My Story

When Sam was a year old, I started volunteering at the NICU where he lived for the first 2 months of his life. I wanted to "make peace" with all the feelings I was experiencing over all that we had gone through during his pregnancy, birth, and first few months of life. I didn't think that it had been so traumatizing, but as he neared his birthday I found that I was really struggling with some issues and felt that giving back to the NICU was just the way for me to heal.

Through my volunteering, I have found that my purpose there has evolved. It started off as a place to heal, then a place to help others, a place that I was anticipating seeing my son Luke at, and finally to a place where I can find comfort, understanding, and empathy.

I have made some amazing friends while volunteering. One of my greatest strengths is a mother who is a volunteer herself and started volunteering just a few months before I had Luke. She has quite the story, which I won't share too much of since it is hers and she is the one who should share it (and likes to). But the gist of her story is that she was pregnant with identical twins. Identical, except that one of her babies had a heart and the other didn't. The one brother was keeping the other alive. She had to be monitored closely to make sure that the first baby didn't go into cardiac arrest since his heart was working overtime. When things became too difficult for him they would deliver him early. In which case, her other little boy would die.

My friend has the most amazing attitude. Her strength has helped lift me. She refers to this experience in her life as her "life story."

I often wonder what I would consider my "life story." It seems like all the volunteers up there have these HUGE defining moments. A baby that lived inutero for 11 weeks with no amniotic fluid and had to endure many dangerous surgeries to become the healthy little boy he is today. Another who was born at 23 weeks and deals with severe CP. Then there is the mother who had quadruplets (and is still sane).

I guess sometimes I hate the thought that my whole life can be packaged up into one moment - one moment that makes up my "life story". Maybe that's because I don't feel like I have that one miraculous moment that truly defines me, and therefore my life story seems like pretty weak cheese. Or maybe it's because I don't want to be known for my trials. In fact, I don't think anyone wants to be remembered for their trials. I think everyone wants to be remembered for the way they were victorious in times of trial - just like my NICU friends.

It is not the size of the story that is important. It is the simple fact that it did happen. Our stories are formed, not by what happens to us in life, but by our willingness to let what happens mold and shape and refine us. Our stories are all about letting ourselves become the person we were always meant to be.

And that is what I feel I am doing - working to become that person that God sees inside. I am truly a work in progress and so is my story.

"In this life we will encounter hurts and trials we will not be able to change; we are just going to have to allow them to change us."
-R.L. Davis

An Angel in My Pocket

I love my children. All three of them. They are my world.

Last week I enrolled my oldest, Halle, into kindergarten for this upcoming year. I am not exaggerating when I say I had a slight nervous breakdown as I was filling out paperwork. My hands were shaky, I felt sweat emerge on my forehead, and I felt I was suffocating. After all the necessary paperwork was done I literally ran to my car and sobbed. This can't possibly be happening! I can't send my baby to kindergarten!!

But she isn't a baby anymore. And she is, in fact, going to start kindergarten soon whether I like it or not.

I just can't seem to wrap my brain around the fact that my children are growing up, and WAY too quickly. Soon I'll be left with no one at home. I always dreamed that my house would be filled with the voices of little kids, but in two years my children will all be at school. My house will be very quiet. And very lonely.

I wish I had some way of shrinking my children, stopping their age progression, and carrying them around in my pocket wherever I go. If only...

Last week I got a package in the mail. It was from my sister's co-worker who lost a baby quite tragically (although can any loss be considered anything less than tragic?) In the package was a very sweet note and a tiny little angel pin. She had been given one like it after her son passed away and had received great comfort from it. So she passed one along to me in hopes that I too would draw comfort from it.

Although I'm not much of a pin wearer, this one is beautiful and, well, it reminds me of Luke so I naturally love it. One day as I was running out the door to do whatever was on me and Halle and Sam's agenda for the day, I decided to shove the pin in my pocket so that I could put it on my shirt when I found a spare moment. I never found that moment. In fact, I totally forgot that angel was even there and so it stayed most of the day in my pocket.

When I remembered the precious little pin I felt rather guilty that it had spent all this time in my dark, tiny pocket. And then the thought made me smile. Almost laugh. Maybe I can't literally carry Halle and Sam and Luke around in my pocket, but I think I found the next best thing.

