Your picture... Another Piece

Oh Andrew-

It's so odd- you're always in the back of my mind, and yet when Joe says your name it steals my breath- only when he says it- and I don't know why... Perhaps it's because I am waiting- waiting for that next question- the ones he asks when trying to put his story together... your story.

Last night your dad was at practice and your three youngest sibs were tucked into their beds fast asleep. I was a bit tired after a long day at work and was reading a bit in my bed when Joe came in. He had a smile on his face and came in my bed, gave me the biggest hug and told me what a wonderful mom I was (he has a sweetness about him- a trait he inherited from his namesake, no doubt). He was looking at his belly button and asked me why we have them. I told him that his belly button marked a very special place. I explained to him that there was a cord that was attached between the two of us- how it was what kept him alive- it was how he breathed, how he ate- and then he said, "Did Andrew's not work?"

And for some reason, I found myself telling him more about his story- your story. I told him that when you were both in my tummy you did lots of flips and somersaults- that you were having a regular party in there- but that with all that fun, that cord wrapped you guys up and that you were caught in a tangle. He asked me if that is what happened to you and why you died. I nodded- but I also told him that he was wrapped up in it too- and that God knew to get me in that hospital- so that he could be born- and that he would be ok.

I watched him as he took in my words- adding the newest piece that I gave him to his puzzle. He did not look alarmed or even saddened. I watched him so closely, Andrew- and I wish I could have crept into his mind- but he's seven and I do not want him to see my grief- the magnitude of it. So when I share your story, I try to share the joy- the hope. I told him that perhaps when you both got tangled, and God called you home, that you said to God, "My brother needs to be with my mom." And sometimes I like to believe that is the way it happened. That somehow you protected him- or probably more so... protected me.

And then he asked what you looked like. I told him that you were bigger than him! That you were bigger than all his sibs. I told him that you looked a lot alike. That you were pink and beautiful and just looked like a sleeping baby. I told him how I carried you both back to my hospital room- how we had some time together- I put my finger in your hand and told him how you seemed to grasp my finger. He smiled.

And then he pointed to the dresser where I have your picture- high above where he couldn't really see it. He said, "Is that his picture?" "Can I see it?"

And I hesitated.

I remember when I got those pictures of you. How I hated them and loved them all at the same time. I hated that they were taken long after you left me- after your body began to change- I hate that sometimes I wonder if they are replacing those memories I had that September night... And then I love them. I love that I have a picture of you. A reminder that you were real- Not some made-up story- Not a dream that I had, once upon a time...

Those pictures.

The ones your dad doesn't like because they, too, are not his memory. The ones that I looked at for hours until I could see them without being overcome with sobs. The pictures that I chose to keep in my room only- for my eyes only-

Until now?

And here he was asking. I got up from the bed and picked up your picture. Your darkened lips, your reddish hair, your darkened hands... and in those steps I prayed, that Joe would be ok to see this, that I would be ok sharing with him- for, after all, you are his brother...

I sat next to him and we looked at your picture. I didn't even look at Joe's reaction, I couldn't take my eyes off your face. For though your picture is always there- like you are always in my mind- I hadn't sat and really looked at it- not really- not like that.

Joe took a breath and mentioned your hair. And I told him that he and the others all had little wisps of hair before they were bald for two years- He didn't mention your lips- your hands- your coloring. Perhaps he saw you as I did- as a perfect little person.

And then we talked of heaven and how you have a perfect body now- one that doesn't get sick or hurt. One that never needs a band aid. I told him that he would recognize you- that I would recognize you- and I watched as that made him smile.

And tonight I am thinking about those words- and that conversation that again turned suddenly to his poor fish, Rocky- that you must be taking care of- even now as I type. We fell asleep in each other's arms until daddy carried him back to his bed when he came home.

And I wonder now as I type this if you were there- somehow seeing all that took place- somehow felt all the love that grows for you still. Oh Andrew, there is so much that I wonder...

But for now he has yet another piece- and I wonder when the next moment will come- the next question...

But for now, I know he is full, he is at peace, he is safe. And though he talks about God and how He is always with him, he has also mentioned you- and just like being a twin must have been so special- having a twin is special too- and I'm so glad that he has you- still.

I love you.

Always and Forever,

Your Mom

My Answers (Our surviving family)

The last of the questions I had from others followed the same theme... What about my Jonasen (my twinless- twin) and our family. I've decided to answer the questions from both Elizabeth and Catherine here.

When Joey started school, did you have a conversation with the director/teacher? What other things if any, did you do?

Joey actually went to preschool at an extension of our church and while I (assume) most knew about Andrew, I did not know his teacher well and so I did tell her about their story. I wrote everything down because I wanted to make sure that everything that I felt needed to be said, was. I also wanted to make sure the teacher had that paper to reference if she needed to- and being a teacher myself, I appreciate all information I get from parents that helps me better understand their child.

