I know it's been years and years since I've written to you. I'm sorry about that. I guess I figured I'd outgrown you or some silliness. I hope you'll forgive me.
I'm writing today because I need help. Christmas is almost here and I'm having a really hard time finding my Christmas spirit. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy thinking about Christmas lights, Christmas trees, happy families, even different ways to decorate (I seem to have a bit of a Pinterest addicition), and even seeing those things is a little nice. We will probably even put up our own Christmas lights and tree and wreath, since who knows, maybe it'll help. (Plus, I do like the bright lights when it's so dark outside.) When it comes to the actual celebration of Christmas, though, being around friends and family at a time when my life feels shattered and unfixable, well, the entire thought makes my heart race and makes me want to puke or crawl into a hole and not come out until April.
Here's the thing: what should be "the most wonderful time of the year" is nothing but a huge reminder of the tragedy Paul and I have experienced the last (nearly) four months. The idea of having fun right now seems impossible. No, it doesn't seem impossible, it IS impossible; everywhere we look we see only reminders of what should have been this holiday for us: children and newborns, smiling faces all around, people planning get togethers and meals, navigating what could be difficult weather. Joy.
I know you'll forgive me for my meltdown last night when Paul asked me, in a cheery, teasing voice, what I want for Christmas. To say that question was a dagger to my already bleeding, torn heart is a gross understatement. I sit here typing with eyes still in desperate need of cold spoons or cucumber slices to combat the swelling from all the crying I did. Thankfully, he understands my response. He, too, feels exactly the same way, he just has a hard time putting it into words sometimes.
I know people call you magical and a miracle worker. I know, too, though, that there are probably some miracles you can't fulfill. But just in case, here's what Paul and I would like for Christmas...only these things. I don't generally care much about Christmas presents anyway, but this year, not at all.
1) Please give us a different life, one where I'm still pregnant, enjoying feeling my babies move inside my womb, where we're decorating the nursery, dealing with and lamenting the physical strain twins would be inflicting on my body at this stage of gestation and the burden having to continue to do *everything* would have on Paul, or
2) We would like to be agonizing over every breath and stat and blood test of two babies in the NICU for Christmas, even though that, too, would be a terrible reality (nonetheless, it must be infinitely better having broken hearts and two dead babies).
3) If you can't pull those off, and I know they're a long shot, then please, please give all the other friends and family members in our lives the ability - and desire - to talk about our babies with us, to ask us questions or remember them not just this holiday, but forever, to use their names in conversation, to do good things for others in their honor and tell us about them. More than anything in my life, I need to know - and HEAR - that others miss Aliya and Bennett, too, and hold us all in thoughts and prayers, and wonder what life would be like if they had lived.
4) If you can't pull that off, then, I guess, please just help Paul and me make it through the holidays. We may not be able to participate in usual traditions, and may need to avoid family and friends right now. Please help them to understand that we.just.can't.cope.
I hope you have a Merry Christmas, Santa, for all that you do.
P.S. If you could also maybe help us to relax and be calm during our IUI session this month - if it's still in the cards for us - I'd appreciate that.