Now each day I pin my little angel to the outside of my pocket to remind me that the things that are most precious to me, whether seen or not, go everywhere with me. Boyd, Halle, Sam, Luke, and my faith are ALWAYS with me. They go everywhere I go. They are a piece of me and make me who I am. They fill up my heart and that is where I always intend to keep them. They are the angels in my pocket.

The Loss of a Friend

Dear Luke,

The family went out to the cemetery today to sit by your grave. I know that you are not really there - not your true essence anyway. But there is such a special feeling at your grave site. We like to go there as often as we can.

After you first passed away, I went to "see you" everyday. I couldn't imagine that there would ever come a time when I wouldn't make my daily trips to sit by your headstone. But I have to admit, I usually only make it to the cemetery once or twice a week now. I feel you are with us in our home more than you are at the cemetery. But there's still just something about sitting by your grave. Even the kids seem to notice the special sacred feeling that we get there.

I've even made friends at the cemetery. I once wrote a post about an elderly man that I got to know while visiting you. I viewed him as a true friend. I took note of his birthday (which was written on the headstone of his wife's grave) and, knowing that he would be at her grave on that day, left him a little gift on her headstone for him. I felt a special bond with this man. We'd only talked the once and on all other occasions we merely nodded acknowledgement to each other. But he had become a part of my life, in a sense. I knew when I went to visit your grave that I would see him there, and if not, I would always expect to see fresh flowers and love notes on his wife's grave.

Today while at the cemetery, we walked over to my friend's wife's grave. I was admiring the beautiful new flowers and colorful pinwheels when I suddenly noticed that the ground had recently been cut away and the sod replaced. I stared in utter shock when I saw not only a birth date for my friend, but a death date. My friend is gone. Gone home to his wife. I am happy for him. He missed his wife deeply. But I feel a strange sense of loss and sadness at his death.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I could feel myself on the verge of crying as I stared at the headstone. Dad lovingly put his arms around me. "At least now he's happy," he reassured me.

I suppose he is. So why am I so sad? Sad about a man I hardly knew.

If you see him, Lukie, tell him hello from me. And know that, even when a person no longer lives on this earth, they are still loved. They are still thought of. They still matter.

I love you tons,

Mom

Happy Me

Hello again dear reader,

I just got home from a movie with some of my friends. I'm not a late night person and I don't do well with less than 7 hours of sleep, but tonight it just sounded fun to go to a late movie with friends.

When I walked in the house I got this overwhelming feeling of happiness. And I realized that, I do mostly vent and complain on my blog. You know, I started this blog because I knew not all of my friends and family could handle what I was going through. It's heavy stuff. So I let those who wanted to be apart of my grieving know how I was doing through my writing. And then there are those who have also lost babies - I wanted them to know they weren't alone in their grieving. But I am suddenly aware that I am not painting an accurate picture of my life.

So tonight, before I go to bed and get a few hours of sleep before Sam calls my name and begs me to come sleep with him, or before Halle crawls in bed with us and puts her cold feet on me, I just want to let you know that I am happy.

I am. I really am. Yeah, some days are tough. That's no surprise. We all feel that way, right? It doesn't matter what we are dealing with in life, some days are hard. But in the end, I feel as though everything is going to be okay somehow. And that's all I need to know to make me smile. And for the first time, in a long time, I feel normal. Normal, and happy.

-Ann

My Apologizes

Dear Reader,
I want to apologize for a previous post. My sweet husband read it over after I had already posted it and said that, while he understood my intentions, others might not and that perhaps it came of sounding a bit harsh as if I was saying that others' lives are not as difficult as mine. Bless that man for trying to protect me from the misunderstanding of others and at the same time trying to protect others from my bitter diatribes. And so I want to apologize to anyone who might have taken my words as such. I removed the post shortly after, but have decided to re-post it, but this time with an explanation...

