The Month of May

     The month of May and I do not have a very good relationship. I'm not entirely sure when it started, but I know that as early at May 2004, I already had pretty negative feelings for the month as a whole.
     By 2004, I was already realizing that we had a fertility problem. Although I'd been off all forms of birth control for well over a year, I still hadn't gotten pregnant and wouldn't be for over another year. Sitting in church, or even watching tv, and seeing all the commercials and hearing all the comments about motherhood left a pretty bitter taste in my mouth.
     If we fast forward fifteen years, it is now May 2019 and my overall opinion of the month is significantly more complicated than it was then. Since 2004, I have succeeded in giving birth to three living daughters whom I love dearly and they are the only reason Mother's Day is allowed in my home. They want to celebrate me, so I allow them to do so.
     Mother's Day brings everything painful in my life to the surface because, truth be told, I've never experienced an extreme loss or pain that didn't involve motherhood. My own mother died in 2012 and my mother-in-law, whom I loved dearly and had become very close to since my own mother's passing, died just under two years ago. This will be my second Mother's Day without her love and guidance.
     Two days ago, I sat on the stand at church, having lead the Sacrament hymn and waiting until the next portion of the meeting to sit with my family. A wave of grief and pain swept over me as I watched the teenage boys bless and pass the Sacrament.
     I miss our son.
     I miss the hugs, the laughs, the conversations, and the chance to watch him grow from week to week. Those things that should have been, will never be.
     I will never get to watch as my husband places his hands on our son's head to ordain him to the priesthood.
     I will never get to sit and smile at him as he passes the Sacrament to me, to his dad, or to his sisters.
     I will never get to hear him ask questions about the world around him, about my job, or about the Gospel.
     I will never get to holler at him to take a shower because he stinks when he walks in the door.
     I will never get to do his laundry, tuck him in at night, or hold him tight when the world is simply too big for him to handle.
     I'll never get to listen as his dad reads Tolkien to him before bed or explains the intricacies of the Star Wars universe as it was when he was young.
     There will never be and pictures of my son standing in a historical battlefield, with old cannons beside him or pictures of him with his sisters.
     Most of the year, those "nevers" don't weight on me too heavily. I am able to accept them as a part of my life and with the understanding that if Jackson hadn't died the way he did, I would not have Dash and all the immense joy she brings to me.
     But May is different. Mother's Day is different. Year after year, May rips open the scars I bear then asks me to be grateful for them, demanding that I acknowledge them with each social media post, commercial, or overheard comment about Mother's Day.
     I have developed the habit of avoiding church on the most painful of days but I can't do that this year without seriously hurting the feelings of my very sensitive eight year old. Spitfire will be singing her first solo in church, something she is both nervous and excited about. It would crush her if I couldn't summon the strength to sit and listen as her beautiful, clear voice as it echos through the chapel.
     So I will go. I will sit on the edge of the bench with a giant handkerchief and listen as she alone sings the following words:

Maybe I'll never know the love it takes
To make me a happy home that's warm and safe.
And maybe I'll never see how you pray for my every need
And wonder what more you could do for me.

     And when the rest of the primary children join in for the chorus, I will likely get up and exit the chapel, making as little of a scene as possible but unable to sit for the rest of the song.

"Least of These, My Brethren"

I think there are times in each of our lives where we look at the world around us and wonder how in the world we got here. Lately, that feeling has been on the verge of overwhelming but I am taking each day as it comes.

My husband was gone for work for the better part of 6 months, with a few short weekends home here and there. During that time, I took a prep course for the Math Content PRAXIS exam, the final requirement I needed to complete my Virginia teaching license with the math endorsement.

The short version is that I passed, with a little room to spare! The long version involves the hours upon hours that I spent reviewing Calculus, taking practice exams, and commuting to and from the prep course.

My score showed up immediately when I hit the submit button.I started to shake, the kind of excited, emotion-filled tremors that only something you’ve worked so hard for, after putting off for over a decade, can cause.

Three days later, all the excitement was gone as I watched the election coverage. This particular election season was very hard on me. I didn’t have my husband to bounce issues off, to muddle through after the debates, or to distract me in the evenings from the other mundane aspects of life.

My husband’s absence magnified the inconceivable.

I am now fighting in ways I never thought I’d fight before. If you’re asking “why”, then please listen with an open mind because I know that many of my friends and family voted for Trump, as is your right. I am speaking to anyone who takes the time to read this, no matter when or how we may or may not know each other.

There are two truly core principles in the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  The first is that he is our Savior and Redeemer. He suffered in Gethsemane for all of our sins, no matter how big or small. The second is a principle that extends from before the earth was created and that “thing” is the reason Christ atoned for our sins in the first place: we each have been given our own agency. This means we get to choose how to think, how to act, how to react, in every aspect of our lives.

We fought a war in heaven so that we could all come here and choose for ourselves whether or not to live worthy of entering the Kingdom of Heaven. In Moses 4:1-4, we are taught that “Satan rebelled against me (God, the Father), and sought to destroy the agency of man, which I, the Lord God, had given him, and also, that I should give unto him mine own power; by the power of mine Only Begotten, I caused that he should be cast down.”

Satan was cast out because he wanted to take that gift of agency away and have all the glory of God for himself.

As members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, “We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.” 12th Article of Faith

What does it mean to honor and sustain the law? In light of some of the immediate aftermath of the election, let me share with a few thoughts with you.

I don’t know when life truly begins—when the spirit of a Child of God enters the body and stays there. I can only share that I have felt that life before 10 weeks’ gestation and I have felt it leave, for good, as well. We have knowledge that the spirit can leave the body while the heart is still beating, based on the experiences of others both within the LDS community and those of many other faiths as well; a beating heart does not mean the spirit is in the body. Even within church policies (which are subject to change), a child is not given a name of record unless he or she is born and takes a breath. My experiences with Jackson aren't unique, as women though all of history have lost babies before birth or during childbirth.

The discussion from here in light of recent events naturally turns to abortion. Is it murder or something less grievous, such as simply not accepting the consequences of using your agency poorly? If it is murder, then does that make God the biggest murdered of all, given the sheer number of pregnancies that end each and every day since the dawn of time?

I don’t know and I’d prefer err on the side of life. In contrast to that, abortion is legal, in all 50 states and the District of Columbia, so what does it mean to “err on the side of life?”

To me, this means changing how American men and women of every political ideology views life. The new administration may seek to outlaw abortion, but that doesn’t mean that abortions won’t happen. Women have attempted to abort their pregnancies throughout history and for a variety of reasons (if you aren’t familiar with this, please do a little research). Those same reasons exist today.

So how do we, as a society, prevent abortions from happening if we believe abortion is wrong?

I see two distinctly different areas to fight.  The first is free, reliable birth control for anyone who wants it and proper, detailed reproductive education for all genders at an early age. The latter was never an issue prior to the modernization of the world and single family homes that kept children apart from their parents at night. 

