Random thoughts on my heart

Early on in college I took a class on family history. It sounds like it would be a pretty fluffy class, but it was actually one of my most demanding classes that semester. Hours of researching and interviewing, memorizing methods and facts and resources, travel to various libraries and lots of hunting down obscure record books, and one final exam and capstone report on my progress researching a family line over the preceding three and a half months. I didn't do a lot of things perfectly in that class (writing down sources - oy! still regretting that to this day when I can't find the sources I got certain information for all those years ago!), but I did learn a lot. And I was bitten by the family history "bug". I developed a great love for family history research and work. There is something amazing and thrilling and addicting and transcendent about finding those names and learning the stories about the people who came before you. I love the people whose names are on my family tree. I have such a tender place in my heart for them.

I don't know much, for sure, about most of them. There are a few who left personal histories and letters and pictures. For most, though, it's just bits pieced together here and there from family tradition, an obituary, census information, a newspaper clipping, and so on. But I imagine a lot about them as I gather those clues. I look at immigration records and censuses and think about the trepidation they must have felt arriving in a new country with a young family. I piece together a death record and a census and realize a child died the month before the census interview and I imagine how painful not reporting that child must have been for those parents. I smile at the marriage certificates I find and try to imagine them on that day. I hold a tender spot in my heart for grieving parents as I follow a family through the decades on censuses and see children appear and then disappear too soon.

One thing I have felt- especially over the last six months - is that pain and hardship are universal. There are seasons of happiness and prosperity. And many utterly devastating times, too. Life is hard and beautiful and messy and wonderful and tragic. It always has been and it always will be. A few months ago, I learned that my great-great grandma had three stillborn daughters. She was one of the ancestors who left behind thorough records and I've always been somewhat acquainted with her life. But I didn't learn that fact until this last October. And I felt an instant bond with her. I held my grandma's scrapbook and stared at a photo of my great-great grandma pregnant with one of her stillborn daughters and thought for a long time. I wanted to go back in time and hug her and sit in her living room and cry and talk together. As I've thought about her, I realized: she did it. She did it three times over and she picked herself up and put on foot in front of the other and lived every day until she was 105. There is strength and faith and hardiness in my history.

Family history has been a balm to my soul lately. It is like someone throwing me a lifeline in the middle of the ocean. The thought of sitting down to work on it for a bit can feel like someone turning on the lights when I've been flailing in the dark. I don't know quite how to describe it, but it seems to particularly fill a lot of the void and cover a lot of the pain connected with losing Kate. It seems like the antithesis of losing Kate - if that makes any sense. That's how it feels. Which is pretty cool. Because a lot of the time the only feelings I have in that area are more along the lines of painful, depressed, bitter, sad, jealous, tired and other pretty things like that. In general conference a few years ago, Elder Richard G. Scott spoke about doing family history work. He said that when we immerse ourselves in searching out our ancestors, it will be a great protection against the power of the adversary in our life. I've always thought that was such a neat promise. But before when I thought about the "power of the adversary" in someone's life, I was narrowly limiting it to encompass just the "big sins" and it didn't feel super applicable to me personally, right now. But today I got a letter in the mail from a county clerk in England with a death record for an ancestor whose information has been eluding me for some time. And boy, if it didn't feel like Christmas! Hooray! We found her! And every time I caught sight of that pretty piece of paper, it put a smile on my face - no matter how gloomy or dark the thoughts preceding it may have been. And as I was doing dishes and picking up the house in the post kids-in-bed-for-the-night silence, I got to thinking more about Elder Scott's promise.

Protection against the power of the adversary...

...Protection against the temptation towards bitterness in my thoughts. Protection from darkness and unrelenting pain... A cloak of charity... A means of bringing the Spirit into my life in a very special way. And that Spirit bringing relief and peace and joy and warmth and life for a little while. In a miraculous way that crowds out all the negative things and leaves no place for them.

That is sure a type of protection I could use! Temptations come in many different forms. Not just the type that make headlines in the news.

I love the Gospel. The Lord is so good. His ways are simple and peaceful. I love that I can pray for charity. I love that I can offer up a quick, pleading prayer in my heart during the day asking Him to take away bad feelings from me. I am in awe of His mercy and patience with me. I am so grateful for the Plan of Salvation - for all of the beautiful ways everything works together for my good. I love family history work - it has been a blessing in my life in so many ways. It has given me perspective and strength and empathy as I learn about my ancestor's lives. It has helped me find purpose and added power to overcome my challenges. Through it, the Lord works to bless me and countless others.

