milk. I took my vitamins everyday. I took it easy, not to overdue it. I went to all of my prenatal visits. I had sonograms every month from that point on. Things were perfect. Just when I thought that things couldn't get any better, I found out that I was having one boy and one girl. Again, perfect! Until one evening in January . . .
I was 30 weeks pregnant. I was sleeping very soundly when I was awoke by a scream that seemed to come from my very enlarged belly (I was 105 lbs. when I got pregnant and now I was 165 lbs. and as round as I was tall). I woke my husband up and told him that one of the babies had screamed. He assured me that it was my imagination. My logic told me that he was right. The next day I had my 30 week prenatal checkup. My doctor came into the room, listened for a heartbeat and found one. She said that everything seems to be great with your baby. I told her to read her chart, as I was pregnant with twins. "Oh, Oh, she said. I better find another heartbeat." At this point, I was feeling very uneasy. She placed the cold gel on me again and detected a heartbeat. This should have eased my mind, but she found the heartbeat the exact same place that she found the first. I mentioned something to her. She told me that there was no way of knowing for sure that it was a different heartbeat, but that she was positive that both babies were alive and thriving beautifully. To ease my concern, she ordered an ultrasound. It was to be done on a Friday.
The sonographer arrived and quickly started the procedure. The first news came. The babies heads were both down and in good position. This was great news to me as I really wanted to be able to have them both vaginally. She read off all of the measurements of "twin B". Things were looking very good. Then she started asking me if I had been experiencing any problems. I said that I was recently having a few contractions, but they weren't regular nor strong by any means. I also told her that I thought that "the babies had dropped when I awoke Friday morning (the day after I heard "the scream"). At that point, she abruptly ended the ultrasound and told me that she would be right back. I told my husband that something was wrong. He assured me that if there were, she would have said something. I wanted so badly to believe him, but in my heart, I didn't. When she returned to the room, she told me that she was going to call in my doctor "to take a look at those contractions that you have been having." I felt like I was going to throw up.
They once again, admitted me to the hospital and hooked me up to a belt that was to measure my contractions. To ease my concern, I asked them if they would also put two more belts on me so I could hear my babies' heartbeats. She told me that right now, they wanted to concentrate on my contractions. I knew for sure at that point there was something terribly wrong, although the thought of one of them dying was not a possibility to me.
Soon, my doctor came in. My husband asked her if there was something wrong. She replied "Yes. One of your babies has died." My whole world came crashing down upon me. I burst into sobs. I had never experienced anyone close to me dying before. I felt as thought a part of me died too. It didn't even occur to me to ask which baby had died until my husband did. It was the boy. Again, I broke out in sobs. My first question to my doctor was "how do we get him out." After all, I wanted to hold him, to rock him, to talk to him, to baptize him, to say goodbye to him and give him a proper burial. He deserved it. She told me that we could not get him out. That it would be to dangerous for my daughter whom she said needed me to be strong for her. I knew this was true, but how was I supposed to be strong when I just lost a child?
Somehow I managed to wake up the next morning and get through the days ahead of me. My love and concern for my daughter was the only reason that I had to go on. I honestly believe that if it weren't for her, I would have killed myself. I was consumed with that thought. All I wanted to do was be with my son. That was the only way that I could think of to be with him. Again, it was the love for my daughter that kept me going.
Two weeks later, I went into labor in the early morning hours of a Tuesday. My labor was not that bad. I went from one to 9 centimeters in about one hour, with very little pain. Soon they broke my water and immediately took me to the delivery room. There must have been 50 staff members present. I was ready to push. One huge push and my son was delivered vaginally. They pulled him out of me and whisked him away. I asked to see him, to hold him. They told me that I couldn't, that I had to concentrate on my daughter. I supposed that they were right.
After a few minutes, the doctors started scrambling. They told me that I would have to have an emergency c-section as my daughter was experiencing drastic decreases in her heartbeat. The next thing that I remember was waking up in the recovery room. I wanted to see my children. Again, they would not let me. They said that I would have to be able to walk upstairs by myself first into the neonatal unit where my daughter was. I got out of bed, stood up, fainted and fell flat on my face. I needed to see my daughter. She needed to see me. We needed to be together, to draw strength from each other. I had lost my son and she had lost her twin brother.