When Joey went to kindergarten, I again knew his teacher and have been in regular contact with her. She has shared with me when Joey has talked about Andrew (and yes he has) and how it has gone. I will be writing another letter this summer for his first grade teacher and every year he is in elementary school. I have learned that 'Andrew' has meandered his way into Joey's thoughts throughout his six years and I know he always will. I think it is important to make sure that those educating Joey will know about this very unique piece of him.

That being said, I will also let my younger children's teachers know too. Sometimes they include Andrew and Baby E in their pictures (and sometimes they don't) But I want the teachers to know my family's story- to know that these siblings my children sometimes talk about are not imaginary friends or figments of their imagination.

(And as a side-note, Elizabeth I imagine it is hard that the director had (I assume) healthy twins. I have found that most of the parents that I know that have intact twins have been very supportive of us... but I encourage you to write a letter and explain everything you need to.)

Can you remember when you first discussed Andrew with Jonasen?

I can. It was that night in the hospital. Andrew had left us forever, my husband was asleep on a pull out chair, and I held my son, hours old, in my arms as I told him his story. I told him that his brother- who had shared all that time kicking him- had gone to heaven- that we would see him again, but not until we are (God-willing) very old. I remember those quiet moments still. Looking into his little eyes and grieving for something so big.

Throughout Jonasen's baby and toddler years I would say Andrew's name in prayers. I would say, "God bless mommy & daddy... and my brother Andrew in heaven"- I did not want there to ever be a moment where I sat him down and said, "You know how on your birth certificate it says you are a twin... well..." And so Andrew's name has always been in our house- and it always will be. Doing it like we did- every day- so innocently allowed me to be comfortable with it- to talk about Andrew without tears. In doing so, Jonasen (and his siblings) have felt comfortable asking questions and not worrying about upsetting mom or dad.

Talking about Andrew in this way- (always) was one of the best choices we made in this journey and one that I have NEVER had second thoughts about.

Have you always mentioned Andrew to him and how did he grasp and come to terms with his twin's death?

I don't know when Jonasen grasped the idea that he had a twin brother- or if he fully has yet. He has a set of twin boys in his kindergarten class now and he talks about their eyes sometimes and how they look alike. All of my living children had blue eyes, and Jonasen is the only one who has brown eyes. He has asked me about Andrew's eyes and I can't quite answer them- just tell him that one day we'll know. Because our faith as a family is so strong, there has never been any doubt that one day we will see Andrew again. I think that that has been a comfort to him. I also told him that like God can read our thoughts- perhaps Andrew can hear them too and if he ever wants to just talk to him, he can. And he does. He's talked before about his "walks with Andrew" and while they make me sad, they also make me happy. He's finding his way and I'm ever so proud of that.

Has he asked any questions about his brother and the circumstances of his birth that have surprised you?

Not yet. He asks me to tell the story of his birth often. And I do. He knows that he is the only one in the family who had a brother with him in my belly- he knows that his brother was born first and that God felt it was important to call Andrew home before we got to truly know him. Though we don't know why. He knows that God felt it important for Joey to be on this earth with us. I have written his story in his baby book and in journals of notes I kept for him for later when he is better able to understand it.

His questions don't often surprise me- as I expect them to come- but I am always caught a little off guard when they do come- without warning often. That I haven't gotten used to yet...

Did Andrew's death change how you and your husband envisaged your future family?

Yes and No. When we were married we always dreamed of having four children at home. When I first became pregnant and it was with twins, I had assumed three pregnancies to get those four children- not five-and with two losses. Getting pregnant again (each time) was terrifying- and my husband was scared too. At the time I think he was happy just having Jonasen and his sister- I really pushed to have that original dream of four at home. We now have four children at home and my tubes are tied so there will be no more fears of pregnancy for me.

Did you both feel that you wanted subsequent children? Was it something you spent a long time discussing?

We knew that we wanted more than one child. We had always dreamed of having a larger family. After I lost Andrew, I wanted nothing more than to be pregnant- and I did become pregnant just seven months after we lost Andrew. While I wanted nothing more than to be able to say that I had 'children' (plural) I was afraid to 'try'. Our daughter was not planned but I knew there was a possibility of her coming if God wanted to give us another child at that time- (She was conceived while out of town and we had no birth control with us...)

What we did spend a long time discussing was the fear of losing another-and that fear was gripping. I wanted nothing more to get pregnant and grow our family time and time again. My husband was more hesitant and he feared we would lose another. Especially after losing Baby E he was petrified. I felt that I had to talk him into trying again... I did go on to have our last child after that. Knowing that was the last time that I would be pregnant was freeing. We decided that either way- baby in heaven or baby on earth- that would be the last. Before, I was worried I would always want to have 'one more baby' trying to fill something that couldn't be filled. After my last son's birth all desires to become pregnant again have suddenly vanished. That has been very peaceful too. In the end I have four children at home- but in an odd sense I feel very blessed to know too that two are waiting for us- watching us- and proud of the family we have become- very strong- very intact- we are survivors and are so much stronger for it.