To those who are argue regarding the law of chastity, remember that your values are not those of others. We each have our own agency. The biggest key to preventing abortions is to prevent pregnancy in the first place! Reliable birth control is not the pill, by the way. I’m talking about options that are intended for longer term use and also for technologies that aren’t quite there yet, such as temporary male sterilization.  If a woman doesn’t get pregnant, then she’s not going to be seeking an abortion. 

The second line of defense against abortion is support for mom’s who choose to carry their babies to term. This support can come in many ways, but one very serious area is the cost of childcare. In the US, the average cost of childcare for a year is higher than college tuition. Families who plan ahead can save for almost 20 years for college for their children, but what about daycare? Should a 12 year old start saving her babysitting money so that she can afford daycare for the child she might have in 18 years? 

Absurd? YES!

I run an in-home daycare, so I am keenly aware of what it costs to put an infant or toddler in a small, safe, loving daycare. Daycare providers struggle to balance the cost of tuition with the number of children they can watch both physically and in terms of their mental health as well.

I don’t particularly like pointing out problems without also making a few suggestions that I’ve spent time mulling over, so bear with me for just a moment while I go completely radical on you: Grant new families paid time off.

*Gasp*

What are the drawbacks? Higher taxes, obviously. That money doesn’t come from nowhere. Those taxes can come from a variety of places, but how does using the interest on federally paid student loans sound for a start? 

Or taxing luxury items up the wazoo so that only the wealthiest spenders are hurt? 

For those crying out “It’s MY money” trust me, if you’re reading this, it is unlikely that I’m talking about raising your taxes. I don’t know anyone in the top 5%! Also, it’s not an income tax, but a tax on truly optional purchases, so if any single person doesn’t want to pay it, they don’t have to.

Providing for paid family leave for men and women allows those families to spend time with their new child, establishing breastfeeding, reducing exposure to illnesses that could be harmful, and provides a chance for moms who suffer from postpartum disorders a chance to get help, something a new working mom may not be able to do.

Years ago, politicians fought hard to provide funding to educate each child in America. The idea that an educated public was advantageous won and continues to be important today. That same "Greater Good" mentality is one I believe in as far as providing for new families.

The inability to afford a child is one solid reason for abortion, no matter the age or marital status of the mother. Providing help, in terms of daycare costs, day-to-day living expenses, a real living wage . . . these are all options that anti-abortion Americans need to look at because like it or not, abortions will happen.

These issues all revolve around our agency—our right to choose how we live our lives and just because someone sins differently than I do doesn’t mean that I don’t love them or want to do everything I can to support them.

With those thoughts in mind, I participated with my oldest daughter, my mother-in-law, and two of my sisters-in-law in the Women’s March on Washington on Saturday. It was truly a remarkable day and gave me the opportunity to show my growing daughter that we do not need to be silent. The issues that surround abortion can be fought so that abortion stays safe and the rates can continue to decline.

I also marched for religious freedom. That particular issue was a little further down on the list for the organizers, but it was there and it is very personal to me. My ancestors were kicked out of their homes, multiple times, because of their religion. They fled to Utah, which was a territory at the time. Where to religious refugees have to flee now? The opportunities here are still great and I want that religious freedom to remain . . . for all religions.

For the few of you who think, “Meh, I have what I want” I have one question: The things you have, how did you get them? Did someone march on your behalf in decades past?

Lastly, I marched for those who couldn't march for themselves. We took the Metro into the city and the workers there were hollering and cheering us on. It seemed like they all had a bounce in their step as they watched over a million riders walk on through, marching for equality, marching for women's rights, marching against a man who doesn't believe America is already great and the policy changes he had already implemented to remove the rights of others.

To conclude this not-so-short post about a lot of random related topics I say this: I marched for the future of the world and I did so because I can. . . and I can because others did so for me. 

I owe my present rights and responsibilities to those of the past and am paying it forward now. I marched for "the least of these, my brethren" and I'll do it again. And again. . . because I have been given the privilege to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. 

Fearless

One of the unintended consequences I have experienced because of losing Jackson and the quick arrival of Dash caught me completely off guard.

When my husband and I were dating and for the first year of our marriage, he made it clear that he wanted to live overseas as a civil servant, to show any children we had the world outside of our country, and to enjoy the benefits of living as an American outside of America, and so many more hard-to-put-to-words experiences like those he had growing up. After our first year of marriage, he interned with the State Department and had an absolute blast, getting the overseas-bug even worse.

I was nervous. Scared. Petrified.  I don’t speak anything other than English and can follow the tiniest bit of conversational Spanish so how would I go grocery shopping? Make friends? How would my children learn the gospel if we attended a ward that was in a foreign language? What if my children could learn new languages easily but I couldn’t? Would I be taken advantage of?
What if I had to drive on the left?!?!??

Fear of the unknown ruled my decisions in those early years and because I was too scared, my husband gave up his dream and went to law school, a very expensive endeavor that caused our marriage a lot of strife because our stress levels were so high and our communication skills sucked and that decision continues to feel more like a financial burden than it ever should have.
Fast forward a few years and one economic collapse later and he’s working in the job he wanted all along.

And he’s happy. And I am happy.

The man that I fell in love with 16 years ago came back when he switched careers but he’s different. And while I am not comfortable talking about his personal changes in a public forum, I am comfortable saying that my fears almost ruined us because of the decisions that followed when he gave up on his dream 12 years ago.

Losing Jackson changed all that.

Everything.

I am no longer afraid of living outside my comfort zone

. . . of living in a foreign country

 . . . of learning a new language

. . . of cooking with new foods

. . . of attending church where I don’t understand what is being said

. . . of raising my children away from their peers

. . .of living in an area filled with poverty and civil unrest

. . .of being alone.

I am fearless.

Not only am I no longer afraid, but I am eager to leave the country I have known all my life in exchange for experiences that can continue to help me learn and grow and be a better me.

I want my children to grow up seeing the world through eyes that have seen and experienced differences in culture and to walk with feet that have trod near hallowed ground, and to use their hands to serve others.

I want them to walk and talk with children of God who look different than they do and to recognize that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is the same world-wide, even though the words we use to express our feelings are different.

It used to horrify me just a little that my husband didn’t know most of the primary songs because he so rarely attended primary in English but he knows the tunes and can attest that the Spirit can and will testify of the truth whether you understand the words or not. I want my children to feel that and I want to experience that myself.

I want my preconceived notions about freedom, equality, and economic stability challenged because I believe that living in a world outside my own will make me a better person.

I am ready for it. I crave it.

When you’ve lost your only son, and God reassures you repeatedly that everything will be okay, and you begin to see those changes all around, then it’s time to embrace the path you should have walked over a decade before but were unprepared for.

Losing my son prepared me for change and growth and I hope and pray that when I look back a decade from now at the current lull in my life, I’ll be able to smile and say, “Wow. Living overseas was everything I thought it would be and more.”