It's like you're a fly on the wall at one of my therapy sessions...

...all kinds of random thoughts and realness.

The last two weeks-ish have been really great. Really, pretty fantastic compared to the six months preceding. I've had some particularly wonderful counseling sessions and integrated some very helpful new exercises from those sessions into daily life and my relationships. I've felt like I was making peace with more and more things. And just really- quite inexplicably- living in a happier, more steady place. A place where more things felt neatly tucked away and where thoughts and memories simply came - with no dread or fear or unbearable pain or confusion attached. A decent place to be. Dare I say, approaching normalizing and acceptance?

And then a few days ago "Kate Stuff" (as we call it for short around here) started creeping up on me. A few sad thoughts here, a memory there, a difficult decision that I just couldn't quite feel right about. Until one morning, I woke up quite a mess and quite back in that dark place. Where everything seems tragic and huge and unsolvable. It might as well have been the week that Kate was born for how I felt. How on earth had I been carrying on? How was I functioning so well? How was everyone else just going about their lives? Doesn't everyone remember what happened?! And I sobbed on Eric's chest in the dark like I haven't for months. Today everything doesn't feel quite as fresh as it did two days ago, but the shadow is still lingering and I'm not quite sure what to do about it. I've had thoughts and feelings this week that made no sense to me. Yet they were real. I've been confused and hated the way I've felt and just not been sure what to do. Boy, if there's one thing I've learned through all of this, it's that when someone is grieving just be gentle! Be patient and gentle and kind, for the love of all that is holy. Because they feel like they are drowning sometimes. And they hate it. Even more than you do.

I haven't written much of anything on here for a while. And what I have has been very intermittent. Along with the hard and messy thoughts, I've had other moments that I've really wanted to hop on and record - a holiday, something funny the girls did- a good week, a nice night, or even a few bright moments. The thing I have loved the most about our blog is that it's become a running journal of sorts (and eased my non- paper journal writing guilt!) and captured a lot of small moments that wouldn't have been captured otherwise. But I have had this odd quandary churning inside of me. Which I think I've finally figured out.  Lately I've really been toying with making the blog completely private - posting for myself only in order to record things and freewrite. One part of me really wants to post everything - the good and the bad. But another part of me fears taking on too much of the appearance of "normal" - whatever that is. But you know that superficial, polished, I'm taking-pictures-of-the-decorations-I-just-made type of place we all live in at times (myself included!) that is all smiles and awesome and breezing along? Because I realized that I think I have this subconscious fear that if I "move on" in this space, anyone reading will believe that I have "moved on" with the rest of life and am totally fine. And that they will "move on" as well. And also because I worry that people will categorize me in the "she's doing alright" space and expect that I'm there all the time and not know what to do/say/think/feel when I am very much not functioning or doing alright when those times wash over me.

It's an interesting thing. I've been observing things from my own experience and also read several articles written by parents who have lost children. There seem to be different categories the people close to someone in mourning fall into (and as my therapist pointed out - this is totally natural to an extent based on one's level of intimacy with the mourner).

• There's the outliers - people who the mourner cares about, but isn't that close with who step in for a time when things are fresh and urgent and then fade quickly back into their usual place. The help and care and concern are a beautiful, welcome gesture - somewhat unexpected, but appreciated.

• There's the people in an inner circle who step in at the beginning and then fade away as the months march on. They may also appear again from time to time - which is appreciated. This is all ok, too, because let's face it: there's just not that much time in life or room in the inner inner circles. (I guess this category probably has something to do with the mourner's expectations if we were really going to break it down and tear it apart. But for now, I'm not.)

• Then there's the people in a more inner circle who are there at the beginning - boy are they there! And they continue to be there to an extent as the months march on, but are uncomfortable with the mourner's grief. They are anxious to grab on to any sign of "ok" or "normal" and tell themselves that the mourner is pretty much over it, so they can stop worrying/praying/trying/talking/etc. They are waiting for the "old _________ (fill in the mourner's name here)" to come back. (I can speak candidly about this category because, unfortunately, I have been this person a lot in various people's lives.)

• And then there's the very few people who are really there. Of course they were there at the beginning. And they will be there on that random hard day twenty years from now when other people would look at the mourner like they are crazy. They don't always know what to say or do, but they try. They are consistent. They ask questions, use the name of the departed, talk sensitively, remember hard and happy days more often than not. They encourage and build with kind words and understanding, they don't pretend like nothing has happened, they are patient, and they give hugs. They are the really special friends who have the good judgment to ignore the mourner's polite (but forced and heart-wrenching) inquiry about their new baby and instead steer the conversation another way or bring up a funny memory. They are just a friend - in every best sense of the word.

