Mourning with Hope

I read a book awhile back and it talked about the idea of mourning with hope versus mourning without hope.  Generally speaking, people that believe in God and a life after this life, mourn with hope.  They mourn with the belief that this life is not the end and they will see their loved one again.  Those who mourn without hope believe it's over; this life is it.  How terribly awful to think about that.  So, you mourn either way, but it is a very different way to mourn.  I am mourning a temporary separation; not the end of a relationship.  

I was reading in the Book of Mormon and read about a similar idea.  In Alma 28 there is huge battle between the Lamanites and Nephites.  Tens of thousands die.  Tens of thousands.  Every single one of those people was someone's father....brother....son....friend.  How often do we really consider that when we hear death toll numbers.  That is a lot mourning.

In verse 6 it says: "And now surely this was a sorrowful day; yea, a time of solemnity, and a time of much fasting and prayer."

It was a time of sorrow and solemnity but also a time of fasting and prayer.  The sorrow and solemnity came without any effort; that part happens pretty naturally.  But then there is this idea of fasting and prayer.  That is an active process, rather than a passive process.  It shows that they were turning their hearts to God in their sorrow.

It goes on to talk about two different groups of people. The first group they talk about is those that mourn the loss of their loved ones and have no hope for an ultimate happy ending.  They will not live with God.  The second group mourns the loss of those they love, but have hope that they are raised to dwell with God; that they have lived good and wholesome lives and their ending is glorious.

Verse 11-12: "And the bodies of many thousands are laid low in the earth, while the bodies of many thousands are moldering in heaps upon the face of the earth; yea, and many thousands are mourning for the loss of their kindred, because they have reason to fear, according to the promises of the Lord, that they are consigned to a state of endless wo.  While many thousands of others truly mourn for the loss of their kindred, yet they rejoice and exult in the hope, and even know, according to the promises of the Lord, that they are raised to dwell at the right hand of God, in a state of never-ending happiness."

Both groups mourn.  They do.  Sometimes people skip over that part and go right to eternal life; like tomorrow this will all be okay.... it will be over.  Well, it will be over someday.  It will be okay someday.  But today is not that day.  I mourn with hope:  The hope that I will see Eli again.  The hope that I will still raise him as my child.  The hope that he is bound to me by the power of the priesthood.  The hope that he is near even though I may not always be aware.  But I still mourn.

This quote by Neal A. Maxwell articulate this point perfectly.  Although we may have what he calls 'ultimate hope....' hope that is afar off.... it is the next few steps and the next few breathes that require just as much hope.  And sometimes that hope is harder to come by:

"Though “anchored” in grand and ultimate hope, some of our tactical hopes are another matter. We may hope for a pay raise, a special date, an electoral victory, or for a bigger house—things which may or may not be realized. Faith in Father’s plan gives us endurance even amid the wreckage of such proximate hopes. Hope keeps us “anxiously engaged” in good causes even when these appear to be losing causes (Brightness of  Hope).

He goes on to say that "daily hope is vital, since the 'Winter Quarters' of our lives are not immediately adjacent to our promised land either. An arduous trek still awaits, but hope spurs weary disciples on."

And lastly, I feel like this verse from Alma 28 again, sums up my blog: "....(my) journeyings.....(my) sufferings, (my) sorrows, and (my) afflictions, and (my) incomprehensible joy."  I would add that it also includes my hope.  Joy and hope can coexist with sorrow and suffering.

You only get one chance.

I was looking up something on the internet and this ad was in the bottom corner accompanied by a picture of a beautiful healthy baby:

"You only get one chance to capture their first day....don't regret it" (followed by a camera ad).

No kidding.

In our case, we captured Eli's first and last day.  Not many people get that.

Thank you Stephanie.

A new tradition

Unlike the 4th of July, we have never had any family traditions on the 24th.  Jason always has to work, so me and the kids usually sit home and forget that it is a holiday.  (Well, it's a holiday in UT anyways).  Of course, the reason for the 24th (Pioneer day) matters to me, but making traditions on this day has just never happened.  I tried Fiesta Day (Spanish Fork's big thing), but it just never stuck.

