Nearer, My God, to Thee

Today I'm hugging my boys a little bit tighter and cherishing them a bit more.

 
Today I'm praying for the grieving families in Connecticut. 

Today I'm thankful for my Savior Jesus Christ.
"But little children are alive in Christ, even from the foundation of the world" Moroni 8:12

It's Quiet for a Reason

There's a reason I haven't posted for a week on this blog.  It's been quite an emotional few days, and one day perhaps I will share some more of what I've learned and experienced this week.  I guess I could say that the theme for my life right now is "There is a Reason for Everything."  In my life, I'm discovering some reasons and some whys to questions from five years ago, and it's really tough because it means that my past suffering is helping someone else who is suffering now.  My heart breaks for the dear ones who are facing emotional tsunamis and heart-wrenching pain.

For now, just know that we are still alive and kicking but leaning very close to our family right now.  Sometimes when things are so close to our hearts, it's too hard to share them for fear of making them less sacred to us.

Hold On

Grief. . . why do we hang on to the pain for so long? 

Five years ago the saying "Time heals all pain" was something I couldn't grasp.  It made no sense to me.  My pain blasted all reason.  My heart failed me almost every day.  I couldn't understand anyone "letting go."  What did that mean? A friend who had experienced similar grief told me that it would get better over time, but I couldn't imagine. For some reason it seems like if we let go of the pain then we diminish the memories and demean the love, the meaning of that person's life in ours.

I've talked before about the wounds.  The cuts are deep, and your heart is never the same.  I have friends who have experienced those same feelings, although our life experiences are very different.  The wound  scars over, and a dull ache remains and is a constant reminder.    Like a child, we hold our wound, nurse it ourselves.    The "Band-Aid" is there, but for some reason we can't grasp it, for that would mean healing and letting go, saying "good-bye." 

Sometime during the last year, I released my pain.  I feel different.  Don't get me wrong, I miss my daughter daily, and some days I still ache for her, but the ache isn't paralyzing pain anymore.   The thing is, though, I can't tell you exactly when I let go of the pain.  I just remember one day thinking, "it doesn't hurt."  Granted, I feel pain some days, when my heart and soul ache for my daughter, for my family to be all together.

Do you want to know the most amazing thing?  The pain is gone, but the love remains.  In fact, the love is deeper than I could have imagined.  When I think of Clarissa, my heart fills with a deep, abiding love.  Yes, absence does make the heart grow fonder.    Somehow I've held on to her, but let go of the pain.

(See, Jackson is holding on, but smiling. . . hehe. . . had to find somewhere in the post to put my cute boy!)

 

To my friends who are still aching, grieving, I know that it's a day by day process for a long time, and guess what?  That's okay.  I spent many, many hours wishing, missing, longing, and crying.  It's okay.  One day, yes one day, it will heal, and you will let go.  It will come naturally.  It's okay.  IT'S OKAY.   Hold on.


Last night as I lay in bed thinking about this post and trying to fall asleep, Wilson Phillips' song "Hold On" kept playing over and over in my head.  So, here's the link, just for you to click and enjoy. 

Wilson Phillips - Hold On

Time to Say Good-Bye

Did you miss the season finale of America's Got Talent?  Me, too, and so tonight I watched it on Hulu.  I've found a new favorite song; and I think I'm going to add Jackie Evancho's first album to my Amazon Wish list.  I hope she has this song on there.  Watch the video, and you will see what I mean.

Yes, that little girl is only ten years old.  Ten! The feelings I felt while listening to this song are indescribable, and a dear friend gave me a brief interpretation.  I decided to look it up.  Now I'm going to get real personal.  Next week is Clarissa's fifth birthday.  I can't help but watch those two sing and think of me and my little girl.  I love her, and I know you'll hear more about her in the next week. 

Sissy, I love you and miss you.  This song's for you. . .

Time to Say Goodbye
----------------------

When I'm alone
I dream on the horizon
And words fail;
Yes, I know there is no light
In a room
Where the sun is not there
If you are not with me.
At the windows
Show everyone my heart
Which you set alight;
Enclose within me
The light you
Encountered on the street.