From a practical standpoint, it will be almost two years at the bare minimum before we move but we’ll have the assignment in a couple of months as long as everything continues to move in the direction it’s currently headed. During that time, we’ll probably give ourselves one last chance at growing our family. That’s one thing that we have discussed often in recent months but haven’t prayed about. We both really want another chance at having a son but also know that conception is very difficult for me and that my pregnancy would be high risk because of my clotting/auto immune disease and now my age.

I am getting old and even though I don’t really feel it physically, there’s no denying that my fertility is on the downslide. I was diagnosed with borderline Diminished Ovarian Reserve over 3 years ago. DOR is a fancy way of saying your eggs are old and there aren’t very many of them left.

But again, I’m not afraid.

Is that weird? Because it seems like after all I have been through, I should be a lot more apprehensive about giving pregnancy another shot. Instead, I feel a steady calm. I know my Father in Heaven has heard my prayers and that the next few years of my life have been very carefully placed before me. Whether that will include a child or not is yet to be seen but I’m excited for the adventure either way!

Come Unto Christ

On November 1st, a member of our bishopric asked me to speak on November 14th in Sacrament meeting.  I agreed, knowing that it had been over 4 years since I had been given that assignment and knowing the Dash is now old enough to sit in the pew with my husband and be perfectly content without me.

The only thing that scares me more than speaking in Sacrament meeting is giving a Relief Society lesson.

The topic I was assigned was "Come Unto Christ". My heart jumped in my chest because it's a subject I hold near and dear, especially after the events of the last few years, but an added emphasis after some policies were changed in the church that caused quite a disruption. 

I sat down this last week and put my talk together. Each time I tried to pull quotes and stories from here and here, my mind would go blank.  The following talk is what was presented, with a few minor moments of ad libbing in part because I was having a hard time seeing some of the words on the page.

You know those Sundays where you sit down there on a bench or a seat in the back and think, “wow, she’s a really good speaker”?

That won’t be what you’re thinking today. If my assignment had been to teach the congregation how to use the Law of Cosines to solve a triangle or how to find the roots of a 5^th degree polynomial function, then I’d have felt as calm as a cucumber and you would have been well-taught, walking out the doors having feasted on the awesomeness of my mad math teaching skills.

But Sacrament meeting isn’t designed for math lectures, so I’m going to do my best with the topic I have been given. Just hold tight and keep me in your prayers because I may not make it through this.

Every once in awhile, when I have something that is weighing heavily on my mind, I compose letters in my head addressed to whatever or whoever is bothering me. I have never written any of these “letters” out for mailing, but have on a few occasions added them to my journal. Over the last few years, I’ve written more letters than I care to admit; some of them have been to my mother, who passed away a few years ago, a lot have been to other family members, and some have been to the doctors who were responsible for the death of our son 19 months ago.

These letters don‘t remove my burdens by any means, but they do allow me to see a clearer path towards forgiving others, forgiving myself, and understanding the role the Savior has in my life. Sometimes as I write these letters in my mind, I can feel the Spirit guiding me, bringing specific thoughts to the forefront of my mind. And when I do this, when I allow him to carry these burdens, I am learning how I can come unto Christ.

Coming unto Christ is an extremely personal journey for each of us. It’s not like taking the Sacrament, being baptized, or making temple covenants, where others are there as witnesses in one form or another. It’s also not something that you can do once and then never do again.

It took me several days to decide which direction I wanted this talk to go and I’m not entirely certain I picked the right direction. I knew I could rely heavily on several talks that Elder Holland and Elder Oaks have given but I decided that I wanted to talk a little more about some key moments on my journey towards coming unto Christ and staying with him, even though Elders Holland and Oaks are far more eloquent than I will ever be.

The music video to go with the theme song last year is beautiful. If you haven’t had a chance to watch it yet, it’s worth the 5 minutes. Part of the lyrics go like this:

He’s the One who healed the leper, and who brought the dead to life. He’s the One, who fed the hungry, and who gave the blind their sight. He’s the One who walked on water, then He brought them safe to shore, and whenever you may need Him, He’s the One you’re looking for. So let Him in, and He will take away your pain. When you feel His love you’ll never be the same. Come unto Christ. Come unto Him, and by His grace be made holy again. He’s calling your name. He’s waiting for you with arms open wide. Come unto Christ.

I love the simple imagery in that first verse as well as knowing that Christ didn’t just heal those who were physically blind, or hungry, or the leper but He has always done these in a Spiritual sense, too.

Dallin H Oaks taught that “His Atonement reaches and is powerful enough not only to pay the price for sin but also to heal every mortal affliction. The Book of Mormon teaches that “He shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people” (Alma 7:11; see also 2 Nephi 9:21).”

This is where things get a little personal. During my sophomore year in college I experienced a significant amount of depression and with it, entertained the notion of suicide, although I knew that ending my life was something I could never actually do. After several months, I recognized that I needed help and asked to speak to my bishop. I was fortunate enough to have a bishop who had converted to the church after having completed his training as a Presbyterian minister as well as having received a doctorate degree in psychology and marriage and family therapy. He had sought those degrees with every intention helping his congregation emotionally as well as spiritually. I met with him a few times a week at first, then once a week, then once a month until I moved out of that ward. It was this bishop who reminded me that the pains Christ had suffered weren’t just physical, but emotional as well and that the Atonement allows all who are hurting to seek comfort and healing from him.  

I grew up with music in my home, so during this time in my life, one particular hymn was on my mind.

                Master, with anguish of spirit

            I bow in my grief today.

            The depths of my sad heart are troubled.

            Oh, waken and save, I pray!

            Torrents of sin and of anguish

            Sweep o’er my sinking soul,

            And I perish! I perish! dear Master.

            Oh, hasten and take control!

                 

So that’s exactly what I did. Through some good old fashioned therapy and hours in prayer and study, I let the Savior show me a glimpse of my divine worth. I let him take the rudder while the winds around me blew and when the storms started to calm, I stayed by His side.

Fast forward 16 years to June of 2014. As my daycare children all slept, I was swept away in an acute tidal wave of grief over the loss of our son. It had been less than 3 months since his stillbirth and I was already pregnant with Eliza. That day I was angry and frustrated and I felt very alone. I desperately wanted to know how my son’s existence would work as far as eternal families go. I had been feeling his life within me for over 3 months before his death and I knew he was gone because of the void left behind when his life, his presence, was no longer with me.

According to the law as well as church policy, children are only considered as having lived if they take a breath outside the womb and Jackson never had that chance.
Was that short time in my womb his only chance at life on earth?
Will he be born to a different family because he didn’t take a breath in the body we had provided for him?
Could he have another chance with our family if we ever had another boy?
I had so many questions and no answers.

As my grief overcame me that afternoon, I knelt near my bed, sobbing so hard I feared I would be sick all over the floor and I prayed.

 Hard and as silently as I could manage

 For comfort

 for peace

 for answers regarding the spirit of our stillborn son. I told my Heavenly Father that nobody around me understood what I was going through. I had lost my only son and I was hurting. And as clear as if it had been said out load I felt the words, “I know. I lost my Only Son, too”.

