July.
Words are funny. You know what they mean, but you don’t truly know what they mean. A lot of words are flitting around the house today. Twins. Premature. NICU. Overdose. Accidental.
I didn’t even know my cousin was pregnant. Gwen’s not my cousin exactly. My dad’s cousin’s daughter, but that doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. Now there are two tiny babies in the NICU, and Gwen is gone.
Gone. Another word I’m starting to understand.
Mom and Dad left for Gwen’s parent’s house. They’re all going to the hospital after. But what about the babies? What’s going to happen to them?
Mom was on the phone before they left, looking around the house for old twin things. But the boys are six now, and there’s not much we kept for babies. And that was before we knew Gwen had died.
What’s going to happen to the babies?
There’s a lot of words to describe today. Sadness. Pain.
Uncertainty.
Fear.
Grief.
August.
They’re here. The babies are with us. A boy and a girl.
Ty and Lily.
Born eight weeks early and the tiniest little things I’ve ever seen. We were so worried about them. And now they’re here. They’re safe. They’re loved.
I’ve never seen Mom and Dad look so tired. They love the babies so much. We all do. We’re learning how to hold them and feed them because they’re smaller than normal babies. I’m getting better at working around the big oxygen tanks. It makes an odd picture, two tiny babies connected to all these cords and monitors.
There are still words I’m learning to understand. New ones. Exposed in utero, drug babies, special needs.
I knew them before.
Now I know them.
September.
Mom is exhausted. You can see it in her face. So is Dad. The babies wake up every night, sometimes for hours. My sisters and I will get up at five in the morning to take a shift. Then Mom and Dad can sleep for a few hours.
Other words have been in my mind lately. Self-centered ones. Not enough, tired, stressed. Sometimes it feels like there’s too many of us in this house. So many kids, so many needs. I don’t resent Ty and Lily. Of course not. Never.
But I am tired. Everyone is. We’re so focused on the babies that sometimes we forget to be kind to each other. Sometimes it feels like we’re… what are the words?
Hanging by a thread.
October.
So many doctors. So many appointments. Neurology, occupational therapy, vision therapy, pediatrics, allergy tests. With all the appointments comes new words. Scary ones. Words like fetal alcohol syndrome and cerebral palsy. Anaphylactic reactions, vision correctional surgery, and seizures.
It scares me.
The babies are so little, and they battle so much. But there are more words that help. Happiness, laughter, hope, light.
Family.
November.
Ty has a vision impairment. He needs surgery to correct it so he can see. Lily has cerebral palsy. I’m not sure what that means for her life. No one really is. We won’t know until she gets older. For now, it’s back and forth to appointments and therapy. Mom and Dad had seven healthy children. We never were in and out of the hospital. Now, in a way, we are.
But Ty and Lily are amazing. When they came to us, they needed oxygen tanks to breathe for them. Now they’re growing. The doctors say they’re thriving.
I saw their first smiles the other day. So much joy. So much hope.
December.
Lily got RSV. She and Mom spent Christmas Eve in the hospital. Ty missed them both. We were all together Christmas Day, though. It was wonderful. A miracle, really. Lily came home with an oxygen tank. She only wanted to be held by Mom all day.
Sick baby, tired mother.
But we’re stronger as a family, stronger than we’ve ever been. Maybe it’s something about the Christmas season, the giving and love that comes with the painted cards and twinkling lights. Maybe, I’m not sure. But there’s hope all around. Life is still hard. Hard and hopeful.
January.
The babies are starting to sleep more.
We’re trying to settle into a new normal. It’s been months, and it still isn’t easy. Sometimes I feel confused. Sometimes I feel angry. I’m not sure who I feel angry at. But at the same time, I feel joy. Funny, isn’t it?
Lily and Ty are such loving little babies. Every moment with them is precious.
There’s a new word floating around the house. It hovers at the back of everyone’s mind. We’ve been thinking about it ever since last year, but now it’s a reality.
Adoption.
February
Foster care. Paternal rights. Kinship adoption. As soon as I learn one term a new one takes its place. There are a hundred different things to focus on and I have no idea how my parents do it. They must be superheroes.
Mom is on the phone a lot. She talks with people; family, lawyers, doctors. I didn’t know there were so many processes to adoption. When Mom isn’t working out details, she’s caring for the babies. They love her so much. You can tell by the way they look at her.
March.
Two big things happened this month. We got a court date, and I turned eighteen. My birthday wish was to adopt Ty and Lily.
April.
Ty and Lily slept through their own adoption.
It’s an odd thing, feeling gratitude for grief. But standing there in the court room, I felt grateful. To my parents, for being the wonderful people they are. To Ty and Lily’s biological family for supporting us. To Gwen, for letting us care for her beautiful children.
As the judge officially declares us a family, I look down at Ty, sound asleep in my arms. He’s chubby, only ten months old. If he were awake, he’d be crawling all over the courtroom. My sister comes up beside me, cradling Lily. Lily’s cerebral palsy makes it hard for her to move. But she’s a trooper. We all know she’ll do great things.
We gather for a picture, and no one can stop smiling. Two parents. Seven biological children. Two sleeping babies.
A family.
I try to describe the feelings in that room, the feeling when we knew we had Ty and Lily for forever. But I can’t.
Nine months of exhaustion, learning, hope, grief, tears, laughter, and family.
One era ends and another begins.
There are no words.