Tomorrow makes three years since this beautiful day:
My sweet Noah will be three years old. The days leading up to this day have been bittersweet in every possible way. Noah is the happiest, most joyful child. He is also the most loving. Every day is filled with declarations of, "I love you SO MUCH," and sweet nicknames for me (that he comes up with himself) like "Sugar Boo." Noah is my heart. He embodies every good thing I've ever done in my life and so much more. He is truly my guardian angel here on earth.
Noah's birthday is June 21st. The last baby I lost was due June 23rd. Instead of being massively pregnant or sleep-deprived cuddling a newborn, though, I'm empty; I'm empty inside and I have empty arms. Hence the bittersweet. I'm holding on to Noah as my baby, though I know that a three year old is no longer a baby. He's all I have, though, to hold. I'm grateful that he wants me to snuggle him to bed each night, saying, "Snuggle you?" while curling up against me. I'm treasuring every moment because I know that as he gets older, they will come less and less.
After I lost my fourth baby, I sort of shut down. I locked everything away; it was the only way to survive and to continue to get up each morning. But as Noah's birthday and that baby's due date approach, the walls that I so carefully crafted are cracking. It's almost as though I built a dam, but suddenly the pressure is too much, and with no flood gate, the dam is bursting. All of those tears I thought I'd locked away seem to be escaping this week in sudden and heart-wrenching bursts, mostly as uncontrollable sobs that wrack me with a grief I cannot fathom. But I'm trying to stay patched together for the three children I have on earth who need me, instead of breaking for the four I've lost. Such hard work, this living.
I'm SO behind. Like a year behind. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with that. But today I miss my friend Jenn, so I decided I'm going blog about my trip to visit her in Utah. (In December.) Here it is.
Jenn took me up into the mountains to Sundance. It was like a five minute drive. Beautiful!
Thanks to Dave's mom, we were able to see the Mormon Tabernacle Christmas Concert. I finally got to see the lights at Temple Square, too. It was INCREDIBLE, everything I'd imagined.
We also enjoyed some tasty treats from a little bakery/cafe in an old pioneer home called Chocolate. I love Jenn because she'll take pictures like this with me and not be embarrassed.
Here we are taking the train to SLC for the concert.
I got dressed up. I don't do that much.
But what was better than any of the Christmas lights or music or scenery, was the company. I arrived in SLC late Thursday night; Jenn picked me up from the airport and we drove to her home in Provo. This is what awaited me:
Yes, that's three pillows (she's had back surgery too...), extra blankets, my own art work on the dresser, a stack of Jenn's favorite books and lotions, and a chocolate bar on the bed. This was better than a luxury hotel, I tell you. We spent lots of time talking and trying to get Nolen to sleep. She cooked for me and it was extravagant. (Jenn will publish a cookbook one day. I'm sure of it.) And we laughed. That's what I needed was to laugh and be with a friend who knew me, knew how to take care of me after I lost my baby, and knew that just hanging out was more than enough. It was a wonderful trip and I hope to repeat it sometime soon.
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...
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.
This is the ring that Alan and I had made in remembrance of the babies we've lost. There is one emerald for each baby, green because we don't know if they were boys or girls. There are two larger stones for the babies that I carried longer, and two smaller stones for the babies I lost earlier. I think that the oval that houses the stones looks somewhat womb-like, and I love that they are intertwined with an infinity sign because they'll be our babies, and in our hearts, forever.
The engraving on the inside of my ring says, Saudades. It's a Portuguese word that does not have a true translation to English, but "describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic or deeply melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves... Saudade was once described as the love that remains after someone is gone."
This ring has brought me more comfort than I thought possible. I know that it's just a "thing," but it truly means something to my heart. I feel like the ring keeps these babies with me, more than in my heart and memories, but in a real, almost physical sense. And each time that I glance at the ring, I remember them, all four babies, that are waiting for me on the other side of the veil. Some day I'll actually be able to hold them in my arms--Maybe then, they'll stop aching.
These last months have been some of the most difficult of my life. And I'm hesitant, for a number of reasons, to write this post. The event that forced everything into motion was one of the most, if not the most, spiritual of my life. I realize that a good number of my friends and family are not religious, especially to the extent that I am; it frightens me to share an experience that so blatantly exposes my faith. Experiences like this, along with my beliefs, are very private to me. I cannot, however, keep this to myself.
It all began with a video, a short "Mormon Message," that was shared by a friend on Facebook. I typically do not watch these videos as I find them to be, well, somewhat corny. But for whatever reason that day, I clicked play. The clip I watched is embedded below. I ask that you watch it, not for any reason other than because it changed my life. The rest of this post won't make an ounce of sense unless you, too, hit play. Just watch it. Please.
As I sat on my couch, with Noah playing cars and planes (loudly) next to me, I felt tears fill my eyes and stream down my cheeks. It was as though the earth had stopped rotating, as though time stood still. And as I watched, it was almost as though Jesus Christ walked through my front door, sat down next to me on the couch, wrapped his arms around me, and said, "This. This. THIS." And suddenly the last months of tribulation and confusion were as clear as the Colorado sky. Elder Holland's answer to his son's question echoed in my ears:
"I think that the Lord, his wish for us there, and his answer to our prayer, was to get us on the right road as quickly as possible, with some reassurance, with some understanding, that we were on the right road and we didn't have to worry about it. And in this case the easiest way to do that was to let us go 400 yards or 500 yards on the wrong road and very quickly know without a doubt that it was the wrong road, and therefore with equal certainty, with equal conviction that the other one was the right road."
