Buoyed Up

My heart is full tonight. These last weeks and months have run together like a river running into the sea. I have felt the waves and I can remember the water, but each moment and event looks and feels just like the rest of the gray-blue as far as the eye can see. Some how, some way, I have been buoyed up; I have been given a life jacket, and then a raft, and then a boat, to survive the turbulent ocean that surrounds me. My last post was about grief. This one is about healing.

I'm trying to become more comfortable sharing my faith. It's difficult for me because I feel like I am not known by my religion. I am Emily, and then to some, I am a Mormon, too. But the trials of the last six months have taught me a lot about myself, most importantly that without my beliefs and faith, I am not Emily. And so, I am going to share more of the spiritual experiences that I've had in this post. This blog is about honesty in my life and these are experiences that I want to remember. These are experiences that have changed my life, changed me.

I mentioned above that something has buoyed me up. Some how, some way, I have not only survived the trials of the last month, the grief of losing my fourth baby, but I have been strengthened. This is not something that has ever happened to me before. With the majority of the trials that I have endured, I have ended up feeling farther from God than before. I was often angry with God and blamed Him for the things that I was experiencing. For some reason, this time has been different. Maybe it's the fact that I have never felt so alone in my life, but instead of turning away from God during our time and trials in Denver, I turned towards Him. Instead of feeling anger, I felt a desperation for comfort, for somebody who could comfort me and understand how I was feeling. I felt such a shattering loneliness during our time here, a feeling that was multiplied exponentially after losing our baby. But I had nowhere to go, nobody to go to. I think that it was that desperation for comfort, for anything that might soothe my broken heart and aching arms, that led me to look to my faith. I literally had nowhere else to go.

And so I looked up. I read my scriptures, searching them for understanding. I prayed with a desperation that I have never known before. I prayed more than I have ever prayed before; sometimes it felt like my next prayer was beginning before I even finished the last one. But more than anything, I looked for God in my life. I sought Him out. And I searched for Christ, for the man who felt every pain that I have ever experienced in the Garden of Gethsemane during the Atonement. I didn't just seek him in the scriptures or at church, I begged and pleaded that he would come to me, to wrap his arms around me and say, "I know, Emily. I know."

The life jacket, the raft, and boat came from a faith in Christ that I have never had before. The healing that I found in Christ was a balm to my soul. I cannot find words to describe the miracle that has occurred in my heart since writing my last post on grief. Where it was then shattered, my heart is now full. How is that possible? How, during such a difficult time, could I have found peace, comfort, a means to dry my endless tears, and a balm to heal my soul? I cannot understand how this has happened and I don't have words to describe it. I fear that I am doing no justice to the change that has come to my heart and soul. But if I don't try to write it down, I may forget it. I know that the next trial is just around the corner; I need to remember this for then. I don't know how I'll survive if I forget.

I have had more of the Holy Ghost in my life during the last two months than I've ever had before. While searching for Christ and getting to know Him, the Holy Ghost has been a constant companion to me. I have felt his presence so strongly. I have had experiences in church, an experience at the Denver Temple that I will never be able to put into words, time with the missionaries, and so many moments in the thick of my days at home where I knew that someone was with me. Suddenly, even though I am no less alone than I was when I wrote my last post on grief, I don't feel alone. I feel, as I said before, that my heart is full. I have been given a boat, a ship even, to carry me through the stormy waves that are swirling around me. I sought a friend, a comforter, a shoulder to cry on, but I found more than that; I found miracles. In God, in Christ, and in the Holy Ghost, I found a blessed peace; I found friends. Gratitude does not even begin to describe it. But I hope that I never forget it. No, more than that, I hope that I never lose it; I hope that I never lose Them.

I know that my friends from church will understand this. I don't know how my friends and family outside of church will read something like this. Maybe I sound crazy? A year ago, I would never have written something like this on my blog. Heck, even two months ago, I wouldn't have done it. But my faith and my relationship with Christ have come to the very front of my life; They are such a huge part of who I am that I cannot continue this blog without including Them in it. I realize that by including this part of my life in my blog, I am opening up a part of me that many don't know. If you have questions (or wonder if I'm nuts), please ask. In the spirit of honesty, that is the best that I can offer. And I promise that I'll get back to posting pictures of my kids and our lives, too. Until then...