With those simple words, I no longer felt alone. I quickly saw the parallels between Jackson’s death and the Savior’s.
Without the loss of our son, I would never have found the doctor that helped me bring Eliza to our family. He died so that she could live.

I still didn’t have answers to any of my questions after that prayer (still don’t), but for now, that doesn’t hurt me anymore.

I had come unto Christ, on bended knee, and he healed me. I will bear the grief of losing him for as long as I can see, but like a scar, it no longer hurts the way it did before.

My scripture study and regular prayer have kept me on a path towards my Savior so that when the larger trials have come, He has been ready to help me carry my burdens.

Some time ago I came across a short cartoon narrated by a doctorate of social work. In the cartoon, she demonstrates the differences between sympathy and empathy.

Imagine you have fallen down a hole. It’s dark, you’re cold, you’re overwhelmed, and you don’t know the way out. Sympathy is someone standing at the top of the hole saying, “Whew, that’s tough. At least you have a sandwich.” Empathy, on the other hand, climbs down a ladder, listens, makes an emotional connection to something painful in her life, and says, “I’m sorry. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Empathy from another helps you feel better, but it doesn’t get you out of the hole. Christ goes beyond empathy.  He doesn’t just come down the ladder to give you a hug and let you know you’re aren’t alone.  When our Savior says, “Come unto me” it is an invitation, an invitation for us to follow him because he knows the way out of that dark, cold hole and he knows the way up and into His light. But you have to trust him and then follow him, even when the way is long and rocky.

Earlier this week I asked my 9 year old daughter if she knew what it meant to “Come unto Christ.”

She said, “No?”

So in keeping with my tradition, I wrote a letter to her in my mind that night. It’s been 5 days and my memory is fuzzy, but it went something like this:

My Dear Kathryn,

When I asked you if you know what “Come Unto Christ” meant, you said you didn’t know and I felt like a failure as a mother.  It seems like such a simple thing to talk about, even if it sometimes feels hard to do.
To “Come unto Christ” is an invitation God has given to you. You have two choices: you can accept it or you can ignore it.

Unlike an invitation to a birthday party, this invitation never expires but if you ignore it, you may have a hard time finding it again.

“Come unto Christ” means sharing the things that cause you pain with him so that he can heal them.

“Come unto Christ” means following the example he set of loving those around you and forgiving others.

To “Come unto Christ” means taking a deep breath when you are overwhelmed and letting the Savior help you get through your problem.

To “Come unto Christ” means that you want to be like him.

If you feel lost, hungry, weary beyond understanding .  .  . If you simply don’t know what to do. Come unto Christ.

To do these things, you will need to continue to study your scriptures. Learn the stories while you are young so that as you grow up, you can study what they mean and find new guidance and comfort in the words you have become familiar with.

You will also need to pray. Don’t just try and get it over and done with, but spend time thinking about what you want to say and then listening and feeling the response. It is unlikely that you’ll hear an audible voice answering your prayers, but you’ll feel the words and they will change you.

To “Come unto Christ” means to live a life different from most of your friends as you follow the commandments.

To “Come unto Christ” means listening to the prophet and apostles and then praying to know if the counsel they are giving is true.

To “Come unto Christ” is to live a life full of joy as you make use of the atonement and lay your burdens at His feet.

I testify that I know my Savior lives. I know this is His church, and the only way to eternal salvation is through Him. So whether life is going well or trials are keeping you down, come unto Christ. He is the only way to eternal life, so I'm not going anywhere.

I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Eight Months

Time is flying way too fast and I know that I say that too often!

Dash is now 8 months old and continuing to grow like a weed. She barely fits into the size 12 month t-shirts and definitely needs size 18m pants and onesies.

Dash developed a weird spot on her arm in August. It started as a pimple thing and I thought it was a bug bite. It grew, scabbed over and peeled, then healed up as if nothing had ever been there. About 2 weeks later, a similar spot showed up on her tummy.

There are now several spots so I’m going to be taking her into the doctor early this week, hoping that she knows what is going on.

Spitfire has completed 4 weeks of kindergarten now and is having a wonderful time! Her favorite part of the day is when she comes home and gets to share the jokes her teacher tells them while they wait for the bus.

“What is black and white and red all over?” – A zebra with a sunburn

“What do you call witches that share a bedroom?” –Broomates!

“What are skeletons afraid of?” –dogs!

Her reading continues to progress, too. Each day we spend a few minutes going through a set of site word flashcards and she is enjoying those, although she seems to remember the longer words such as “pretty” and “ride” better than “the” and “and”.  As a teacher and a mom, watching her get a word is so much fun!

Reader is having a fabulous time in school, too. Her teacher is flying through the material faster than expected and that is keeping my daughter from being bored. She recently scored a 94% on her math test and a 100% on her Virginia Studies test.

Oh, and Spitfire got the first Citizen of the Month award! She is so very excited to have been picked and it really makes me wish that I could see what she’s like in class each day.

My efforts to continue family scripture study have continued and we’re succeeding most nights. We’re somewhere around 5 nights a week, I believe.

Tonight we were reading in Alma 27 and the topic of the Anti-Nephi-Lehis came up and Spitfire asked if they were the people who had buried their swords and laid down to die. I was surprised that she had remembered not only their name, but also something that set them apart from other scripture stories we have read. She also asked how everyone knew they were dead if they all laid down together.

That question was a little harder to field, not wanting to go into the gory details, but I admit that it was surprising to me that she was paying close enough attention to recognize what was going on. She generally sits on the floor, flying Toothless around in her arms.

But she’s listening!

Multiple times this week I have wanted to talk to Mom. The anniversary of the death of one of our little girls is tomorrow, although we didn’t have confirmation until the next day. It has been 3 years since we lost her; 3 years since I sank into an emotional pit I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to escape. The PTSD has resolved itself with some significant help from my Heavenly Father and with Dash as well as learning my triggers and how to manage them as best as possible.

 I wonder what Mom would have told me during the years of pain and my inability to control some of my responses.

I wonder if she, beyond the veil, knew Dash before her birth.

I wonder how often she comes to comfort me in my sleep and how often she comforts Dash, too.

I caught Dash staring intently at the photo of Mom that sits on the shelf in her room. It seemed as if Dash was having silent communication with my mother and I didn’t want to interrupt whatever Dash was experiencing. The presence of another in her room was palpable even before I realized that she was looking and then nest to the photo.

Dash is a peaceful child. I hear comments from family and friends often regarding how happy and calm she is. She is happy and content day in and day out, with the rare exception when she's overly tired or hungry, but those are quite rare.

I said before she was born that she was my calm after the storm. She is a true rainbow baby; our miracle after devastation.

With that knowledge comes the fear that one of my children will be taken from me before they reach old age. As I thought about that fear earlier this week after reading a news article about a baby killed in a car accident, I began to think about the adults in my life who lost children at various ages.

My grandfather and grandmother lost their youngest son when he was 18 years old. My husband’s aunt lost her son before his first birthday. My great-grandmother lost her daughter 7 days after birth. My maternal grandparents lost multiple children in the second trimester of pregnancy. My aunt lost her son while he was in his twenties.