Yesterday I was sitting in my room and remembered a conversation I had with my friend, Necia, MONTHS ago.  She told me about this "temple to temple run."  You run from the Provo Temple to the Provo City Center Temple. It is roughly a 5K (how convenient).  How many places can you run from one temple to another?  Not very many.  I remembered this conversation and wondered if I was remembering the right date?  Yes, it was indeed the very next day on the 24th.  How nice that I so randomly remembered on the 23rd....maybe not so random.  My aunt Tess had sent me a picture of her race number bib last year.  There is a spot where you can write who you are running for.  I remember getting her text last year and she had written Eli, among other loved ones....(although I can't remember if it was his actual name or just baby at that point?) I was so touched.  We had only known about Eli's condition for 9 days and everything was so fresh and raw.  The fact that someone had stepped back and seen how appropriate it was to write his name on there was so needed for me.

So, yesterday, I decided we should do this.  I registered our family at 3pm and picked up the race packets at 5pm.  Unfortunately, Jason couldn't come with us because he had to work.  I guess giving him 90 minutes notice isn't sufficient to get the following day off?  I was so happy to have something to do with my kids today.  I feel like we choose our traditions carefully.  I have gone to plenty a BBQ because there was nothing else to do on a certain holiday, but I much prefer doing something that helps my kids learn about the actual holiday and helps us make a meaningful memory. I'm not totally against BBQ's, but I do have a soap box on the subject.  My cousin, Lindsay, was sweet enough to help me with my little Gause-lings, while Tess ran.  I think she beat us by 45 minutes.  I had to dig the stroller out of storage.  Ok, Jason dug it out....but he literally dug.  We don't exactly have a child that fits in a stroller anymore (which is pretty obvious when you see the pics below), but Jason strongly encouraged that I take it "just in case."  Ya, we needed it.  It became more of a rolling throne in the end.  Every kid sat in it at some point and usually requested snacks while in the throne.  And just to make sure the kids knew what the holiday was for, I talked plenty about how the pioneers traveled (and it wasn't with a stroller and water stops and nice shoes and snacks at the end of a downhill, paved 3 mile walk).  It really was a great time, though.  So happy we have something to do on the 24th now.

Bad Liar

I am a terrible liar.  I don't think I have ever been really "good" at lying.  I never tried to be. I speak of this mostly in terms of showing my true feelings or opinions; not at trying to deceive people.  I don't feel the need to deceive people (very often), and I never saw the need to pretend like I was something that I wasn't.  Some people like it.  Some people don't.  I didn't care very much.

I have definitely had a conflict about this since Eli died.  At first, I didn't feel the need to pretend I was feeling a certain way just to appease people.  As time went on, I did feel the need around certain people, but I am so bad at it and not very invested in expending the energy it would take to pretend, so I just end up avoiding  people. I remember, very distinctly, the first time I felt I had to "hide" how I felt.  I think I did a terrible job, but luckily, many people aren't that perceptive and are more involved in their own thoughts, so they don't notice, (so maybe you don't have to be good at it??).  I'm not sure if this person noticed.

There was a point when I had so much going on inside and I was just losing it everywhere. It was like I had to throw up and I was letting is spew. I was throwing up whenever I had to; on people's clothes, on the floors, but not always in the privacy of my own bathroom. I got to a point where I could hold it in. I'm not sure why I thought that was a better idea but it seemed necessary. I wish I hadn't felt that,  but I did. I felt I had to hold it in. So, I started swallowing big chunks; things that were too big to swallow and incredibly painful to do so, but I felt I had to. I never quite understood that before. I thought if you're upset about something, it's okay to say it. You don't need to be rude about it but it's okay to express your feelings. But there comes a point with certain people where you can't. Or it feels like you can't.  

If I am having a "good day" I can interact.  If something burns or stings me, I can hide it.  It doesn't overtake me.  If I am fragile, I stay inside my house.  I try not to have contact with anyone because I am too raw and open and  know I won't be able to handle it and I won't be able to hide that I can't handle it.

The conflict I have is: Should I pretend?  From a "logical" standpoint, the answer is no.  I wouldn't want someone to pretend.  I would want to know.  But, I know that not everyone is like that.  Everyone wants to say they are like that, but they just aren't.