Time to say goodbye,
To countries I never
Saw and shared with you,
Now, yes, I shall experience them,
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall experience them.

When you are far away
I dream on the horizon
And words fail,
And yes, I know
That you are with me;
You, my moon, are here with me,
My sun, you are here with me.
With me, with me, with me,

Time to say goodbye,
To countries I never
Saw and shared with you,
Now, yes, I shall experience them,
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall re-experience them.
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall re-experience them.
I'll go with you,
I with you.

Torn, for someone else

Every time I see or hear about one, I turn away, but then I feel so torn. My mind is saying, "No, don't go there; you know your heart will be ripped open again, and I don't think I can take it. Avoid it, don't go there!  You've been there; you don't need to go there again." 

My heart steps in and says, "It's okay, I can take it; I have to take it.  I know what it feels like, and I need to share this burden, even if for a moment." Then I give in, and I read another one of these stories about a child that unexpectedly returns home to Heavenly Father.  As I'm reading, I turn cold and try to distance myself to keep the tears from flowing, to be unaffected.  I don't know these people. "Don't get involved! There's nothing you can do," my brain reminds me.  My heart pushes on, and I read more.

Suddenly, I'm transfixed and devouring every bit of information I can about the family and the story.  The ice melts, and suddenly I'm there, tears flowing, wishing with every ounce of my being that I could take away the pain, the hurt for this family, but knowing that I can do absolutely nothing to remove the wound.  That eventual scar is permanent, at least in this life.  I can send my love, my condolences, but I can't change anything.  They will grieve for a very long time, and I know that's okay.  They will be stronger and be amazed at the love in the world from people they don't even know.  Despite their very tragic loss, they will find faith, hope, and love in this world because of the arms folded around them.  They will be nearer to God and Jesus Christ than they were before. 

Today my heart is with the Sullenger Family.  If you are anywhere near Rigby, ID, or if you happen to go there for this family, would you please give a hug, a smile, a thought, or even better - a gerbera daisy for them from me?  I will be praying for them.

P.S.  If you want to help them out, please visit this blog, here.

The Day He Lived

Six years ago today, on Saturday, May 15, 2004, Matt and I were emotionally drained but motivated for the new day.  Our baby Jackson, who was residing in the NICU at Primary Children's Medical Center, was deathly ill, again.  Two days earlier we were told to say our good-byes because the doctors weren't sure how much longer he could hang on.  Jackson had infection throughout his entire body.  In a matter of a few days, he went from weighing about 6 pounds to 13 pounds.  His tissues were swollen (imagine what a swollen ankle feels like, and then imagine your entire body that way), so swollen, that his eyes were shut, and he was laid out spread-eagle on his back.  His skin was a shiny, sickly yellow.

Matt and I spent Thursday night on a twin bed in small, closet-like room in the hospital.  We didn't sleep a wink.  The next day, Jackson seemed to be doing better, and so we went home and spent Friday night in our own beds.  Saturday we were looking forward to good numbers for Jackson.  We arrived that morning around 10 a.m. happy to see our boy, hoping for a miracle.  As we bent over his bed, trying to say cheerful words, the door opened and in walked a herd of doctors.  We knew at that moment when we were accosted by at least six different types of doctors and medical staff that something was different that day.  Included in the posse were the head neonatalogist, Jackson's attending neonatalogist, a pediatric surgeon, Jackson's nurse practitioner, a doctor from the division of Infectious Disease, a respiratory therapist, and his attending nurse. 

In a moment, our hope of a good day was shattered, blasted through the window.  What we heard next was hard to digest, "We don't know what's wrong, and he's not getting any better.  The neonatalogist, Dr. M., believes that there is something in his abdomen, like a blood clot or piece of intestine, that is causing the infection to linger; the surgeon, Dr. S., doesn't think so since nothing showed up on the ultrasound.  Here are your choices.  1.  We can do an exploratory surgery to see if we can find the source of infection. or 2.  We can do nothing and just continue hoping that the antibiotics start working and that he gets better on his own.  What would you like us to do?  We need an answer ASAP."