I believe that God inspired my friend to post this video that day. I believe that the Holy Ghost prompted her to share it, knowing that I would see it, knowing that I needed to see it. It's incredibly difficult for me to share this; it feels so personal and private. But I've never had an experience where I felt so directly inspired by God, so clearly shown the path that I'd been on and the path that I was to take. And so I am sharing it for a few reasons, just one to help explain the decision that Alan and I have made based upon what was set in motion when I watched this one, simple Mormon Message.
What suddenly became so clear? What did feeling like Jesus said, "THIS," mean? Let me explain. When we made the decision to move to Colorado, we prayed like crazy. We wanted to know that we were making a decision that would be good for our family, one of which the Lord approved. Our answers came loud and clear; yes, moving to Denver is the right thing to do. And so we did it. I'm not going to go into the challenges that we've faced while living here. Suffice it to say that this probably has been the most trying time that our family has ever experienced, and that's saying something. So when I heard the message of this video, what became crystal clear was that we were the family at the fork in the road. We prayed, we got an answer, we followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost, and ultimately we realized that we were on the wrong road. The Lord led us to Denver in order to show us that the right road, the place that we truly belong is Madison. We would never have known it had we not followed His promptings to leave. Moving to Denver was not a mistake, rather it was the fastest way for us to know "without a doubt that it was the wrong road, and therefore with equal certainty, with equal conviction that the other one was the right road."
I have never been so certain about anything in my life (well, except maybe about marrying Alan). I know that my Heavenly Father loves me. I know that He is looking out for me and my family. I know that Madison is the right road; Madison is where we belong. And so, we are moving back to Wisconsin. As soon as we made the decision to leave, Alan contacted the head of the private practice that he would have worked at had we stayed in Madison. The exact moment that the message was received, the boss of this office was in a board meeting where they had just decided to hire a new Child/Adolescent Psychiatrist. I don't believe that was a coincidence--Serendipity, yes. Confirmation that we made the correct choice, definitely.
I know that there will be people who don't believe my story. Maybe it's not that they won't believe it, but rather that they'll think I'm making things out to be the way that I want them to be. Certain people will say that I'm quitting, that I haven't given it enough time; if I stayed longer, I'd surely be happy. I wasn't always happy in Madison; we definitely left for a reason. To those people, I will have to say that they can think what they want. I know and Alan knows, in our heart of hearts, that we are doing the right thing. It would be infinitely easier to stay in Denver. I HATE moving, and yet here we are doing it again. But despite the challenges it will bring, despite the naysayers, this move is what is best for us and best for our family. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can fight that.
I've been planning this post in my head for the last three months. 12 weeks to be exact. I knew exactly what I would say. I knew what pictures I would post. I was going to wait until Thanksgiving--I was going to share just how grateful I was to be blessed with our fourth baby. But this post looks nothing like what I had imagined.
My baby is dead. I went in for a routine appointment with my OB on Friday morning, my 12 week appointment. We had been in for an ultrasound at 6 weeks and at 9 weeks. Baby was growing and its tiny heart was beating away, strong and fast, like the fluttering wings of a bird. My OB tried to find the heartbeat with a doppler, but I knew she wouldn't because my uterus is extremely tipped and nobody can find a heartbeat until 14 weeks on me. So I tried not to worry. After all, I had already seen a heartbeat twice. And my HCG more than doubled in 48 hours, early on. After trying for a few minutes, she left to grab a portable ultrasound. But when she placed the transducer on my belly, all we could see was a baby. A still, unmoving baby with no visible heartbeat, and no visible blood flow. I was alone with Noah; Alan was at work. Disbelief. That's what I felt. Disbelief, and an overwhelming feeling of this can't be happening again.
My heart is broken. It's broken for my kids. It's broken for Noah who will probably never have a younger brother or sister, a buddy like Nate and Abbie are for each other. Noah is almost six years younger than Abbie; I so desperately wanted him to have someone to grow up with. My heart breaks for Abbie who has been begging for a sister for years. She has two brothers and thirteen boy cousins, no other girls. I hoped, I prayed, for another girl for her to share her life with. When I look at my children, I feel blessed beyond measure to have them. I never expected to be able to have my own children; they are each a miracle to me. I'm trying to focus on them right now. I'm hugging them more, and rocking Noah to sleep, and kissing their sleeping heads at night. But it doesn't take away the pain of this loss; it can't wipe the dreams I had from my mind.
And so I write this post, as I wait until tomorrow when I'll go to the hospital to have a D&C. My body doesn't seem to recognize that the baby has died. I actually spent all of Thursday sicker than a dog, sick from being pregnant. Pregnant with a baby that was dead. My post is titled Number Four, the same title I had been planning to use as I dreamed this post for the last three months. But this is a different number four. Instead of being a fourth baby for us to hold, a possible sister for Abbie, and a sibling close in age to Noah, this is the fourth baby we've lost.
A friend of ours have a daughter who choked on a piece of apple. They were having a rough go, so we decided to bake them a cake. Of course it was apple shaped!
I March of this year, Noah and I took a trip to Rhode Island to visit my sister. We went to help out while her husband was out of town. We had a great time; Noah had so much fun playing with his cousins, too!
Twin Cousins--Jakey and Noah
Sweet Jacob
Here's Ben, wearing the superhero masks I made for him.
Isn't this hat epic?
Ben and Rachel
They ARE genetically half-brothers... Noah saw this picture and said, "Two mini-Noahs!"