My heart hurts all the time. Sometimes it is a little.  Sometimes it is a lot.  Sometimes it feels like a dull ache or a sore muscle.  Sometimes it leaves me breathless and sends me to my knees as if it is a physical pain.  I wish it were a physical pain.

Sunrise

We were in sacrament meeting at the Pine Valley church and the person conducting took just a minute to talk about the sunrise he had seen that morning, saying it was maybe the most beautiful he had ever seen.  He described the color and how it made him feel.  He felt that God was smiling down on the valley and wanted to share this with the people there.  Jason, knowing that I had been up early that morning and knowing I had seen the sunrise, leaned over to me and asked if I had seen the same thing.  I told him I  had seen the sunrise, but I hadn't seen what he was describing.  I hadn't seen "that."  I had been roughly the same place as this guy.  The same valley, at least, and seen the same sun rise, but somehow had seen something very different.  To me, it had been very ordinary.

Amazing how we could both see the same sun, but have a totally different experience.

It reminds me of how we all have the opportunity to have experiences with the Son, but it doesn't mean we are seeing the same thing.  Even in the same valley, so to speak.

Pine Valley

There is a little valley just north of St. George called Pine Valley.  I grew up going there with my family.  I remember family reunions and walking down the "lane" to the small creek bed.  I remember standing in an ant pile feeding horses and having them climb all over me (that was a one time occurrence) and spotlighting for deer at night.  I always like it, but wouldn't say I LOVED it....not the way dad did anyways.  I know how much this place means to him for so many, many reasons.  He has a lot of memories there from his youth.  It is the place where my Grandma and Grandpa Snow first lived when they were married.  There is a lot of history there with our family.  My dad knows so much about it because he either experienced it or his parents or grandparents did.  I love going on a tour of the Pine Valley chapel with my dad, because, without fail, he knows more than the tour guides, and gives them some additional information during the tour (he always does it so nicely, but it is still really funny as I watch them try to teach my dad about something he is literally an expert on and they have only read the binder they were given).  He reminisces about planting the trees outside the church.  There are pictures of many of our ancestors in the room upstairs in the church.

Last year my dad and all of my siblings went down to Pine Valley.  I can't even remember the last time that happened, but it was before any of us had kids.  We went near the end of June; so before we "knew" about Eli.  I felt such a draw there.  I had never felt it like that before.  There were certain things I wanted to do there including go to the cemetery.  That was definitely a first for me as I had not been a frequenter of cemeteries up to that point in my life.  I especially felt drawn to my Grandpa Snow, who died when I was almost two.  I felt something and I knew it meant something, but I didn't know what.  I wasn't overly concerned about figuring it out.  I knew more would come.  I just felt a draw to my ancestors.  The ones that I'm sure I had heard a lot about, but never seemed to remember much.  I don't actual remember any of the people buried there, so hearing about them didn't evoke an earlier memory.   It felt more like a story.  A nice story that I liked; but a story nonetheless.  Last year it didn't feel like a story anymore.  I couldn't figure out why it had changed.  I chalked it up to me just getting older and more mature.

As the next year has unfolded, I knew there was more to my feelings than getting older and more mature (although I'm sure that didn't hurt).  I felt like I needed to go back and experience this place with the knowledge I now had.  I wanted to see through my new eyes and feel with the part of me that had been enlightened and drawn to them.  I now feel a kinship to this place that I never really have.  I can say I love this place now.  I know that will make you happy dad.  It makes me happy.

We went to church in the historic chapel and I realized (from reading some tour guide info on the wall), that Jeffrey R. Holland rededicated the chapel in 2005.  Actually, it was the Sunday after Katelyn was born, May 15th.  I just thought that was interesting.  In fact, I saw a lot of interesting dates as I was down there, but I'm not going to share all of that.   I wanted to have the spirit teach me more while I was down there.  I left with new insights and was so grateful for the trip.

Here are some pics of our trip:

Pine Valley Chapel

We found this big tunnel that went under the road.  I wanted to walk through it despite the bugs I guessed would be lurking.  We told Katelyn and Ethan they couldn't do it because they didn't have water shoes on.  They begged and begged until we finally let them.  Ethan was bawling as he walked through which was funny because he had begged to walk through.  