Um. . . uh, what?  A million questions raced through our minds and out of our mouths.  Jackson was on the most powerful antiobiotics in the world, a morphine drip to control pain, and was still recovering from his highly invasive "take-down" surgery (the doctors put his bowels back together).  He wasn't two weeks out, which is the minimum amount of time a surgeon requires between surgeries in the same spot.  Which choice was better in the doctors' opinion?  Depended upon who you asked.  Basically, either choice could kill him.  Our choice. . .

We asked for a private room.  There we broke.  Crushed, sobbing, defeated.  Three and a half months of nauseous ups and downs were at a climax.  We fell to our knees, pleading to know what we should do.  The entire time, I had a lingering thought that this experience was preparing us for something, something that would come later.

Our answer: we need to consult with the attending neonatalogist again.  His opinion was that we needed to find the source of infection.  There was something different about this doctor.  We could tell, so we asked, "Are you LDS?"  Yes, he was.  It was plain to see that he was worthy of the Holy Ghost because we could feel him there.  He left the room, and we prayed again.

For the first time, we gave Jackson back to the Lord.  We said the words, "He is yours, we give him back to you, if that is your plan for Jackson; but if he is to stay, lead us right."  Matt and I decided that if Jackson were going to die, we would want to know if there was something causing the infection anyway.  So, we decided for the exploratory surgery, even though we knew Jackson might not even survive the trip to the OR. We called all of our family members nearby; we didn't want to feel alone.  Two sisters, a brother (and their spouses), our bishop and some friends came and sat with us.

Twenty minutes later, the phone in the hospice room rang.  The surgery was done; Jackson was STABLE!!!  And. . . nothing.  There was nothing there.  The surgeon came back and talked with us.  "Your son will not survive the night.  I sewed him up so quickly because he was bleeding so much, but he's not going to make it."  I did not break at that moment.  Why?  Deep down inside, I knew, I knew that Jackson was going to live.  The Lord had promised that I would get to raise my son.  I looked straight into the surgeon's eyes and nodded.  (I'm also not one to discount the medical professional's expert opinion.  Reality exists, and I must accept all outcomes as possible.)

We closed the day with the Bishop giving Jackson a blessing.  He told Jackson that he would live and fight off the infection as long as his family had faith and believed that he would.  I called my mom, and we scheduled a family and ward fast for the next day, Sunday.

Matt and I slept at the hospital right across from Jackson's room.  I woke up once, in the morning.  I knew at once that meant Jackson was ALIVE.  No one came to get us; we slept the most peacefully that night than we had the previous three months.    Sure enough, Jackson's color was dramatically changed, and from that day on, he only got better.  Within two weeks, he was breathing on his own and was transferred back to our hospital.  Within two months (only because he was finishing out his antibiotic), he was home.

Jackson six years ago:

This is my little boy today:

I thank the Lord every day that He let us keep Jackson. 

Oh, and what did Jackson prepare the way for?  His little sister, Clarissa.

What IF? A Portrait of Infertility

Did you know that this week is National Infertility Awareness Week? I know I've mentioned this before, but technically I'm not infertile; however, I can't have children. I feel like I can relate to a lot of the feelings that come from not being able to bear more children. Six months ago I posted a link to an article called "Infertility Etiquette." If you haven't read it, you should. I posted my opinion about the article as well at this post: A Little Etiquette Reminder.

Today I want to share with you a video that portrays the many emotions and questions that I have asked myself over the last 4 1/2 years.

What IF? A Portrait of Infertility from Keiko Zoll on Vimeo.

You can visit Keiko's blog here: Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed (and I just love the title of her blog!)