Losing a child happens more often than I think most people realize. I have heard (and even said) that a mother should never have to bury her child but thousands of years of history says otherwise.  I am not alone. Life is fragile so I do what I can to treasure even the mundane moments. I try each day to appreciate what I have in my life and thank my Heavenly Father for each of my daughters.

5 Weeks Postpartum and Counting

My baby is now almost 6 weeks old and I wish time would slow down a little!  My Dash is no longer a newborn, but an infant.  Not only is she past the 4 week mark, but she's growing leaps and bounds and getting stronger.
If you're familiar with safe practices for infants, you know that one of the biggest rules is to keep the crib free from stuffed animals, blankets, etc. The reason for this is that babies can suffocate if their faces get smushed up against items in the crib. It is the same reason why quilted/padded crib bumpers like this aren't recommended.

I don't remember my other daughters wiggling in their sleep as much as Dash does. However, they were also in a much smaller bassinet until they were 3-4 months old. Dash is in her crib, where there is plenty space to wiggle around.
And wiggle around she does!  Even fully swaddled I can put her in one place in her crib and when I go get her a few hours later, she's moved over a foot.
Swaddling is necessary to get her to stay asleep, but she's a Little Houdini and manages to get both of her hands out at least a little bit. On a few occasions she has succeeded in getting an entire arm out of the swaddle. I'd love to see just how long it takes for her to wiggle out, but I never catch it.
Last Monday she had her one month well-baby visit at the pediatricians' office. She weighed in at 8lbs 5oz, which puts her average weight gain over her 2 week check-up at about an ounce a day.
An ounce that comes straight from me. I love that!
Sunday, March 1st, we blessed our baby. As I had mentioned in this post, I really wanted to do the baby blessing outside of Sacrament meeting. We were given permission a couple of weeks ago to do so, which also would allow several out-of-town family members to participate via video conference.
I am so very glad we decided to do it at home! Had we not, there would have been a mad scramble to do it that way anyway! We had an ice storm blow through that left traveling to church precarious, so the bishop cancelled church for the day.
In addition to the two families we had planned to include using various video technologies, we had 3 others join in when they couldn't make it to our home. One family was home with a stomach bug and since they'd accidentally shared it with another, she was "home," too. This third member had travelled all the way from California to be a part of the baby blessing and I felt absolutely awful that she couldn't be here to enjoy it, but I also couldn't risk the baby and I catching the virus. When an infant gets a pukey bug, IV fluids are almost inevitable. I went through that with my first daughter when she was 5 months old and my milk production never fully recovered. This early on, and with mastitis to boot (keep reading because I'll talk about this), I couldn't risk it.
The last to join was an extended family member in California. Almost every person present had their phone connected with someone else to participate. It was quite a site and a photo of it would have been pretty amazing, but inappropriate to take given the sacredness of the event.
In my home was my husband and daughters, my father and his wife who were in from California, one of my husband's sisters and her husband and 3 children who travelled 5 hours to be here, my uncle and aunt who came up from 3 hours away, the bishop, my parents-in-law, and our "best man". My home is small, so we were packed in pretty tight!
In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I noticed I had a clogged milk duct. It was tender, but not too sore. Dash managed to nurse it down pretty well but by mid morning it had swollen again. I noticed around noon that the underside of my breast, where the clogged duct was, had turned pink and was getting warm. Try as I might, I couldn't seem to get the clog to clear and by 6pm, I was in a significant amount of pain and my poor breast was bright red and hot to the touch. It looked something like this but much darker:

Not Mine, but a random internet photo to give you a sample

I knew I needed medical intervention when the headache and body aches set in and I could no longer converse with all of my house guests so I asked my step-mom if she would come with me to Patient First. She agreed and we eventually made it out the door with Dash and drove carefully on the ice to Leesburg. I saw a physician's assistant, and the look that flashed across her face confirmed what I could feel: mastitis!
Unfortunately, the only pharmacy open later on a Sunday night was 10 miles up the road, so we slowly made our way there to pick up my antibiotic.
It was quite a trip but very nice to have some "alone" time with my step mom. She'd been visiting for just over a week but we hadn't had much time together to just talk. It was comfortable, in spite of my hyper-focusing on road conditions!
I am thankful that modern technology allowed so many of our wonderful families, family that prayed for us each day over the last year and a half, to be apart of such a special event in our lives. And to each of them (and others who didn't participate yesterday) I say a heartfelt

Thank You!

Proverbs 3:5-7

Yesterday in church the Sunday School topic for our class was Proverbs.  We spent time talking about some specific proverbs based on topics.

The final topic led us to Proverbs 3:5-7 which states,

5 Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

6 In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

7 Be not wise in thine own eyes; fear the Lord and depart from evil.

I couldn't help but think back to the past year and all that I've felt and experienced. My regular readers know I've been through a few trials. Some moments have been incredibly difficult and some have been very rewarding, but one thing remains: They are my moments.

I share them with others because I am very poor at communicating verbally and I want my silent readers to know they aren't alone.

So when this proverb came up at the end of class, I sat quietly by and let my thoughts turn to my experiences.

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart

In most Christian faiths, or at least all that I'm familiar with, the phrase 'Trust in the Lord' is a common one. But it is easier said than done.

A year ago, I was a complete wreck. I pretty much wanted to say, "Screw you!" to the entire world and a couple of people specifically. I was frustrated with the medical community around me, frustrated that I couldn't get pregnant, and even more frustrated that every time I did get pregnant I lost the baby for reasons unknown. I was mad at my Father in Heaven and absolutely did not trust him to get me through the trial at hand.

I humbled myself, or in this case perhaps I was forced to be humble, and I began to trust the Lord again. My desire to have children was a righteous desire and if he couldn't grant me children, then He could at least make the desire less painful to bear.

My formal education led me to a degree in mathematics--I'm no dummy. I'm not the best at critical thinking, but I enjoy researching and often play "follow the links" when I'm reading up on health concerns. Where I see graphs and charts, I can't help but analyze them.

So I began to research and decided to try a few changes that the medical world said was unnecessary, but some well researched studies within the holistic community supported. And got pregnant.

and lean not unto thine own understanding

I trusted the Lord to get me through the pregnancy so I could hold my baby, safe and sound and crying, by the end of the summer. And I felt that everything would be okay right from the start.

So finding out that everything was NOT okay so far along was a big shock! It was hard once again to not "lean unto [my] own understanding". I had done everything right. I had that personal revelation, confirmation, that all would be well . . . so how could it have gone wrong?

One thing to remember is that I believe strongly in personal agency. Each and every one of us has the right to choose what we do and how we handle situations. It is the greatest gift, given to us by Christ, but it also means we can exercise that agency to harm others with ill intent or even in ignorance.

In the case of my doctors, they refused to run the tests I requested because they "knew better". They chose, and my son died as a result.