Katelyn and Ethan loving each other (and being themselves)...

We saw a lot of baby trees growing in the middle of the bigger, more mature trees.  Just a beautiful sight.

Grandma and Grandpa Snow's first house

Fishing for crawdads

If you have been to Pine Valley, you know that these blue bowls are there.  I remember using them growing up and thought it was fun to see my kids use them.  

The "zuh" song

Lincoln wanted the "zuh" song tonight.  No one had any idea what that meant.  He has his own little language and it is pretty common for him to request things like that, but usually someone in the house knows what he is talking about.  I went out and announced to the rest of the family that he wanted the "zuh" song and that he had informed me it had something to do with an octopus?  I received 3 blank stares.  After racking our brains,  Katelyn suggested a song and she was right!  Hallelujah!  I sang this ridiculous song to him and midway through he told me to stop.  Maybe I should be more accurate in saying he commanded me to stop singing, then requested (or ordered) me to stay there with him.  I felt I had something other things to do, although I knew all that awaited me outside the door was Ethan wanting to look on Amazon for a special Pokemon card.  Pokemon is fine and all, but I grow weary of the constant talk about the cards.  Ethan is kind of hard for me to understand a lot of the time because he speaks so softly and talks really, really fast.  You throw in names like Reshimram and Yeveltal and I have no idea what is going. So, I wasn't thrilled about talking about that for the next 45 minutes.  I lay down next to Lincoln.  He wrapped his little arm around my back and just sort of patted me. I needed that tonight.  I needed someone to just wrap their arms around me and not say a word.  I laid there with him until he went to sleep.  His warm breath was right in my face and he smelled like a puppy and I was so happy to have him.

Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.  As I've already noted, not every bend does.  Sometimes the surprise is the opposite one; you are presented with exactly the same sort of country you thought you had left behind miles ago.  That is when you wonder whether the valley isn't a circular trench.  But it isn't.  There are partial recurrences, but the sequence doesn't repeat.

-C.S. Lewis

Swimming Lessons

My kids started swimming lessons this week.  I can't say I look forward to this every year.  There is A LOT of drama from Katelyn about it.  She is sure that her teacher is going to let her drown.  I could go on and on about her antics, but this year I told her that she could tap out if she wanted to.  I told her she was old enough to decide if she really wanted to learn how to swim.  In the past, I have told her that it was a requirement and she didn't get to choose.  We talked about all the pros and cons of being able versus not being able to swim.  In the end, she decided to do it and after the first day, she was reassured that Miss Debbie was, in fact, not trying to torture her or let her drown.

This was the first time since I have had kids going to swimming lessons that I haven't been in the water with one of them or holding a baby.  They are all finally old enough to be in a "big kid" class as opposed to a mommy and me class. I'm not sure if I was happy or sad about it.  Maybe a little happy to sit back and relax.  Sad that no one is small enough to wrap their chubby arms around me as we sing silly songs in the mommy and me class.

Last year we were at swimming lesson during the week that we were waiting for Eli's test results.  We had our ultrasound on the 3rd and started swimming lessons on the 7th.  Everything was fresh and new at that point and very up in the air.  I was a little nervous to go back to that place that I haven't been to since last year.  I remember being quite emotional at the pool and not really caring who saw me cry or not.  Funny how the same places and sounds bring back those emotions again.  And to really help me reminisce, I had a stomach bug for the last couple of days, so I felt very nauseated.  Anytime I get a stomach bug, I just feel pregnant.  That is what pregnancy feels like for me.  We went the first day and I felt VERY similar (physically) to how I felt last year at this time.  The heat was awful and made the nausea worse.  I was so sensitive to the sounds and the bright sun.  Yep, it felt exactly the same, except my belly was smaller and I knew the outcome of the test results this time. I knew the outcome of everything related to Eli's life this time.  I will be happy to pass through the upcoming months.  I have been anticipating the 4th of July and the surrounding days because of what this was for us last year.  I didn't know if it would matter to me, but it does.  I see all the days differently.   I remember each day.  It is burned in my memory.  Swimming lessons was good.  The kids are bigger, I am not pregnant this time.  Life has marched forward and if even if I am not ready for it to move anywhere, it has.  It was okay to do that piece again.