Easter 2010

Easter this year was pretty low-key for us. On Saturday afternoon, we colored eggs,

and then after the snow finally melted (by about 4 p.m.), we did an Easter egg hunt for Jackson in our backyard. I don't worry about what I put inside the eggs because he's more excited to find them and to count them. We actually told him how many there were (15) so he could keep track. With a little help and a few hints, he found all of the eggs that Daddy hid.Ken, Aimee, and Annie came for dinner that evening. Ken and Matt went to the Priesthood Session of General Conference, and Aimee and I visited. You know, the best thing about having so many brothers is that I get to meet and enjoy six wonderful, amazing women that put up with my brothers, and that are some of my greatest friends. I sure love them all!

On Easter morning, Jackson found the basket (yes, you read that right - we get a family Easter basket) that the Easter bunny left. Jackson was sad the bunny didn't stick around for breakfast; but he didn't complain what was left behind (candy, a bubble blower, and a new set of scriptures for him).
After our traditional ham dinner after we watched all the sessions of General Conference, we visited the cemetery, sang a primary song for Clarissa, and thanked the Lord for the gift of Resurrection. I do not fear death. I only fear the pain that comes from the loss of death, but I do not fear Death - especially when I have a special girl that will be waiting for me to go home.

Christmas in Heaven

I read an uplifting poem called Christmas in Heaven. I know my Little One is celebrating, too. I'm sure the celebration is big up there. . .

We'll take over a poinsettia for her tomorrow.


For those of you missing Loved Ones this Christmas, here's a cyber-hug!

Merry Christmas!

Finding the Strength

Four years ago when I was lower than I had ever been, and my misery and grief were more than I could bear at times, a very loving person, trying to be comforting said to me, "I admire your strength. I don't know that I could go through what you are going through." I remember thinking, "I'm not strong; I feel weak. I'm getting through this because I have to. I don't really have a choice." Frankly, I was hurt by this person's comments because I felt that I had to be strong so that I wouldn't be looked down upon by my friends and family during my devastating loss. I wanted to feel weak; I needed to feel weak. In retrospect, I know that my "friend" was trying so hard to be comforting, not knowing what to say.

More importantly, I've learned that we let our trials do one of two things to us: strengthen us or harden us. We all know people who have come out strong from trials, who try to bear others up in their struggles because they don't have to pretend to know how it feels. They know. The strong ones use their strength to let others lean on them for a while.

Others are hardened, bitter, and angry. I admit that we all go through some of this stage in grief (a side-note: I think grief applies to a lot more than just death). Blame falls into this category. These are the people we think of when we say that they "haven't ever gotten over ________." (Personally, I don't think we ever "get over it," but we move on and learn how to deal with it.)

I like to think that I'm not hardened, although I've had to concentrate very hard to not become that way. I can tell that I'm stronger, but I will tell you why. How was I able to be strong? Where did my strength come from?

Answer: YOU -- my family, my friends. I still find strength in all of you. Each of you have had different trials and struggles, and each of you have endured. This week I've been thinking of you and your examples of strength.


I have strong friends who have . . .