That is one interesting and unexpected learning experience in the midst of all this. I have learned from many wonderful, selfless people in my life who have been wonderful friends and true Christlike examples. One of my weaknesses is that I am a list person and there is nothing that plagues me so much as an unchecked off list item. I have always been anxious to "check off" the box of so and so's hard time and my role as a friend or support person. Slowly I've been learning the hard lessons for myself. And learning from other people's examples. The people "check boxes" aren't really meant to be crossed off. It's a standing list. The old them- the old me- we are not coming back. Certain experiences in life change you and there's no going back. You'd think I would have learned that by now....

With great suffering comes change and refining and rebuilding. We are in it for the long haul and we need to be in it for the long haul with others. That's the whole point right? (The phrase "even until death" stood out to me for like the first time ever. 'Mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.... even until death' How was I missing that for so long?)

Anyways, there's a bunch of my random thinking-in-the-shower thoughts. I'm going to try to move forward in this space with more balance. Be gentle. And please understand that "moving on" is something that will never happen. But balance can happen. A little space for both the new happiness and the never too far off tender sadness that are mine.

Wanderer

It has been just about three months since Kate was born. It seriously feels like it was a lifetime ago. Right now I feel like an outside observer, looking back on someone else's life. Time keeps marching on, trials keep piling on top of each other before I've been able to surface for air. I decided today, though, that it is time to finish Kate's birth story. I'll post this briefly and then I'm going to sit down and write.

This scripture in the Book of Mormon is how I feel:

26 And it came to pass that I, Jacob, began to be old; and the record of this people being kept on the other plates of Nephi, wherefore, I conclude this record, declaring that I have written according to the best of my knowledge, by saying that the time passed away with us, and also our lives passed away like as it were unto us a dream, we being a lonesome and a solemn people, wanderers, cast out from Jerusalem, born in tribulation, in a wilderness, and hated of our brethren, which caused wars and contentions; wherefore, we did mourn out our days.

In the past I have read this scripture and been somewhat unsettled and confused by it. I've always felt it is so sad. The prophet, Jacob, is wrapping up his writings and summarizing the years of his life- being born in the wilderness to a family fleeing persecution in Jerusalem, working hard to carve an existence out of a new land, struggling with family problems, constantly fighting enemies for their lives, and so forth. Jacob was a prophet and enjoyed a blessed, rich relationship with the Lord, but he struggled too. I've always been drawn to the words of Jacob in the Book of Mormon as they've seemed written just for me in certain times of my life. But I love them even more now. This verse doesn't trouble me any longer, but speaks to my soul. It helps me not feel so alone and broken because someone else felt what I'm feeling.

Lately, I've really been feeling like a wanderer in this world. It is a world, I'm increasingly learning, filled with SO much sadness and hurt and heartache. The more I experience and see in life, the more I am filled with absolutely staggering wonder that the Savior could bear so much pain when He atoned for our sins.

Some of my loved ones are here with me and some are on the other side. Between that and the pain I feel, I often feel torn between two places. I don't know how else to describe it really other than "wanderer". It fits it perfectly. I feel old and tired and like a wanderer. Lately, I've really, really been feeling like I was "born in tribulation" like Jacob said. Born in tribulation to stay in tribulation. That's a bit of an exaggeration because I can at least remember some really happy times. But for the sake of saying what I truly feel, I'll say it. It's how I feel a lot right now.

I have had the song, "Poor Wayfaring Stranger" in my head. This version also speaks to my soul:


It is beautiful. I love the honest, plaintive expression of hardship and the hopeful tones for the future. That's how I feel. I hurt - oh, do I hurt. But I believe. And I hope. And I keep on walking.

On faith

I feel like I've been learning a lot about faith over the last two months.

It's been such an odd experience, that in the midst of my great grief, I have not been able to feel a lot. I feel a few things I can identify that would seem typical during the grieving process- broken, sad, overwhelmed, angry, confused, tired. But overwhelmingly, I feel like there are so many jumbled up, confusing things to feel that it's like something short circuits inside me. And so I end up feeling this weird mixture of blank, stale, and unsettled as I live most of the time in a very superficial reality going through the motions of each day, while something in the background is screaming at me that things aren't right, there are things that need to be felt and processed, and sorted through and the end result is that it just feels awful. I really don't know how to describe it. The last four or five years have been so full of large trials - some that people know about and some that most people don't know about- and something inside of me has reached it's limit and now I'm grieving for all of it. "Complicated grieving" my therapist said it's called. She assures me it's ok and good to grieve it all now that it's come, that it'll just take time. But it's very unpleasant. Today I read/heard two or three different stories of hard things people are going through and as I was taking in these awfully hard things people are experiencing, I just felt dead. I wanted to feel empathy and heartache and love for them. But instead I felt nothing. It is all too much. It's a very frustrating way to feel. I want to feel like myself. And I want all of this to be over.