And there's Lincoln....all day....everyday.

Experiencing God

"...We learn about God by experiencing God, not by reading about or listening to others' experiences with Him."

-And Should We Die (Ron McMillan & Randy McMillan)

4th of July

The fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays.  We wake up way too early and go see the hot air balloons in Provo, followed by a pancake breakfast and then the infamous parade.  Most years we have a picnic or BBQ for lunch and then come home for a couple of hours to relax.  We usually fall asleep.  That evening we go to my dad's for another BBQ and then to the firework show.  I don't usually like to pack my days like that, but we honestly love each tradition we have established and try pack it all in.

I wasn't sure how I would feel this year; it being a year since finding out that Eli would die.  I found it strange that I wanted to do things EXACTLY like we did last year.  I didn't want any deviation from our standard traditions, so we did it EXACTLY like last year....except for a few obvious changes.  This year I am not pregnant.  The unknown things that were sitting on our shoulders last year are now sitting on our shoulders as known things.

I remember last year VERY well.  It had only been hours since our ultrasound when we dove into the fourth of July festivities.  We questioned whether or not to do what we normally did, but we didn't know what else to do.  We had to "keep on living."   And just to clarify, when people say that you have no choice but to "keep on living," they are wrong.  There are times when you don't keep living your life; you don't carry on....but last year we did.  I remember that day very well.  I walked around in a haze; conscious of what was happening around me, but felt like I was detached and everything was blurry.  Everything seemed to move so fast.  People were so unaware.  Life had taken a pretty harsh turn and I was reeling.  I was numb in many ways last year.  But, I also remember all of the little details; what people wore, who we saw, where we stood.  I remember trying to understand what was happening.  I remember people talking about "our situation" when I wasn't there, only to have Jason tell me all about it later.  That was the first of a long list of conversations where Jason served as voice because people were to scared to approach me.

This year I wanted to go through those same motions with different eyes.  I read somewhere that we recreate situations or emotions in our lives in order to heal from them.  I like this idea.  It seems true.  I wanted to face life this year.  I want my wounds to heal.

This year I couldn't believe how vivid the memory of last year was.  The sounds, the sights, the smells, the heat....it brought it all back.  I saw a lot of new babies and just kept thinking about how they didn't even know about this child at this time last year and yet here they were; holding that perfect little one without a thought that it could have ended so differently.  During the balloons, I saw one mom with a very small baby.  It appeared that many of the family members were meeting the baby for the first time.  Everyone was doting on the mom.  She walked like she was royalty.  She was just reveling in the attention she and her precious bundle were getting.  I just kind of stared at them.  It was hard to watch.  I guess we could have moved, but there would have been another new mom with a new baby anyways, so it didn't really matter.  That's UT county for you.

I felt stuck in my emotions of last year and wondered how everyone else had moved on.  I felt very anxious....like I was waiting for something to happen; probably a mirror of last year as I waited to know Eli's fate.  It was weird to feel anxious about it again.

That evening we did watch the fireworks with my dad.  I think I will have to save an entire post for those thoughts.  I was waiting for the miraculous experience I had last year.

Overall, the day was a good as I could have hoped or expected it to be.  Last year I wondered if the fourth of July would forever be changed because of Eli.  I wondered if it would be a somber time.  It is forever changed, but in a good way.  I am happy to have hit that one year mark and to have made it through.  I am glad I am here (in 2015) rather than there (2014).  But, in 2014 I had Eli inside me, so I guess I could go either way on that.

8 months

Yesterday was 8 months. This has been a tender time as I think about this time last year.  We had our first shocking ultrasound, followed my testing, waiting, and confirmation of his diagnosis all in the first half of July.  My mind can't help going back to these events.

Yesterday was a peaceful and calm day, and I was so grateful. I felt a stillness that I wanted and needed to feel.