Going Private

I'm taking the blog private. Please leave your email in the comments if you'd like to keep reading. Thanks.

Grief

Grief is not something that just disappears. I know from experience that the sharp, stabbing, fill your eyes with tears pain, will ebb with time. It's only been five weeks since we lost our baby. Five weeks of emptiness. Five weeks of tears. Five weeks of pretending that I'm okay because that's just what a woman's supposed to do.

We spent the holidays in Madison at Alan's parents house. It was bittersweet. I had to leave the room during the reenactment of the nativity by the kids on Christmas Eve. It was too painful to hear scriptures of a blessed womb and the birth of a baby boy. In fact, I left the room a lot during our visit. Several times a day, I would shut myself in our room and just sob, at least for the few moments until Noah came pounding at the door screaming that he needed me. I'm glad that I have other children who need me right now; they're the only thing preventing me from spending my days in bed, soaking my pillow with the grief that pours from my eyes.

Sometimes I want to just tell people that I'm not okay. Sometimes I want to say, "You know what? No, my holidays weren't all happy. Despite being surrounded by people I love, I've never felt so alone. I just lost my fourth baby." Sometimes when I'm asked how many kids I have, I want to answer seven--They are 10, 9, 8, 8, 2, 2, and one due in June. But I can't really do that. And so I stuff it down, then praise God that I have three beautiful children here on earth about whom I can talk in terms that wouldn't leave people thinking I'm crazy.

I worked Labor and Delivery as a nurse. I saw the joys and horrors that come with that career. I know that there are women who carry babies to term, only to give birth to a child who never takes its first breath. I know that there are women who give birth to babies, only to lose them later that day or week or year. I feel that I can't compare myself to them; I only knew my last baby for three months. But the pain is still there and that, I cannot deny.

I don't know why I've been chosen to suffer this trial. I cannot reconcile the image of a loving Heavenly Father with the extreme emotions of pure torture that I've survived four times now. I don't understand it. I don't know if I ever will. But I'm doing my best to believe that all these experiences will be for my good. And I'm praying every day, every second of every day, that I will see these babies again. I pray that they will be the first faces I see when I cross the veil and pass through the gates. I pray that they are together, smiling, and that my Grandma Urs and Grandpa Jim are caring for them until I can. My grandma lost two babies, as well, and she was such an incredible, loving woman. The only peace that I can find comes from imagining her with my four tiny angels in her arms and on her lap.

I had a dream two nights ago that the baby was a girl, but she was still dead and they were telling me what was wrong with her. I don't know if it means anything. Maybe, maybe not. And now I have my first period since the loss and it's like reliving it all over again. Only the cramping is worse and my back is hurting like somebody squeezed all the muscles into a big ball. And the Advil doesn't do jack, but I don't want to bug my doctor for anything stronger because that would mean going back to the office where I saw that my baby was dead. Triggers are everywhere: Birth announcements, pregnancy announcements, family photos. That's why I've stopped going on Facebook.

I have to call mortuaries today to arrange the cremation of our baby. I don't know how to do this. I don't know what to do once I have those ashes. And with my fear of fire, this entire experience is like being burned alive myself. Honestly, that's sort of what it feels like; the pain is that extreme.

This post is just a rambling of thoughts. But I had to get it out. I thought, after my second, and even third loss, that the lesson I was supposed to learn was to be able to help others who were experiencing the same thing. And I really thought I did that. But then why would I lose another one? Again, I realize that there is no sense to be made of this. Absolutely none. But I have to talk about it or I'll lose it, even more than I already am. My kids are living off of Oreos and cereal. I am spending my days hiding the tears rolling down my face, and answering the phone like everything is just jolly. But it's not. It's really not. And I don't know when it will be again. I have a house to pack and sell, three kids to care for, and a move across the country all coming in the next three weeks. But I can barely drag myself out of bed. And when I am out of bed, I'm of no use to anyone. My heart is broken; it's shattered. Truly, I'm not sure how it's even beating anymore.

My faith is waning; I wonder when I pray if anyone is even listening. But that there's an all-knowing being out there somewhere, watching over me, watching over my babies, who has a plan for us, is the only hope I have. And so I'll continue to pray. I'll continue to get out of bed when I can. And I'll continue to grieve, because at some point, the tears will have to run dry.