So, along with all of this business of feeling dead inside also comes a whole lot of not being able to feel the Spirit. For one thing, not allowing myself to get too deep into "spiritual things" (like meditating and pondering during prayer, for example) because that experience brings with it a whole lot of feeling and that brings a whole lot of pain, so I shut down at the start of it as a defense mechanism, I think. But also, just not feeling those "sparks" of the Spirit throughout the day - the ones that motivate me to do better, that fill me with love for people, that give me a flash of inspiration or insight - that just make me feel alive and like myself. I don't blame anyone for that or doubt the Lord or anything like that. It just is how it is. And I have faith that it won't always be like this because I have had fleeting moments of recognizing a tender blessing  from the Lord or feeling someone's love through a kind conversation or gesture that warm me. 

The bottom line is that I have been brought low. I have had experiences in life over the last few years that have made me feel like I was low- a particular trial during which I can remember laying crumpled on the floor in the shower sobbing, pouring my heartache out to the Lord, and feeling like there wasn't one soul on Earth who I could share my heartache with. Or pick virtually anytime during Elena's cancer treatment and I would have told you I felt very humbled indeed. But this! This is a new low. I have never felt like this - so stripped of all my resources to cope, so broken. I truly feel like I've been brought down to my very core. But I've been intrigued by something I've found there. Along with the darkness, I've also found the core of my faith. And in the process, I think I've learned something about what faith really is. 

Faith is the quiet, steady burning thing you find after you've stripped all the other layers away. The red-hot, but silent core under the layers of dirt and green grass and frilly flowers. My faith usually manifests itself above ground with the billowy grass and the blooms. Which is a good type of faith, too. I feel pretty happy and constant, but mostly I just feel. But when life has torn away all the excess layers, and I stand bewildered and feel like there's not much to me, I am still. 

And I realize that never have I faltered, never have I not believed. 

I know God lives. I know He loves me and that He is still guiding and blessing me ever so patiently and mercifully. (Which is amazing when even I am sick of myself!) I know He has a plan for me and my family and that good things are in store. I know He always hears my prayers. I know those things even when I can't feel them right now. And that is everything to me.

Faith, in it's simplest form, is the bedrock that everything else is built on. When all the other parts of "me" are stripped away, it is the thing that remains constant and unchanging - that is built into my very existence.

Eric and I sat philosophizing a few nights ago about out experiences with hard trials over the years and this feeling of faith I'd been thinking about. He said that he felt a lot like this when Elena was first diagnosed. When he felt so low and then eventually started feeling hope and coming to the surface again, he realized that a lifetime of good choices had built up his spiritual reserves that got him through that time. A day of going to church here, another day of scripture study there, a bit of service at home, a seemingly small act of honesty, consistent prayer, and so on. Those things were like savings for a rainy day. When the rains did come and beat upon him until he could hardly stand, what was left was the faith to keep holding on- born of thousands of small choices to do what was right. I suppose that's part of what the scriptures are mean when they talk about being built on a rock. (Like this one and this one, for example.) And it hit me - the small choices we make each day MATTER. Those are the things that build faith that will last.

I am grateful for the Gospel of Jesus Christ - a gospel of change. I'm grateful for the Lord's mercy to me. I am struggling mightily these days. But I know God lives and I know that things will eventually get better. There are a lot of things I don't understand. Right now in my broken, mourning state, I can't see or feel clearly enough to understand why certain things have happened, the timing of things that have happened, etc. There is a scripture that really speaks to me these days. It speaks to my lack of clarity, but simple, sure faith and sums it all up. I feel to say, like Job of old:

"...the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
(Job 1:21)