We went to the cemetery.  As I watched Jason and the kids, I was reminded of the message I received last year around this time to LOOK UP:

From 7/4/14: We were with my dad on the 4th of July enjoying the fireworks. Lincoln wanted to play with my phone. This usually means he is looking at picture of himself and silly movies he has made. I was so frustrated because he wouldn't look up at the fireworks. How could he not look up? They were not only overwhelming our sense of hearing, but our sense of sight. Everyone seemed to be looking up, in awe, except for him. I even took my phone away and he still didn't look up. I felt God speaking to me: You, also, need to look up. Stop looking at the mundane things all around you and look UP so I can show you some thing greater...something more beautiful...something that you will never see by looking down at your own "plan." I feel like God is trying to show us something greater!

I had a white balloon that I was going to let go of and watch float away.  I had a hard time letting go of it. I felt the inclination to tie it to the statue of the the angel that is near Eli's grave.  I thought I could tie it to her hand, and she could hold it for me for a little while after I left.  I wondered why it felt so hard to let go of that little white string.  It reminded me of an experience I had back in March:

Jason had a business trip scheduled in mid March.  It was only a couple of days, but it was the first time he had gone out of town since we found out about Eli last July.  I didn't want him to leave. I felt so dependent on him at the time, and didn't know what I would do without him; even for a short time.  I remember that he had to leave very early in the morning; around 3:30 or so.  He had set his alarm to wake up. I didn't sleep much before his alarm went off.  I kept reaching my arm out to him to see if he was still there.  Each time I felt for him, he was.  Right before his alarm went off I had a couple of fingers curled around his shirt sleeve.  I just held onto it lightly.  His alarm went off and he rolled out of bed.  My fingers slipped out from under his sleeve and he was gone.  I had the inclination to hold on tightly to his sleeve so he wouldn't leave, but didn't.  I knew he had to go even if he didn't necessarily want him to; especially at such an inconvenient and early time.

Afterwards, I lay awake and thought about how I felt when I held onto Eli and then had to let him go.  I felt that it paralleled my lightly holding onto Jason's sleeve.  I held onto Eli, but didn't resist when it was time for him to leave.  I knew it was time to go; no matter how inconvenient or early it seemed.  Maybe he wasn't fully ready; I wasn't either, but holding on tightly wasn't what I felt to do.  Instead, I let my fingers slip away from him too.  I didn't resist.

After Eli was gone....really gone....I felt the need to hold onto him tighter than I ever had before.  It was ironic because I hadn't held onto him that tightly when he was inside of me or when he was in my arms, but when he was gone, I held on with a firm grasp; but it didn't feel like I had much to hold on to.  I was very resistant, when I hadn't been in the past.

I felt a hint of that yesterday.  I felt I needed to "let go" of that balloon, but didn't want to.  I feel like if I let go of my pain, I am letting go of him.  If I let go of sadness, I let go of him.  If I let go of the constant need to mother him as a baby, I let go of him.  I don't want to lose something that is attached to him.  I feel like I met Eli and my grief on the same day.  Sometimes I think they have to stay together, but I know they don't.  I am amazed and relieved that as some of the pain goes, he stays.  I know that I will never completely let go of the pain and sadness and the need to mother Eli, but part of it will go.

I did finally let go of the balloon.

Ultrasound

I feel like a year mark is approaching.  Everything changed for me last year on July 3rd.  Maybe I see it as the line of delineation between my ignorant and non-ignorant life.   It is a day that forever changed the course of my life.  It was the day we found out we were having a little boy.  It was the first time we had ever had to seriously consider the death of our child.  It was the day of our first ultrasound with Eli.

That was the day our journey with Eli began; or at least that is the day we remember it beginning.  It began long ago.  That is the day we left our ignorant place: a place where we knew nothing of trisomy 18, nothing of death, nothing of cemeteries or funerals.  We stepped out of what we knew into a great unknown and incredibly scary journey that we would not have asked for or even known existed. There is a before Eli and after Eli in my mind and it began on this day.