1. Lost a job, spent over 8 months without one (still looking), and not lost faith.
2. Been diagnosed with fatal breast cancer, conquered it, and had another child (her third!).
3. Sent a husband off to war, not knowing if he would come back. Thankfully, he did.
4. Lost over 70 pounds and conquered a debilitating medical condition.
5. Buried not one, but two sweet babies with anencephaly , and has dared to get pregnant again (twice) with the chance of the same medical condition reappearing in her children. She has one healthy, beautiful little boy and another on the way!
6. Miscarried one, two, or many, many other times.
7. Struggled (and still do) with infertility.
8. Adopted children.
9. Fostered children.
10. Had a difficult pregnancy, followed by major surgery and complications that arose from the surgery, and had depend on others to care for her family for several months during this time.
11. Children with disabilities.
12. Children who can't control their behavior, and the parents have to do their best, but mainly feel like spectators.
13. A premature child that is continuing to conquer all the odds. (I'm not talking about my own.)
14. A child with a heart condition.
15. Kidney stones. (Personally, I don't know how a woman who has children and kidney stones does it. Doesn't one of those things seem painful enough alone?)
16. Kidney problems that cause her pain every day. Sometimes, pain that does not subside with medication.
17. Gone through a divorce and now share time with their children.
18. Gone through a divorce because of infidelity.
19. Same as 18, except add the fact that her ex-husband after three years completely changed, she forgave and remarried him in the temple and was sealed to him and her two children for time and all eternity. Wow!
20. Suffered real, painful post-partum depression, and yet have had the strength and courage to have more children.
21. Children with developmental delays.
22. Conquered/conquering an eating disorder.
23. To be a single parent.
24. Gone back to school after a 10-year (or so) hiatus.
25. A child with kidney problems.
26. Very "excited" children.
27. Been told that the chances of any/more children are very slim.
28. Been told that they will never be able to have children. Ever.
29. Had an abusive parent and tried to break the cycle.
30. Been single a lot longer than they thought they'd ever be.
31. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
32. Suffered through MS.
33. Struggled with their faith and beliefs.
34. Watched a spouse struggle with their faith and beliefs.
35. Had their parents divorce.
36. Suffered through pregnancy; and then do it again.
37. Started their own businesses.
38. Got pregnant, decided to get married, then get sealed in the temple a year later.
39. Five children all within a year apart of each other, and not knowing how they're going to make ends meet.
40. Buried a child.
41. Been married for almost 40 years and stuck it out through some of the most difficult times.


I think I've made my point. The list goes on and on and on. Because I have friends who endure and make it, I find strength in them. I have one more friend to add to that list. I wish we all knew HIM as well as He wants us to know him.

I have a Friend who has suffered and endured all of the above so that we ALL have someone we can lean on when it seems that no one is there. He knows what it feels like to be alone, and he doesn't want you to feel that way. Turn to Him. He is there. He is Strength, Peace, Comfort, Love. His love for you is unconditional and unstoppable. All you have to do is open the door.

"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him" (Acts 3:20).


Picture taken from here.

Light a Candle

Thanks, Mindy, for posting this video. It speaks for itself.




Will you light a candle for those you know? Perhaps you will light one for yours. I will.

Remember Our Babies

A Little Etiquette Reminder

I'm not trying to one-up Matt by posting so quickly after him, so make sure you read his post. It was very good. However, I'm still going to post. My friend posted a very informative article on her blog that I think we should all read because I know we all know someone who is struggling or has struggled with infertility. Here is the direct link to the article: Infertility Etiquette




Okay, did you read the article? Not yet. . . well, go read it.


Now have you read it?


Okay, here is my opinion. I really liked that article. If I could add one thing to that article it would be some advice I got from my doctor after I lost my little girl. He told me that I needed to be the voice. I couldn't expect people to be sensitive to my situation unless I told them about it.

Another thing I've taken to heart was that I couldn't expect people to tiptoe around me. People are going to complain about their pregnancies, and they are going to talk about how hard it is to raise kids but that's because that is their current situation. I think it's just as important for me to remember that their trials are personal to them just as mine are to me. If they shouldn't complain about pregnancy to me, then I shouldn't complain about not being able to have kids around them. It will just make them feel guilty when it is not their fault. Instead we should be able to help each other and raise each other up. You know, the covenants we made at baptism, "comfort those that stand in need of comfort, . . . mourn with those that mourn."

Also, we have to remember that people say insensitive things without meaning to. They just do. Instead of getting angry and bitter, I've found that it's much better if something said really bothers me (meaning I can't just let it roll off my back), that I should educate them and let them know without being rude or critical. Chances are that they'll feel guilty even if I was polite and informative.

I know I'm technically not infertile, but some of the emotions have been the same as I've had to deal with accepting not getting pregnant.

What do you think?

A sign of healing

In my dreams last night (or this morning, however you look at it), I dreamed that I was holding the cutest dark-haired, dark-eyed baby girl in a beautiful white blessing gown. It was not Clarissa, and I was not feeling guilty. When I woke up, I quickly rolled over so I could see that baby again in my dreams. I think I'm ready for a baby for my family, not to replace a void in my life. After four years, I can say that I'm truly ready to move on. I can separate my grief for my daughter from my longing for a new baby.