In all thy ways acknowledge him

I did the only thing I could at that point: I acknowledged God in all things.  I acknowledged the right of the doctors to refuse the tests. I acknowledged that I have been granted many blessings. And I acknowledged that if I could be given the strength to endure the emotional pain as before, that it could be done again.

And my need to acknowledge the Lord was one of the main reasons I started, and completed, the #100HappyDays posts on facebook. It forced me to find things to be grateful for!!

And he shall direct thy paths

I felt quite keenly that my experience could and would be used to help others. By recognizing the hand of God in my life, I could feel him directing me and guiding me to people who needed help. Words I typed would sometimes flow without me even thinking about them. Some of those words were here on my blog, but the majority were in private messages to others who sought me out. And the thoughts were not mine.

And then others stepped in and helped guide me to new doctors who had a better understanding of my health, more medical understanding of what made me unique, and friends who I could turn to when having a rough day.  My path the last 5 months has absolutely guided by the Lord and I am very grateful for that.

Be not wise in thine own eyes

I can't profess to know everything, but I know that I can trust personal revelation and recognize that the wisdom I've been given has come through the path I've travelled and from the lessons I've learned. Is that being wise in my own eyes? No! Because I will be the first to admit that I don't know all that much! I know more than I did, but that is all I can claim.

Fear the Lord and depart from Evil

In many scriptures, the phrase "Fear the Lord" doesn't mean to be afraid of him, but to obey him. Fear, in its normal context, is a tool of the devil, as fear and trust are near-opposites. 

So obeying the Lord is what I am trying to do. I'm failing miserably, but I'm trying. And I know that my Heavenly Father knows that. . . And because I don't want all the negative emotions that come from Satan trying to tell me I'm not good enough, that I'll never nurse another baby, and that I need to be mad at God for letting our son die.

I don't need that.  I need Trust, and so I'm trying, one day at a time, to trust what I'm learning, what I'm feeling, and trusting in the personal revelation given to me so many months ago.

Sundays

I woke up this morning with a pit in my stomach. Last week I made quite a bit of a scene for those on the stand in the Easter Choir and anywhere within 15 feet as I flew from my pew and out the doors, sobbing.

It's Sunday. I'm quickly growing afraid of them. I sat there for the first part of the meeting looking at all of the families. . .trying so hard not to be jealous and failing miserably.

Sometimes I feel a little like Eve in Eden: having been commanded to have children but not having the ability to do so.

I have two amazing daughters, which is more than Eve managed during her time im the Garden, and yet I still feel like a complete failure.

It is very important to me to attend church each week and take the Sacrament. But what do you do when doing so brings more pain than you can bear?

Easter Sunday Scenes

There is always room for a new experience but I could have done without the one I had today.

Today is Easter Sunday and my first thought this morning was how much, a month ago, I had been looking forward to wearing a specific maternity outfit. I wore it for Easter with my second daughter and I love it.  It’s a white tunic with navy blue leggings.  The tunic has medium sized dots in blues and purples.  I feel a little like an easter egg wearing it, but it’s very comfortable and I have fond memories of wearing it.

But I don’t get to wear that any more, and my emotions stayed close.  I spent my morning thinking about my Savior, his birth, the thoughts Mary would have had during her pregnancy, how she felt as he died on the cross. . .  I thought about the Atonement and its ability to heal, knowing that I won’t always be filled with grief, but so overwhelmed by it that I knew church would be difficult. I kept wondering what it would feel like to have Him stand in front of me with tears in his eyes, then hugging me as I cried on His shoulder.

Dying Easter eggs and making breakfast were not great distractions when all I wanted to do was crawl back in bed.  I couldn’t ruin all of the normal Easter festivities for my girls though and I knew we needed to go to church.

In LDS services, members from the congregation give the sermons in small segments called talks.  The first speaker was a young woman around the age of 17.  Her words mirrored my thoughts of the morning, but from the heart of someone who has never been hurt the way I have been. Tears silently streamed down my face as she talked about the healing power of the Atonement and my attempts at wiping them with the handkerchief from my grandmother were only partially successful. I could tell that a few members of the choir, who were sitting on the stand, could see I was wiping tears, but it seemed that others around me were unaware.

The second speaker got up and began talking about birth and death and I had to focus on breathing.  When she mentioned families looking forward for months for the birth of a baby, my inner dialogue yelled, “BUT MY SON DIED BEFORE HE WAS BORN!  IT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO WORK THAT WAY!”

I got up immediately and started sobbing before I was out the door, unable to keep my grief contained. Once the doors to the chapel closed behind me, I walked slowly by sheer force of will.  All I wanted to do was run, and keep running, but there was nowhere to run to or even a room to go in and hide. I walked all the way around the halls and then sat quietly in a chair in the foyer, wanting to listen but wishing harder than ever that I had a place to hide and listen at the same time.

One of the sister missionaries came over, understanding that something was wrong and feeling the need to say something, but not knowing what.  She bent over and gave me a hug and asked if there was anything she could do.

There isn’t anything anyone can do.

I managed to pull myself mostly together to go back in and join my family.  My 3 year old was giving the prayer in primary in a few minutes and was going to need a little help but my husband couldn’t do it because he was teaching one of the Sunday School classes. I sat quietly in the back of the primary room until it was her turn to give the opening prayer, then helped her along a little. 

I was a wreck and my crying was going to disturb everyone around me. I didn’t want to be home alone, so I brought my precious miracle daughter with me to help keep me on task with dinner and to keep me from entirely losing it again.

It worked a little. I did manage to finish cooking our little Easter dinner, but not without some tears and a very short temper.

Today was definitely harder than Friday, and I hadn’t thought that was possible at this point. I miss my son. I have so many questions about what his death means for my family in the eternities. I want to be able to tell my daughters that Jackson will be with us again someday, but in all honesty, I don’t know that and I can’t do anything more than tell them “We don’t know” when they start asking questions. I’m not in the habit of lying to protect feelings and I hope that someday my honesty will mean something to them.

Realistically speaking, this will likely happen again but I just hope I can handle it better next time.

**As a reminder, please keep my facebook post free of comments for the sake of others. Thank you**

Paying it Forward

As I lay in the hospital waiting for Jackson's birth and several times since, I've told my husband and others that I want my experience to mean something.

I want to help others who are going through what I've been through so that Jackson's death wouldn't be in vain.

It never occurred to me that my first experience helping a grieving mother would happen only two weeks after I lost my own son.

I am a member in three different ttc groups and had been a member of the "graduated" group for moms and expecting members from two of the sister-groups.  In November, 4 of us got our much anticipated bfps and as amazing as it sounded at the time, none of us experienced an early loss.  All 4 of us have had losses before, so this seemed like a rather remarkable feat.

But then I lost Jackson and the outpouring of love and support was incredible.  That same day another mother from the 4 of us entered the hospital with severe stomach pains.  Complications from an emergency surgery led to the delivery of her daughter at 23weeks +2days. She lived for under 24 hours and passed away in her mother's arms.

To say I was devastated for this mother's loss would be an understatement.  I cried and cried. We had shared our bfps with the other women on the same day--November 30th. We'd been through months of building a friendship, however distant, and our pregnancies created a bond.