How is he?

He keeps me up more than the others-
I wonder what's behind his words-
his thoughts-
his eyes-
I wish I could know what he thinks about-
and sometimes he gives me a look into what I long to know...

How is he?

He's been raised a singleton- a twinless twin- with a sister 15 months younger that is often mistaken for his twin.
He's always had company-
a built in playgroup-
and yet he is my quiet one, my thinker,
and I wonder...

How is he?

Today was the first day back to school and while he normally is bubbling with excitement, today he didn't want to go.
He didn't want to play with his 'normal' group-
and that's o.k.
But he seemed so sad...

How is he?

I worried about him all day
Don't worry- they said- it's just kids going back after being home so long-
the new toys- his siblings at home playing- it's just kids...

Is it?

He came home and I asked him.
I asked him about his friends and he said he spent his recess with Andrew.
It didn't cross my mind- not even for a moment as I asked him about this new friend I hadn't heard him mention before.

But I had heard him mention him.

"My brother mom. The one who died."

I felt my eyes begin to well and prayed that they wouldn't give me up- that he wouldn't see me cry. He hasn't seen me cry in so long for his brother- A memory he has probably long since forgotten...

"I went on a walk- just he and I on the mountain of snow. I think I'll play with Tyler tomorrow."

Raising children is hard. I don't want my children to be the smartest, or the most popular, but I want them to be happy. Happy and full- and to know beyond a shadow of a doubt how special they are- how much I treasure every thing about them- how they are so very, very loved- I know they feel it and still I wonder...

How is he?

Most of the time happy. Most of the time bubbling with excitement and laughing at the days-

But sometimes I watch him pause- and I make assumptions- and I get so angry- so angry that he can't go on walks with Andrew where others can see the two of them. Angry that he is a twin without his twin. Angry that I have to guess what he's thinking- when his eyes get quiet-

My thinker-
Am I angry? Or just sad?

I hold onto these things. These pieces. I want so much to read into all of it- to know- to know beyond a shadow of a doubt- that he's o.k. That he is full. That he doesn't want for anything- for anyone-

How is he?

Right now, I just don't know. So I will hug him and kiss him and always tell him how much I love him and how special he is. For right now he is fine- sleeping and dreaming about his new pet fish- the walk with Andrew- perhaps forgotten-

Perhaps forgotten by him-
but not his mother.

Questions.

At six his questions are coming.
They come faster now than before.

He was writing in his notebook. I was writing in mine.
I noticed him glance at me as I rubbed my belly- a belly swollen with a life of a baby to be delivered in just a few weeks.
He went back to his writing when it came-

"Why do babies die?"
I felt the air leave me and I caught myself wanting to say-
'Why would you ask such a thing? Babies don't die! This baby won't die! Don't worry!"

But I couldn't say it-

I know why he was asking-
and sometimes babies do die-
I don't know what tomorrow holds and while I don't want you to worry- how can I tell you not to when I can't stop the worry in my own mind...

There was a silence as I searched for the right thing to say to him.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Andrew died."

"Yes he did. And I don't know why God needed him when He did- but I do know that He wanted you here to be part of this family right here, right now- that he knew we needed you- and I know that this baby will join our family too Joe, I know it. Don't worry. It'll be o.k"

My answer seemed to be enough as he went back to drawing pumpkins and writing 'stories'. He doesn't dwell on his questions- or the anwers- but for me they linger-

It was the first time I felt that I was lying to him. At that time I didn't know about the baby I carried. I didn't know that it would all be o.k. but I wanted it to be and I didn't want him to worry- I didn't want him to ever worry about things like babies dying... I wanted to protect him- I want to protect all my children-

But this is what his reality is- our reality- and as much as we don't dwell on it, he knows.
He knows he had a brother.
He knows his brother died.
And he has questions.

As his questions come I try to answer them the best I can-
I try to shelter him the best I can-

Because the truth is for some questions, I don't have the answers-

He knows.

It's September and my heart is heavy.
Torn.
Just like it was 6 years ago.
10:35pm- My heart broke when I heard the silence
10:36pm- My heart grew when I heard the screams
Torn.

And last year-
September-
Our little spark disappeared.
Gone.
Torn again.

And I can feel it coming.
The heaviness of the dreams- the memories-
Torn.
September again.
And I can feel it coming.

Today in church my heart was heavy as I heard my husband strum his guitar leading the congregation in the song, "I can only imagine"- and I could feel my eyes swell at the thought. Of meeting my Savior. The one who helped me off the floor- so many, many times and wonder if I'd also see them- Standing at His side.
But I don't know.