It seemed like an ordinary day, at first.  I had some trepidation about going to the ultrasound.  I felt like I had seen A LOT of children with Down Syndrome for the few weeks leading up to the ultrasound.  I started to wonder if there were actually more crossing my path, or if I were just noticing them more now.  I didn't want to think it meant anything, but I wasn't sure.  Sure enough, the night before our ultrasound, we went to Classic Skating and there was a sweet little boy with Down Syndrome.  I know that I am overgeneralizing this chromosomal problem and possibly being insensitive towards this, but I am just trying to say how I felt at the moment.  Strangely, I had someone talk extensively to me (when I was 14 weeks pregnant) about how having a child with Down's Syndrome wouldn't  be nearly as bad as many other things.  I agreed with her, but it still rubbed me wrong because it was so on my mind.  I worried about it, but thought I was being paranoid.  It was probably this particular chromosomal anomaly I noticed, (Down Syndrome) because I wasn't familiar with many others, and you don't exactly see people with trisomy 18 walking around.  As we sat at Classic Skating  I watched the little boy's mom. I just kept wondering if I could do that?

I woke up the next day and our appointment was fairly early in the day.  I had a wave of despair sweep over me momentarily.  I recognized that I hadn't felt that way since some of the postpartum days with Lincoln.  It was a familiar feeling, but it had been awhile.  I kept thinking that I just needed to go and get this appointment over with so I could feel better and stop worrying needlessly.  I was sure that in just a few hours I would feel better.  I remembered to grab the box that kids had been decorating and gave them hugs and promises that it would be filled with pink or blue goodies when I returned.

Me and Jason sat in the waiting room and waited for quite some time.  We were a little annoyed because Jason had left work and was trying to make it back by a certain time for a phone call.  We were finally led back to the room.  I always go to perinatology because of my diabetes, but they had changed locations and the new offices were unfamiliar.  I sat on the little bed and the tech started. I wasn't nervous at this point.  After just a minute, I could tell it was a boy.  Jason knew the same before they confirmed it to us.  Something felt very wrong, but I didn't think there was anything wrong with the baby (which I realize makes no sense).  I started nervously talking to Jason about how much responsibility he had with three boys and I was almost off the hook because Katelyn was already 9.  I talked about how mad Katelyn was going to be (again!)  I honestly didn't notice how long it was taking the tech.  Jason noticed.  She left the room.  I believe she said there were some concerns and the doctor would be back.  I remember when the doctor came in and started doing the ultrasound.  The baby looked totally normal to me.  There was a head, a spine, a torso, arms, legs, hands, feet, a beautiful profile.   There was a beating, four chambered heart.  It certainly couldn't be anything major.  Then she started into her list of "concerns:"  Short femur bone, cysts in the brain, clenched fists, and a minor heart defect.  There were only four things, but as she went on and on it seemed like the list was endless.  As she talked about each item on the list, my heart sank deeper and deeper.  I wanted her to stop talking.  Then she started saying how the stomach and kidneys and some other things looked "good."  I couldn't understand what she was saying.  So, his heart and his brain have some problems, but don't worry, his stomach looks good?  I was in complete shock.  This couldn't really be happening.  We had wanted this baby.  We were ready to welcome him into our family. Everything had gone as expected with the pregnancy.  I am always paranoid that something will happen, but it never does.  I couldn't believe it was really happening.

She started talking about genetic counselors and three different options for tests.  I didn't process hardly anything she said.  She asked us if we would ever consider termination.  It was so fast.  We went from being ticked off that we were thirty minutes late being seen, to the prospect of never seeing our son grow up.  We told her we wouldn't consider termination.   I guess somewhere inside us, we always knew the answer to that question, but hadn't really discussed it.  It's not something we thought we would ever have to answer.  Nobody thinks they will have to answer that question.  That is the kind of thing you see on tv or read on the internet (ha!).  They asked which of the three tests we wanted. I was honestly trying to remember what even one of the tests was.  Everything was a blur.

They left me and Jason alone for a few minutes so we could "talk about it."  Talk about what?  What could we say?  I was happy when they left because I could let the tears flow.  We tried to be logical about what we were doing, but the logically part of my brain was gone.  Logically, I should be buying pink or blue balloons; not deciding which battery of tests to do to see if my baby boy REALLY was going to die.  I think Jason's brain guided us through those moments.

When the doctor returned, we asked more questions about the "concerns."  She was so kind and patient and we really couldn't have asked for a better doctor at that point.  I needed to know if there was a possibility that NOTHING was wrong and that all of these things would be okay.  I felt stupid asking that; like they would think that nothing they said to me had registered in my brain.  I just wanted all of it to go away and wondered if that was possible at this point.  She said it was.  I wanted to hold onto that.