Wake me up when (a few) September(s) ends

Sometimes I feel really, really broken. And possibly like I'm losing my mind. This is so hard. At my therapy appointment last week, our therapist (who knows a lot of our background from working with Elena) said that she thinks I am currently trying to process and grieve over more than just Kate's death. She told us that traumatic moments tend to be linked in the brain and it is likely that in an effort to "keep going" in the past that I never fully grieved and dealt with things that happened, but now I've reached an overload. That now I'm grieving Kate and her birth, our experience with Elena's cancer, and other past events all at the same time without realizing it. Maybe. Maybe that's why this seems SO very hard. I feel like swiss cheese - missing pieces all over the place. It is sad and confusing and frustrating and feels so complex and overwhelming. I just want to feel normal. I want to rewind time and jump back in and change the story and have Kate here and life back the way it was. Sometimes I really hate all of this. I don't understand a lot of the way I'm feeling and I'm tired of it interfering with life. And I'm tired of not knowing how to feel or what to say or what to do. Would you believe it if I said that in the space of about 18 hours worth of day I have felt:

perfectly normal
like dying
irrational hatred of all nine month pregnant women
like I want to hold and squish every newborn baby in sight
invigorated from a workout
tired down to my bones
overflowing with gratitude from seeing the Lord's tender mercies
physically ill from an excited "so, where's your baby?" conversation with an acquaintance I hadn't seen in a while
happy
frustrated
sad
excited
melancholy
just fine
a great sense of injustice
spiritually high and in tune
worried about how my kids are coping with all they've experienced in their short lives and guilt that I'm so messed up myself that I don't feel like I'm helping them enough?

I am so tired of all the reminders of how my life was going to be and how it is now. I'm trying so desperately to heal and to move on, but it brings the hurt on fresh every time. When I sign a birthday card or thank you note with just four names (Eric, Briana, Elena, and Lily) and get slapped in the face by how I would have been signing five names by now. Or when I get a form with a slot to fill in "family size" and have to write four when for so long I've been planning on writing five. Or when I get an invitation in the mail for a walk coming up next month for families who have lost babies (speaking of irrational - here's another case where I'm so grateful someone thought to include us and also angry at the fact that we qualify to get that invitation at all!).

Sometimes I just feel so tired. Bills and medical needs and worries never seem to end. And although I know things are slowing getting better each day, I'm weary of feeling the way I have been over the last six weeks and feeling like there's nothing really that can be done. Everyone (my therapist included) keeps saying (and I know they must be right), you just have to be patient and feel the feelings as they come and let time pass. But that's kind of a helpless-feeling place to be. I feel a little like a small ship being blown around by the wind on the ocean, just waiting for enough time to pass and to stop being blown into these emotional storms. I like to plan and to be in control and I've never felt like this - so at a loss about what to do to make things better and how to plan. But I guess this is a life lesson I need to learn, right? We can't control everything and learning to cope with that is what makes us stronger, better people. It's just a hard one to learn sometimes when it hurts so much. But I'm trying.

A few glimpses: "The Bookstore"

Those last few paragraphs of Kate's birth story are proving really, really hard to get out. It takes a huge emotional toll to sit down and rehash everything out in my mind to get it out on paper and I just haven't been able to bring myself to do it. There have been quite a few times where I've sat down and stared at the screen and read and reread, but I haven't been able to do it. It's my big goal for myself for this week to finish it. I really want to get it all written down before the memories dull anymore.

In the meantime, I thought I'd share some poems and thoughts I've run across recently and really connected with. I've hit a rough patch over the last several days. Mentally and emotionally, possibly as hard as the first week or two where I was in a mental stupor and tired and constantly crying in my quiet moments. Too much to get into right now. I know I'll get through it, but right now it's hard. This poem by Rene Strikwerda expresses some of my feelings as of late - she describes the harsh transition from being an expectant parent to a grieving parent:

The Bookstore

"Stillborn, "When Pregnancy Fails,"

these words that shout at me

declaring themselves.

These hated words draw my eyes

to the bookshelf I do not want to follow.

The titles inviting me to join

their band of broken hearts and shattered lives.

I want to scream-- I do not belong here!

So few weeks ago I stood in this place

with rounded belly and lofty dreams

A joyous member of the living

hungrily absorbing information

on pregnancy and caring for baby.

The knowing smiles from women

the casual glance from belly to face.

Eyes embraced you, welcoming you

to the secret club.

I choose the book on grief

and lay it on the counter like an unclean thing.

The eyes have changed.

They look away,

no longer wanting to see inside you.

They secret my purchase away,

but I am not concealed.

I have been torn open for all to see.

As I leave the bell on the door mocks me

singing, "Your baby is dead."