The sermon- about heaven- and the pastor began-
"What is heaven like? No one really knows..."
To which my six year old son whispered with a smile, "My brother knows."

Six years he's lived without his twin.
He's so strong and he doesn't even know it.
It's all he's ever known.
So strong in his faith.
So strong in his assurance.
So secure in his peace.

Heaven?
He's right.
He knows.

The Wonderings

When I was little I wondered about it.

I wondered if I had a twin what it would be like.

I wondered what she would have looked like- what it would have been like to grow up with a friend so close to me- what it would have been like to have someone to share all my secrets with- my childhood- my adulthood.

But I didn't have a twin.

But he did.

And he's starting to wonder.

I never know when to expect them- but they come.

The Wonderings.

"Did he look like me?"
"I think so."

"Does he still see me?"
"I think he does, Joe."

"Can I talk to him?"
"If you want. I do."

And after he asks a question he'll begin to talk about something else, but I look at him and I know. I know he's filed it away. Trying to figure out the puzzle of what his story is. Some pieces I have and I can give him now- others I will wait to share- and some I will never know. But he's filing away the pieces he has. Trying to make them fit. His wonderings.

And I know he hasn't always looked to me to for his answers. Some he has found in his heart.

At school he was talking about heaven- and he was overheard by his teacher telling his friends that there is a castle there.- and when asked by another child who the castle belonged to- He replied, that the castle is for everyone and that he would see Andrew there- that Andrew was his brother- and that he can go there because Jesus died on the cross and rose to heaven so we can all go there to.

To the castle.

And he is- no doubt in a Grand Castle in the midst of a Savior who rescued me. Who saved us. And, like Jonasen, I have found answers in my heart. I can see Andrew. Now five. And I talk to him. And I like to think he knows. But I will continue to wonder, and to ponder and to try to fit the pieces together as best I can.

My Wonderings.

But I know some pieces will always be lost- just beyond my grasp- But perhaps I'll find them again, when I go to that Grand Castle.

He's Five

"I don't remember if I saw him."

We were driving to school and my daughter was singing when he just said it. It came out of nowhere. It was a simple statement, but in an instant I knew what he was talking about. Somehow I didn't need to ask who 'him' was, but I did anyway. For in that moment, hidden behind my daughter's voice, my thoughts were with him too.

"Who?"

"Andrew."

I remember early on not knowing what to do. I had so many questions. My grief was tangled. It was an enormous web and as much as I would try to struggle to free myself from it, I found myself more and more entwined. My grief was for me- having carried them for so long and dreaming about who they were, it was for my husband who would have loved to have had two boys. And it was for him- how special to have a brother. I often wondered how it would be to live, knowing someone whom you shared so much with did not.

And so came my questions... How do I do this? What do I say? What do we do?


I remember seeking the advice of a woman who had lost a twin. Her story paralleled mine in so many ways. Her survivor was nearing the end of his teens. What did she do?


"Don't put your angel on a pedestal."

And though it seems odd, I knew exactly what she was talking about. That is where he was. He was the topic of my conversations, my meaning, my purpose and somewhere in there I was beginning to lose sight of what really mattered. Our life- not his death. Her words could not have come at a better time. I needed them. It changed my course, it made me a better mom to both my angels, living and dead.

I remember thinking about how fragile that balance was. I did not want Andrew's existence to be the center of who we were, and yet I did not want him to be absent from us either. He is part of us, part of our story but he is not all we are.


Look at his birth certificate.
"Twin"
"Second"

His twin was something I couldn't hide from him, not that I would ever try.


And so it began. Very early. Before he could talk. I spoke his name. When we would pray and ask God to watch over the mouse in Goodnight Moon, we would always end, "and God bless my brother Andrew in heaven". It was part of the routine. His name was spoken but it was not our center.

I wondered when he would talk about him- or when he would ask.

And so the years have passed and he has asked questions. He's shared his thoughts. And still at times I find myself at a loss for words. The moment I learned they were two boys I had them on the ball fields together, double dating at prom, standing side by side- best men at each others' weddings. And again in that moment I was lost. Lost for words.

Those dreams died. As soon as they entered my head they were gone. Like him. Gone.


And so I have cried. Not just for us. I cried for my son and the loss of his brother. My mind sometimes goes to what could have been. I will never know what we are missing but I do know what we've gained. Over the years I have been able to imagine with open eyes what Andrew would look like, now five, what he would be doing. I only wish I could see his eyes, hear his laughter next to his brothers' and sister's.

But one day I will- when we're all home. But until that day, the questions will come, the wonderings will flow and I have the amazing opportunity to listen and to share what my heart tells me. I have the opportunity to listen. I have the amazing opportunity to travel this journey with him and to share it with you. I am the one who has gained. God is good.