I wrote that post after offering to have a neighbor's children come play at our house. She thanked me over and over saying that she felt totally swamped (what with having three kids to take care of and the extra housework that comes with having that many children) and that I was an answer to her prayers. I know she meant it nicely and would feel awful if she knew that it hurt me deeply, but that is exactly what it did. It hurt. I felt as though she was saying that I was lucky to only have two children and that my life must be so easy to not have all the concerns she has.

I admit, I don't know how difficult it must be to have three children. I can imagine it is a lot of work, but that's the thing, all I can do is imagine. I am not saying that she has life easier than me or that my life is easier than hers. They are just different. Both of us have struggles and trials. Both of us feel stretched to our limits. But truth be known, I'd take her trials over mine - not because they are easier by any means, but because I miss my Luke like no one can imagine and would give anything to know her kind of pain.

Despite my missing Luke, I don't ever want others to think that I am so absorbed in my heartache that I can't feel joy or pain for others. As one of my dear friends said the other day, "Everyone has the right to complain about something." She mentioned that she was frustrated when one woman complained about how much pain she was in during the end of pregnancy and hearing another woman chastise her, telling her she was lucky to be pregnant and had no right to complain. The thing is, she was in pain! Just because she was talking about her pregnancy pain didn't mean that she wasn't grateful for her pregnancy. She was merely in pain and wanted someone to understand her pain.

I love this same friend because she lets me complain and understands that, while I'm hurting for me, I'm still happy for her and all my other friends. Likewise, I understand that even while my friends are ecstatic about their new babies, they ache for me. I guess that's what makes us friends. We can feel each others' joys and pains, even while experiencing our own emotions.

Again, I am sorry if my previous post hurt anyone. I did not mean to make it sound like I have to endure anything worse than anyone else. I was merely hurting. Hurting that I'm that lady with a dead baby, allowing me to be an "answer" to others' prayers. I hurt that because of my circumstance in life, I'm seen as the one who can and should pick up the slack for those with more children than me. I guess what I really needed was a safe place to vent for a minute and I hoped that this blog was the place that I could do that.

So please, if you are someone who reads this blog, be gentle with my heart and know that sometimes I just need to have a really good cry where my snot and tears are mingling together on my chin; that sometimes I need to pound my piano with my fists until the flesh on my hands is bruised and swollen; and that sometimes I need to turn on my "angry music" that says words that I don't approve of and turn it up as loud as possible. (Ah, the Matchbox 20 of my high school years sure does hit the spot on an angry day.) And sometimes I just need to complain and be bitter and hateful and yell at God for just a little bit. But know, dear reader, that even these strong emotions subside and I feel peace once again. And know that, even in my darkest of moments, I am still aware of the pain of others. I would never want someone to think they couldn't come to me and complain about their pains and sorrows thinking I might judge them. I also wouldn't want someone to keep their joy and happiness from me because they are afraid I don't want to take part in their joy - because I truly do want to celebrate with others when something wonderful happens. All I ask is that, after listening to your heartache and crying with you or after cooing over your adorable baby and listening to the miracle he is in your life, you will allow me to talk about my sorrows and joys as well. For that is what builds true friendships - our ability to hurt with others and laugh with others, often at the same time.

Thanks for your understanding hearts,
Ann

A Peaceful Reminder

Dear Luke,
Yesterday Dad and I went to the art museum at the nearby university to see an art exhibit of Carl Bloch's. His original art from Denmark and Sweden was sent here for a few months for the public to view. Many of the paintings were depictions of the life of Christ.

I found the art not only beautiful, but very uplifting. This one was my favorite. I like the idea that angels come to us in our darkest hour, even to Christ.

It's also a good reminder to me that, no matter how difficult life is at times, I will never come even remotely close to knowing the pain that Christ was put through for my sake (and for all of Heavenly Father's children).

I loved this one too. It made me think of how much Christ and our Heavenly Father love little children - little children like you and your brother and sister. I imagine you in Their arms, being comforted, and I am filled with peace. We are all being cared for and protected by a loving Heavenly Father and His Son.