How could this happen to someone else? And why did it have to be THAT family?  They've already been through so much, with 2 other losses and multiple rounds of IVF.  This little rainbow baby was supposed to be their take-home baby, not another angel!

Within hours of finding out about the passing of this darling little girl, I was contacted by a woman in another group.  Her brother and his wife had found out their baby girl was to be born in a few hours at just 20 weeks.  There was no hope that she could survive and this loving sister wanted to know if it was okay to ask me questions about what to do/say to help her brother and sister-in-law in any way she could.

My experience is still so fresh that Jackson's cremation is still not complete.  What could I do or say to either family?

For both families I recommended they call (or have a family member call) Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. It's an non-profit organization that sends photographers to take beautiful photos of infants who have passed away or are in the final moments of life. A very good friend contacted them for me and I am so very grateful she did that.  I would never have been able to make that phone call on my own and I will cherish those pictures for decades to come.  Both of these families will now have that same opportunity.  Some families may not want to view the pictures, or will do so only on rare occasions, but the photos are there for the families to keep as a record of the hell they have been through.

My other recommendation to the sister was to help arrange meals for her brother's family.  Cooking after this kind of ordeal is no easy task, but our bodies need to be fed and meals are a wonderful way of helping out when nothing else can be done.

In the space of a single day, two women lost their daughters and I was the one answering their questions.  I can't take away the pain of loss, not even my own loss, but I will continue to share my experience and do whatever I can to help.  It's the only way I can think of to pay it forward and make my experience have meaning.

What else can I do??

How Are You Doing?

"Honesty is the best policy."

"Every lie is two lies — the lie we tell others and the lie we tell ourselves to justify it."

"With lies you may get ahead in the world - but you can never go back."

"Candor gives wings to strength."

My desire to be honest has, at times, caused me some serious problems and ruined a few relationships along the way.

The situation I find myself in now isn't helping this any.  I've always disliked the question, "How are you doing?"  It seems the only socially acceptable answer to that question, regardless of circumstances, is "I'm okay".

You know what?  I'm NOT okay.  But I shouldn't have to be, either.  

Today was my first day back in church since Jackson's stillbirth.  I had told my husband this morning that I wanted to go, but that I wished I was invisible so I wouldn't see the pitying glances in my direction.

Alas, I am not a superhero or a wizard with an invisibility cloak.  Word of our loss had spread quite far, but had not reached everyone.  Some found out when they saw me and my clearly not-pregnant-self while others heard when my husband stood at the pulpit and bore his testimony about gratitude and trials and retold just a little of what we'd been through.

I don't know HOW to answer the question. If I was a liar or a social conformist I'd say I was okay but I am neither.  So instead I sometimes dodge the question with a flip: That's a loaded question.

So How am I doing? I'm sad. I'm functioning at about 50% capacity when it comes to getting things done around my home. The meals that have been brought in have been a tremendous help because I just don't have the emotional strength to cook for my children or the money to order in/carry-out every night. I've cooked two meals in the last two weeks and it's all I've really been able to manage.

I'm showering daily, which is probably a big achievement in and of itself. I have almost no clothes that fit, so at least I can be clean if I have to walk around in ill-fitting clothes and feeling like a slob.

I can't bear to go into my sewing room right now.  Not only is it a complete disaster from 5 months of pregnancy-induced "too tired to clean it up" but it was going to be Jackson's room and I don't have the emotional strength to put the room in order by myself and I'm too embarrassed by the mess and my likely reaction to being in there to let anyone else help me out.

I've met with a chiropractor and will be seeing him 3 times a week for the next 6 weeks and probably regularly thereafter for the foreseeable future.  I've found out that my neck is lacking the curve it should have (I have NO curve and there should be a healthy one!) and my lower back has a lovely zigzag as well as being a little twisted like a screw. I want my body to be as healthy as I can and one of the ways I can do that is to provide my spinal chord with as much room to function as possible.  The kinks need to come out.

I have been referred to an MFM with a personal history of 2nd trimester pregnancy loss.  Tomorrow I will call her office and see if she and I can meet and go over my medical history and come up with a better plan than what my previous MFM practice had in place.

Deep in my heart I believe we are not done and that there is a solution.  We can have more children, but we need to find a doctor who can get to the heart of the problem and who will do everything in her power to help us, and humor me along the way if I ask for additional testing.

So how am I doing?  I'm sad . . . and determined to keep going, to get answers, and to always be grateful for the two daughters who hug me each day.  I know I have a divine purpose and part of that purpose is related to raising those daughters but I also know that that is only a small portion of what my Heavenly Father has in store for me.

How and I doing?  

I'm okay.

My Guide for Grieving

The first time I remember experiencing grief was 22 years ago when my great-grandfather passed away.  I had no idea at the time that my life would take the twists and turns it has.

It has now been 98 hours since I gave birth to Jackson.  My body seems to be healing well, but I feel like a big fat tub of lard.  It's not a pleasant feeling to add to all the hormones and grief.

I have some guidelines I'd like to share about how to "handle" me in the coming months and years. I am never going to forget my son. I carried him for over 20 weeks and went through labor and delivery. I held him, kissed his sweet head, tiny fingers, and the bottoms of his feet.

1. Please do everything in your power to tell me privately if you are pregnant.

2. Do not send me baby shower announcements, birth announcements, or anything related.

3. If you ask me how I'm doing, be prepared for a answer that's longer than one sentence.

4. Ask me how I'm doing.

5. Call my son by name.  It's Jackson.

6. Give me room to grieve. I won't be doing family functions, parties, or anything else social for awhile.

7. I will grieve for as long and as hard as I need so do not put a time limit on my grief. If I cry for my son 20 years from now, just give me a hug and let me cry.

8. Remember my husband lost his son, too.  Ask him how HE is doing.

9. Don't tell me "God has a plan for you" or "God won't give you more than you can handle."  I have very strong beliefs about these two things and they're too involved to talk about here, but if you ever want to ask me about them, I'll share.  In the meantime, keep your own platitudes to yourself.

10. If someone you know goes through this, PLEASE have them contact me. The one thing that kept me going on Monday was that I wasn't alone.  Two of my friends had been through this, too. They knew what to tell me and how to answer my questions and they were there to listen to me. If I can do that for someone else, it would help me to know that my experience wasn't entirely in vain.

Jackson's Stillbirth

This post is one I had really hoped I’d never have to write but everything has changed.  My eleven years’ battle is no longer over.  We’ve been outflanked and lost our son.

Friday afternoon as the daycare children slept, I sat in the rocking chair with my darling 3 year old in my lap, sleeping.  Her little brother was very active—probably the most movement I’d felt throughout my pregnancy.

Saturday we went to the National Museum of Natural History. I was on my feet all day but feeling great.  It’s wasn’t unusual for me to go a day or so without feeling much movement, but when Sunday afternoon rolled around and I still couldn’t feel anything, I pulled out my Doppler to reassure myself that everything was fine.

