Two years later

Two years ago today, I cracked like never before. I’d been heartbroken and elated in my past, but the two had never combined in one moment, and it drove me to hiccupy, giggly, choked-back sobs.

Triplets.

Selective reduction.

One or all three may not make it past first trimester.

Severe handicaps.

Premature birth.

Fetal demise.

Those were the grim words my reproductive endocrinologist was charged with presenting the day of my first ultrasound. Being in the business of making babies, I know she would have much rather that appointment been filled with happy tears and congratulations rather than a somber look and a warning to keep the news between Rob and I to save from sharing bad news with family in a matter of days or short weeks.

It didn’t take more than a glance at Rob to know we wouldn’t choose to reduce the number of babies. While we were both terrified facing the ultrasound screen, the news started sinking in after we left, and we began talking on the drive away about whether we could fit three carseats in my Hyundai Santa Fe or if I’d need to upgrade before they arrived.

It was on that drive that we dubbed them P, B and J because A, B and C seemed too clinical and too generic for our babies.

Despite the fears, risks and mountains of unknowns, our trio weren’t a sentence of gloom and doom. They were ours, and on top of the heap of fear that formed an uneasy base for the pregnancy grew hope, dreams and love.

Triplets; A, B, C; PB&J; 1, 2, 3; ETC; Tobias, Eleanor and Callista – our babies.