Love you,
Mom

Refiner's Fire

Dear Luke, This week has been a tough one. One of the worst I've had since Christmastime. I thought I was doing better. Sure, I thought of you everyday. I've missed you like crazy and shed a few tears each day over you, but I was getting to the point where, more and more, I was able to think of you and smile. My little blessing. My bearer of "light". Your very existance is a miracle and that thought made me smile and feel wrapped in the arms of the love of God. But not his week. This week has been very, very dark. My whole soul has groaned under the weight of this burden I carry. I more than miss you, my son. I yearn for you, ache for you, scream for you, and yes, even curse God for taking you. I feel as though I am being tortured; tormented by my sorrow and the stark contrast of those revelling in happiness. Earlier this week I was in such a dark place that I felt I could hardly take care of Halle and Sam the way I wanted to. So I took them out to lunch, bought them a happy meal (something I rarely do), and let them play at the playground. This helped my mood for a while, but soon the despair snuck back in. Finally I sent the kids to a neighbor's house to play until their dad got home and I went out by myself, hoping to get a grip on my life. I did not hesitate on my destination - I was heading to a house of worship, knowing that feeling the Lord's spirit was the only relief I was going to get from my pain, even if only for an hour or two. On my way, I drove past another of our church's buildings. It was a beautiful building, built by pioneers shortly after settling in Utah. Around Christmastime it was all but completely destroyed by a tragic fire. It took hours and hours for the fire to be extinguished. And when the fire was finally gone, all that was left was the empty shell of a once-majestic building. No time was wasted on cleaning up and restoring the building. The foundation of the building remains strong and unchanged, most of the outer structure is intact and useable, but the entire inside was gutted out. Its remains lay on the middle of the lawn, ugly and burned and exposed to the whole world. The building looks sad. Broken. Defeated. I know how you feel, I think and then I cry a little for both of us. There is that scripture about the refiner's fire and how each of us is perfected through our trials. I feel like my refiner's fire has left me nothing but an empty shell. My foundation is still the same - I still believe in God and His ultimate goodness. I still have my husband and two living children. In fact, these things seem to have actually been strengthened by the "fire", rather than destroyed by it. But otherwise, I feel as though everything inside of me has been destroyed, painfully removed, and laid in the middle of the street for everyone to gawk at. I tell myself all of this is for the best - for both me and the building. While this building was beautiful, it while be remodeled so that its space is better utilized. The inside will be safer and made even more beautiful than before. I tell myself that the same is true of me. I will be a better person because of all of this. I will be more useful in God's hands. My soul will be better, more beautiful. But right now it is hard to see that. All I see is an ugly mess. I think of others around me. Each going through their own refiner's fire. Each as difficult as the next person's because they are designed just for them. We're each so different on the inside and therefore endure different refiner's fires to beautify and perfect our souls. But why is it that I only see smoke around other people. I know several people who have had babies over the past few months. Each came with a different set of circumstances, different concerns about the pregnancy or labor and delivery. There seemed to be billows of smoke around each of these situations with the very real possibility that a terrible fire lay within. But luckily that's all it was - a bunch of ugly smoke. The damage was quickly assessed and taken care of, and now each mother has a beautiful baby sleeping peacefully in her arms. While I would never want another person to go through what I am enduring (I would NEVER wish this hell upon my worst enemy - if I had one), I don't understand why they only dealt with false alarms and I was given the real deal. Why couldn't mine have just been a false alarm too? Why can't I hold my son in my arms right now? What have I done so wrong in life that I needed more refinement than others? I can't help but think these other women must have much better, more refined souls than mine if all they needed was the thought of a tragedy to perfect and beautify them. Clearly I needed the real deal. Two NICU experiences clearly weren't enough to teach me what God had in mind for me. He had to take my youngest in hopes of me becoming who He needs me to be. I know I'm far from perfect, but I try awfully hard to be someone the Lord would be proud of. I try to raise my children unto Him. So why? WHY all this?! I know we're told not to question God, but I can't help it sometimes. Sometimes I am just so angry! Was my soul so useless and ugly that it had to be completely removed and replaced? Did I really need a complete renovation of my life? I'll be better in the end. I remind myself of this over and over. I feel God's hand at work. He hasn't left me alone. My remodel work was begun as soon as the damage was done. But it still hurts. The pain is extruciating and literally knocks me to the ground at times. I'll be better because of this. Right? Missing you, Mom