Sundays, Grief, and other Random Thoughts

So, I need to unload my very full brain and heart a little tonight. I have a whole post I'd like to write about tender mercies I've seen over the last 3+ weeks and some of the many amazing things people have done for us. Like how almost every day for the last two weeks, our mailbox has had at least one kind card or package. Such a treat - for our girls (their faces LIGHT UP at something fun in the mailbox) and for my heart. Thank you, thank you all you beautiful people out there. Anyways, there is so much to tell that is so tender and beautiful and uplifiting. And I'll get to it - soon hopefully. But, a different subject tonight. I really hope I don't come across as hopeless or ungrateful or whiny- we are so blessed- but I need to get out some more hard thoughts and feelings.

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Sundays are hard days, I've decided. I went into labor and Kate was born on a Sunday. And darn it, if every Sunday for the last three weeks, I haven't struggled mightily starting about the time Sunday school is halfway over. And by the time Sunday night rolls around (Kate was born at night), I'm pretty much a huge mess. Ready to sleep for a week or maybe the next ten years. Until I can wake up and not hurt so much.

Then Monday morning comes and I wake up pretty reluctantly and with eyes so puffy they barely open. But then life keeps happening (despite how my heart and mind shout for it to just stop for a while) and we begin the morning rush to get Elena to school. And life drags me along with it. Which is somewhat of a good thing, I think, because it keeps me busy and I get to Monday afternoon and feel pretty decent until I hit the evening wall. And then Tuesday and Wednesday, the same thing happens and I feel alright - all things considered. Thursday and Friday are alright, but not quite as good. I think I'm figuring out that I just get tired and can only take so much "normal" before the grief and mourning push their way back in and demand to be considered for a bit. I can take little doses of things right now. A few hours in company, a couple of tasks around the house, etc. And by the end of the week, I'm tired in body, Spirit, heart, and mind. Saturday the downward spiral continues, culminating in Sunday evening when memories collide with fatigue and things are hard and messy.

Last night I was thinking about this apparent cycle. I read a little (from here) about the stages of grief and under "anger" it said , "As the masking effects of denial and isolation begin to wear, reality and its pain re-emerge. We are not ready. The intense emotion is deflected from our vulnerable core, redirected and expressed instead as anger."  This makes a lot of sense. And I wondered, is this where they cycle comes in each week? When the memories from my surroundings come back each Sunday, does my mind try again to process the intense emotion and then realize it's too much and I'm not ready and so I go back into denial and live pretty superficially for a few days to try and deflect the enormity of it all?

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So, one thing that I've been struggling with a lot in my head is being worried about how I'm feeling and struggling with and then worrying about what other people must think of me. Worried that people will be annoyed, sick of hearing about it and thinking, "When will she get over it already?!", that it'll make people feel uncomfortable, that I'll lose dear friendships and associations because of all these things. Sometimes that seems ridiculous to me and other times that seems like a very real concern. I have moments where I want to reach out to someone or respond honestly to an inquiry, but I'm worried about how other people will react, what they will think, or what I'm burdening them with.

One of the moms in my "cancer moms" group posted a link to this article about grief and it helped me tremendously to read. I just love it because the author has written some of the exact thoughts and feelings that were swirling around inside me and conflicting me last night. She totally hit the nail on the head! I want to shout "Amen!" to each point she makes.

I don't really know what else I want to say other than that I loved the article, she described a lot of what I've been feeling, and it made me feel slightly less crazy. I guess it just helped me to remember that there isn't a short, easy answer to all of this. I'm ok as I am right now. That at least helps to remove one of the wrestlings I've been having lately over my fear of how others might react. Here's the 7 principles on grief from the article:

"1. Grief is a normal reaction -- Grief is the natural emotional and physical response to the death of a loved one. Although our society desperately wants to avoid the messiness of deep sorrow, there is no way out except through the pain. Typical numbing techniques such as medications, alcohol and food are only temporary distractions to dull the pain.

Letting oneself grieve by going directly into the pain -- in manageable doses over a long period of time -- is healing. Avoiding the pain simply forces it to go deep into the heart where it subtly affects emotional and physical health.

2. Grief is hard work -- Grief isn't easy and it isn't pretty. It involves tears, sleepless nights, pain, sorrow and a heartache that knocks you to your knees. It can be hard to concentrate, hard to think clearly, hard to read and easy to forget all the details of life that everyone else seems to remember. Grievers frequently feel that they're going crazy and they sometimes wish to die. This doesn't mean that they're actively suicidal, it just means that they're grieving.