His heartbeat was nowhere to be found.  I told David and after dinner we went up together while the girls and grandparents sat down to watch Frozen.  He and I listened and searched for almost an hour, taking a break at various moments and hoping against hope that he was just hiding behind the anterior placenta.  After that hour was up we made the decision that we needed to go to the emergency room to get things checked out.

Did you know that if you’re 20 weeks or further you’re supposed to go to labor and delivery? 

Yeah, I didn’t know that so we were redirected.  When our nurse, Alicia, couldn’t find the heartbeat with the Doppler either, a radiologist was sent in. 

With one quick image we could tell immediately that our son had passed away.  There was no movement and clearly no heartbeat.  Devastation set in quite quickly.

Why did we both feel that everything would be okay?  Why did this happen? What did we do wrong? Why had we felt such comfort after the priesthood blessing I’d been given if I was just going to lose this baby anyway?

I don’t have any of the answers to those questions and in all honesty, we may never know.  The lab work I had done last week has still not come in so those are answers we still need.  They may not tell us why our son passed away, but they can tell us what it wasn’t.

Because I was past 20 weeks, a D&C wasn’t an option and I would have to go through labor and delivery.  After having a D&C done at 12 weeks with my last loss, I wanted to go through the process and to hold my son, which surprised me.

I was scheduled to return to L&D at 8am the following morning.  The nurse I’d had the night before also happens to be one of the bereavement nurses at my local hospital.

Alicia escorted us to a quiet room at the end of the hall and I was hooked up to the monitors and an IV.  I had 8 more vials of blood drawn, including one that would check to see how fast my blood clotted because I have been on Lovenox and baby aspirin to prevent clots.  After I met the ob/gyn that was on-call that day, I was checked and the cytotec was administered.  If you read the link, cytotec is *not* a drug I would have used at the time, had I known the warnings about it ahead of time.  I certainly wasn't in my normal "question everything" mode at that point.

The waiting began and Alicia gave us quite a bit of information.  I had been warned that I might need to decide what to do with our son’s body, but being told that we’d have to go through a funeral home added far more reality to the situation than we’d expected.  After making several phone calls, we went with the only funeral home that actually answered the phone.  That’s right—none of the other places even answered the phone when we called!

There was a lot of paperwork to fill out.  Between the hospital admittance paperwork, consent for the medications, possible epidural, acknowledgement that we’d be responsible for making postmortem arrangements, and photography consents, I was exhausted.

Around 1:30 I was checked again and another dose of cytotec administered.  My cervix was still closed, but contractions were stepping it up and if I heard Dr. Duggal correctly, the outer rim was thinned, so I was making progress, but slowly.

By 2:30 the contractions were painful enough that I was ready for the iv pain meds. Within moments of the fentanyl being given, my head started to swim and I rolled over to sleep for an hour.

Throughout this whole process, David sat near me, trying to read a book and keeping family and friends up to date.  Twice I tried watching The Big Bang Theory on my kindle, but I just couldn’t.  I spent a lot of time posting and reading posts on facebook from friends and strangers near and far showing their love and support.

I’ve never felt so loved.  It was overwhelming and I think I cried just as many tears over the heartfelt pain my friends were feeling for me as I did tears of pain for myself.

At 5:30pm I was checked again and a 3^rd dose of cytotec was placed.  I had reached 1 ½ cm but hadn’t thinned out at all.  I knew I only needed to make it to 5 or 6 cm, since our son was small.  Progress seemed slow, so we invited my in-laws over to bring David some dinner and drop off the flowers they’d picked up. 

My visiting teacher, Sheyna, also dropped by with an adorable arrangement of flowers and some clothes for me to wear!!  The last thing I’d wanted to do was wear maternity clothes home and I owned nothing that would fit!

By 6:15pm I was in a lot of pain.  The contractions had moved on the pain scale from a 4 or 5 to a solid 8 and sometimes 9.  Alicia left to order the epidural for me.  The only thing I could do at that point was breathe and try to count.  The pain was so intense I couldn’t even look at the clock. 

And then it happened.  I felt a sensation—very much like an instant widening of my cervix.  I told David and shifted positions, quite certain my son was about to be born.  We pulled the covers off and in one quick unavoidable push, my son was born, snuggled loosely in his amniotic sac with what appeared to be all of the placenta intact, just as the Alicia had described it would most likely happen.

Jackson Lawrence Terry arrived Monday, March 31^st, 2014 weighing in at 9.2oz and 9” long with only his parents there to watch.

David quickly called the nurse and she rushed in, put on her gloves, and carefully moved our son, still in his sack, over to the warming tray.  A quick text was sent to my in-laws telling them that I’d just given birth and that they needed to stay put (they’d just walked into the lobby) until I was cleaned up. With that last push, the pain was instantly gone and I felt immediate relief, both physical and emotional.

In all honesty, the next hour and a half flew by.  The first thing the doctor did was to check my bleeding.  It was heavy, so my IV was switched over to pitocin.  She then went to examine my son.  I wanted to watch, so I had them wheel the warmer close to the bed.  The placenta and sack were shown to me, then they used a needle to puncture the sack.  My son was small, as expected, but perfectly formed.  His umbilical cord was centered in the placenta with no knots and it wasn’t wrapped around his neck, either.  He had ten tiny fingernails on his fingers and ten tiny toenails on his toes.  The hair on his head was starting to grow and I could easily see his eyebrows.

Jackson was perfect. He was beautiful. And he’ll always be my son.  I was filled with so much love so fast that there wasn’t room for heartbreak in that moment.

The doctor checked me again and was fairly certain that a part of the placenta hadn’t detached. She needed to scrape it out.  She initially tried checking with her hand, but my cervix had closed up and I actually screamed in pain and lifted myself off the bed. 

In the whole of my living memory I have never screamed in pain.  Yes, it was the most physically painful moment of my life and David wasn’t even there—he’d gone out to the lobby to update his parents and to bring his mother back to see her grandson.

In the end, I had a D&C right there where I’d delivered my son, with no medications since the fentanyl had worn off and without my husband by my side.

When my doctor switched to the speculum and asked for the smallest curettage, I knew she was scraping all of the remaining placenta out.  I quickly sent a text to David telling him to I was NOT fit for company.  Talk about a close call!  He and his mom were right at the door.  He told her to wait outside and he came in, throwing the doctor for a loop because she wasn’t expecting him.

He and I took a few minutes to hold Jackson.  We held his tiny hands and feet, gently stroked his head and cheek, and we took a few photos.  It was then that we invited his mother in.  She held her grandson, marveling at just how perfect and how tiny he was.  I’m so glad she had those moments to hold him.  I know some people tend to forget stillborn babies, but having held him, I know she’ll never forget and she can help us keep his memory alive.

 Holding my son for the first time.

His hands were perfectly formed. Look at how tiny those fingernails are!

His growth was asymmetrical so his legs and feet were tiny, even for a 20 weeker.

My little Jackson.  Our son.  Gone, but never forgotten.