They talked about trisomy 18, trisomy 13, trisomy 21 (Down's Syndrome), and a few other things.  I guess chromosomes are quite complex.  I never worried about it because all of mine were in the right configuration.  When they talked about trisomy 18 I seemed to understand what she was saying.  She basically said that all babies die within a month.  What?  Such a strange thing to consider.  A baby is the epitome of life.  How could a baby die like that?  He was so active during the ultrasound.  How could that be possible?  Somehow I think I knew that was Eli's fate although I didn't want to admit it.  It felt comfortable to me in a strange way.  I'm not saying I was comfortable with it, but it made sense somewhere in my brain.  Nothing else she said made sense.

We decided on the test we thought would be best.  It had no risk to our baby and was very accurate.  They couldn't do it that day because of the 4th of July weekend so we had to wait until the following Monday to get the tests done.

The doctor left and we were left there; in that room that is supposed to be filled with reassurance and hope; anticipation and excitement.  It was now a room that was foreign to us.  I remember the clock ticking loudly on the wall.  It felt like a bomb.  The room no longer felt homey and warm; rather vacant and sterile. There was a picture on the the wall to the left of me, with three beautiful newborn babies posed in some cutesy way.  It all seemed so strange.  Everything stopped.  Nothing mattered anymore.  All the emotion and anticipation that went into this pregnancy seemed to be crushed instantly.  It was just over.  I didn't know what we were supposed to do from there.  I went into the bathroom that was attached to the room (because pregnancy women do that from time to time).  I made sure the door was locked and sobbed.  I felt like my future had been snatched away from me.  I wondered if other mothers' had done the same thing in that same bathroom. I wondered why they had pictures of  healthy, thriving babies all over the walls when not everyone who left there had a picture like that to look forward to.  I found it cruel and bitter, which was all very new to me.

I tried to wipe my face so I wouldn't look like I had been doing the very thing I had been doing, and me and Jason walked out of that room and up to the front desk to make a followup appointment.  I hoped no one would see me.  I didn't want them to know the truth. I didn't want them to see "that poor girl."   "I wonder what's wrong with her baby," they would say.  "How sad."  It would seem unfortunate, but life would go on for them.  It was my whole world.  I tried to hold it together and did a pretty good job.  I was sure the receptionist knew about my baby for some reason.  I didn't want to look at her.  I don't know why.  That started a long stint of not being able to look at people.

We walked to my car and agreed that Jason would return to work to get some things and come right home.  He held me for some time in the parking lot.  When I climbed out of the car, I was a vibrant, happy, expecting mother happily anticipating a gender announcement.  When I climbed back in I was broken.  As Jason walked away towards his car, I didn't worry that he would get in a car accident when he drove away.  Our world had already come crashing down, so we were safe for now.  It was a strange and unfamiliar thought process.   He didn't make it back for the phone call.  It didn't matter.  Nothing did.  I remembered the box the kids had made in my back seat.

I drove to Springville Wal-Mart (aka know as hell), to buy the promised items. I always seemed to go there on the most awful days and that place isn't bleeding with happiness or warmth.  It is my personal goal to never go back.  I wasn't sure if I needed to buy anything after our news.  It was an odd feeling. It felt like we weren't having baby anymore.  But we were.  He was still my son and still my children's brother.  I had to work this out in my mind as I wandered aimlessly in the store.   I cried openly and didn't feel out of place doing that in Wal-Mart.  There are a lot of strange sights there.  I wasn't sure where to go to find blue items.  The party aisle, with all of it's baby shower paraphernalia, didn't seem doable,but I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.  I found just a few things.  They didn't have plain blue balloons.  Only blue balloons that said "Welcome Baby."  I bought them, and was angry that Wal-Mart had not restocked the plain ones.  I was not sure if we would ever welcome baby home.  I had a fight, weeks later, with one of the inflated balloons. I won the fight.  As I drove home, I didn't know how to face the kids or the cute little babysitter that was babysitting for us for the first time.  Everything looked the same around me, but nothing felt the same anymore.  

Closer bonds

Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.

-Alphonse De Lamartine