3. Grief doesn't offer closure -- Closure is an idea that we like because we want to tie up our emotional messes with a bow and put them in the back of a closet. But grief refuses to play this game. Grief tends towards healing not closure. The funeral can be healing, visiting a gravesite can be healing, performing rituals, writing in journals and making pilgrimages can be personally meaningful and healing. But they will not bring closure. Closure is relevant to business deals but not to the human heart.

4. Grief is lifelong -- Although we all want quick fixes and short-term solutions, grief won't accommodate us. Many people want grief to be over in a few weeks or a few months and certainly within a year. And yet, many grievers know that the second year is actually harder than the first. Why Because the shock has worn off and the reality of the pain has truly sunk in.

I let grievers know that the impact of grief is lifelong just as the influence of love is also lifelong. No matter how many years go by, there will be occasional days when grief bursts through with a certain rawness. There will be days, even decades later, when sadness crosses over like a storm cloud. And likely, every day going forward will involve some memory, some connection to missing the beloved.

5. Grievers need to stay connected to the deceased -- While some might find it odd or uncomfortable to keep talking about a loved one after they have passed, or find it disconcerting to see photographs of those who have died, it is healthy to keep the connection alive. My heart goes out to a generation or more of grievers who were told to cut their ties to their deceased loved ones, to move on, almost as if they had never existed. Such unwitting cruelty! It is important to honor the birthdays and departure days of deceased loved ones. Their physical presence may be gone, but they remain in relationship to the griever in a new way beyond form, a way based in spirit and love.

6. Grievers are changed forever -- Those who expect grievers to eventually get back to their old selves, will be quite disappointed. Grief, like all major life experiences, changes a person irrevocably. People don't remain unchanged after getting an education, getting married, having a baby, getting divorced or changing careers. Grief, too, adds to the compost mixture of life, creating rich and fertile soil. It teaches about living and dying, about pain and love and about impermanence. While some people are changed by grief in a way that makes them bitter and shut down, it is also possible to use grief as a springboard for compassion, wisdom, and open-heartedness.

7. Grievers can choose transcendence -- Transcendence has to do with gaining perspective, seeing in a new way and holding pain in a larger context. Seeing one's grief from a larger perspective allows it to be bearable and gives it meaning. For one, transcendence might mean reaching out to those who suffer. For another, it might mean giving to a cause that will benefit others. Grievers who choose transcendence recognize that they are not alone, that they share a common human condition, and that they are amongst so many who have experienced love and loss. They use their pain in a way that touches others. The pain is still there, of course, but it is transformed."

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Here's a scripture I really, really like these days:

 1 The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me; because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound;

 2 To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that mourn;

 3 To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.

Isaiah 61:1-3

I'm broken-hearted, and mourning, and oh, do I ever feel like I have the spirit of heaviness (heavy describes it exactly). And what wonderful promises in return!

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This experience is very hard. Which is an understatement. I feel a lot of peace and have been blessed, through a knowledge of Gospel truths and personal revelation, with a lot of answers. Overall, in the big picture, I feel very ok. I know we'll get through this. But it is a messy, difficult, heart-wrenching process for me in the meantime. There is a lot to work through. This grief is very real and very powerful. Frighteningly overwhelming at times. And seemingly hugely complex. What the article above said about "letting yourself grieve by going directly into the pain" being healing has been on my mind a lot lately, but it seems like every time I try to delve into the pain, it threatens to swallow me. It just seems neverending.

So, on that subject, I'd like your advice/thoughts if you have any. I was pondering last night about what to do/how to get through this overwhelming pain and grief. Right now, it feels like something so huge and complex that I might never be able to work it all out and get through it. I had the thought that maybe this is where the Atonement comes in? Maybe this just is too huge for me to handle and process. Is that the answer - do I just need to turn it over to the Lord? How do I do that? Is it a combination of utilizing the Atonement to help in some way and also something else I need to do/experience? Does that make sense? I mean, like I've said, I've got a lot of the answers regarding the big picture. But I'm struggling with what to actually DO (to put it bluntly) to stop feeling so crappy. To not want to burst out crying multiple times a day when I get thinking about things. Does that make sense?

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I feel like I'm stuck in limbo- like I don't know how to move forward or where I fit into life now. Eric and I were talking the other day about it and he helped me to realize some of what I'm struggling with. Pregnancy is a huge life change with lots of anticipation, preparations, changes, etc. The natural resolution of pregnancy is having a baby. Not just giving birth to a baby, but having a baby in your every day life. And I'm missing that. Pregnancy, in my experience, is so deeply interconnected and ingrained into my existence as a woman that this unnatural and unexpected resolution of my most recent pregnancy has left me totally bewildered on every level of my being. It's a loss I feel acutely. It's really hard to know where I fit in and what to do now to feel "right".