My son was delivered at 3:21 p.m. My daughter was delivered at 3:49 p.m. It was after midnight before I could see her. She was so tiny, only 3 lbs. 12.5 oz, but she was a fighter. There was never anything wrong with her besides the fact that she was so small. God had blessed me with a healthy 3 1/2 pound preemie. For that I was completely grateful. Soon thereafter, my son was brought to me. They explained to me what he would look like after his body had deteriorated in my womb for nearly two weeks. Nothing that they said could have prepared me. They brought him in. He was swaddled in receiving blankets and a knitted cap was placed on his tiny head. My son was black, blue and green all over. His intestines were coming out from his tiny belly where his skin had deteriorated. The plates of his skull were fused together. His tiny, perfectly shaped lips were bleeding. I felt so sorry that he had to go through that deterioration. I felt in my heart at that moment that he didn't mind. That he did it for his sister. That made me feel somewhat better. I sang to him "The Rose" by Bette Midler. That was his favorite song. I sang it to him and his sister everyday while I was in the shower. They both always moved around when I sang this to them. I thought that he would like it. I rocked him, I cried for him, I told him that I was sorry. The time that I spent with him was precious to me. The time soon came when I would have to turn him back to the nurses, as he needed to be baptized and I needed to rest. I had a tiny preemie baby girl that I needed to start breastfeeding and caring for.
The doctors had administered a morphine drip to me to ease the pain of the c-section that I had just had. I wished that they had not. I was so out of it, that all of these memories are a little fuzzy to me. I have regrets of things that I would have done if I were in the right frame of mind. They also at that time explained that they did not know why my son, Nicolas Robert Tholl, as we named him, had died. They told me that I could have an autopsy performed, but that it was very expensive and would probably be inconclusive. I opted not to. Later I found out that the autopsy would have only cost $200. I was very mad. $200 is not very expensive, especially for my peace of mind. Again, I do not believe I was thinking straight. I was on Morphine.
Funeral arrangements were made and we buried my son three days later. I was able to see him one more time at the funeral home, but they told me that I could not touch him, because of all the makeup and preserves they had to use for his deteriorated body. I placed a bunny rabbit in his tiny casket that I had bought for him for Easter (it was only February, but I had all his clothes thru 6 months of age, all his furniture, toys, blankets, diapers, etc bought for him. I even had his Easter basket bought and made. That is where his bunny came from.) Somehow I thought that this would make him be not so lonely. I also placed a letter to him, a goodbye letter. He was dressed in a tiny blue and white preemie outfit with a cap and socks. He looked so beautiful to me. That was the last time that I saw him.
It has been 3 1/2 years since Nicolas died. My pain has not lessened. I feel like I have no one to talk to. When I bring him up to my family, they quickly change the subject. It hurts me more than most know, and I have to keep my pain inside of me. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't cry for him. My favorite place to be is at the cemetary. It is there that I feel closest to him. I have been diagnosed as clinically depressed. I was bulemic for one year. My doctor put me on Paxil, but it does not help. I am consumed with the thought of killing myself so I can be with him.
The only reason that I am typing this letter to you today is the love and strength that I draw from my beautiful, perfectly healthy 3 1/2 year old daughter, Ashley. Ashley knows that she has a brother. She knows that he has died. She cannot, however, fully understand it. The first time that I took her to the cemetary with me, she knelt down and kissed Nicolas' grave. I never told her to. She recently asked me, "Mommy, when Nicolas is done dying, can he come back from heaven and live with us?" It breaks my heart to have to tell her no. There is nothing that I cannot give her, except for that. As I said before, she really does not understand what has happened. Ashley is a living reminder to me of Nicolas. She is so beautiful, extremely smart, and so kind and sweet. I know that Nicolas would have been the same way. It is so hard not having been able to see Nicolas as he would have normally looked. All I can do is speculate. What color are his eyes? What color is his hair? Does he look like me? Does he look like his sister or his father. Why did he die? Not knowing is by far the worst part.
A part of me died when Nicolas died. I have no spark for life. I do not feel whole. I feel empty in the pit of my stomach all of the time. The only thing that eases my pain is knowing that he is in heaven and that my daughter, Ashley, has her very own guardian angel. I know that Nicolas would not want me to feel this way, but I cannot help myself. I feel so all alone. I don't think that this pain will ever end. Following is a poem that I just wrote. It says it all . . .
My dearest Son,
It has been 3 1/2 years since you died.
Why haven't the tears stopped falling from my eyes?
Why don't I feel pain any less?
Why wasn't your life to me been blessed?
Will I ever see you again?
Will this pain ever end?
I love you more than most understand.
Why can't I hold your hand.
For no amount of money, no amount of prayers seem to fill this empty air.
To you I could have given the world.
I wish my prayers would have been heard.
Why did God take you from me?
Is it a punishment meant for me?
I am sorry that you can't be with me.
From these chains of guilt I shall never be free.
My darling angel, I love you so much.
I wish with all my heart your face I could touch.
Until the day that I hold you in my arms again,
I will feel this pain. It shall never end.Love, Mom
Jennifer Tholl
Mommy to: Nicolas and Ashley, born February 11, 1997