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I started reading a book I received called, Joy Cometh in the Morning, and a passage from the introduction really touched me. The author is describing her feelings several years after the loss of her baby and I could really relate to what she described:

"What had started out as sheer torture gradually softened, and little by little Dave and I were able to look forward to the future again. Through the passage of time and divine assistance, I had learned to enjoy life again rather than simply endure it. I had come to realize that I could love others and I could love myself without feeling guilty toward Devin [her son that passed away]. Not only that, I truly could be happy, I could laugh at myself, and I could have fun again..." 

I'm on the "enduring it" side of things at the moment, for the most part. But I'm hopeful for the future.

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And now, I've officially thought myself into a stupor and I can sleep. Hooray for a new day tomorrow.

A stage

Well, I've been sitting here staring at the computer screen for the last half an hour. I've been working on writing Kate's birth story for the last few days and have been excited to get it published, but now nothing is coming. And in truth, I'm a little annoyed sitting here rereading over everything.

After a surprisingly good week, the last 24 hours or so have been rough. On Tuesday (which was my due date), I took Elena to what was supposed to be the start of some more therapy for her (she has been having a really rough time dealing with all of this), but she wouldn't talk to the therapist, so it ended up being mostly a therapy session for me. Which was good, too. The therapist told me to not be worried to cry whenever I needed to and to let myself experience the stages of grief. She told me that it wasn't a strictly linear process, either. I might bounce back and forth from sadness to anger to denial back to sadness, etc. It was nice to talk through things with her - she experienced the loss of a baby, herself. I'm so grateful the Lord led us to find her. And grateful for our good mental health coverage.

But, I think I am angry. Not like I'm in a rage or mad at a specific person or the Lord. Not any of that at all. But, you know how you sometimes have those days where things are off and then halfway through you realize that you just are having an off day and are annoyed at everything - not really anything in particular and not really for any super rational reasons - you just are? It's kind of like that. I am just angry and frustrated.

I was mad at the newborn diapers I ran into while looking for a box under my bed - why do you exist, why are you in my house, why isn't my baby here to wear them, why did I buy such a huge box of them rather than the little package?

I was mad at a bag of chips I saw in the pantry that I had bought the week before Kate was born to stock up our house with food - why are you still here, why am I looking at this bag of chips now under these circumstances? Why couldn't things have just worked out the way I had envisioned? I wish I was looking at you, stupid bag of chips, with my baby here in our house.

I was mad at my milk coming in yesterday- why are you still coming in, milk? Why don't I have my baby here to nurse?

I was mad when I saw Elena's Cowgirl Kate book from the library and thought about how much I like the name Kate and now I don't get to use it very much because she's not here with us right now.

I was mad at the way life turns out sometimes when I read an article on postpartum exercise from a favorite blogger. Despite my reservations about the subject right now, I was really interested to hear her take on the subject. It was all well and good until I got to the parts about how such and such won't work, you know, because your baby is here and you're probably tired. Or such and such "since you're nursing your baby". Where do you fit in when you DID just give birth two and a half weeks ago and your body is definitely postpartum, but you don't have anything in your arms to show for it? I don't quite fit into the regular postpartum club and I felt it acutely. Stupid article.

I was mad (and sad) laying in bed and looking around our room last night - the same bed I laid in so happily two and half weeks ago talking and cuddling with Eric while I was in labor. Darn room that looks the same and takes me right back to that time! Usually that memory of happily anticipating Kate's arrival is a good one and I welcome it when it comes. But now, when it comes, I feel angry and frustrated. Why can't I just have her here? Why did things have to turn out this way? Why do I have to do this?

I know a lot of the answers to those questions. And, like I said, it's been a pretty good week - with lots of peace and happiness and even some housework sprinkled in. But right now, even though I know those things, that's just the way I feel. I miss Kate. I'm sad about the way things turned out. And frustrated that I'm not holding and nursing my beautiful baby.

I'm really glad that I got to have that chat with our therapist. Therapy rocks. Nice to know this is normal. It's a stage. It won't last forever - I'll feel it while it's here and keep looking to brighter days ahead.

Breathing

I have so much swirling through my mind and heart, I figured I had better just dive in and start letting it out before it escapes me. At some point, I'll start at a more logical beginning like our sweet Kate's birth story and her passing. And then detail other things like the funeral, burial, etc. But right now I just need to start spewing thoughts. Writing is very healing for me and I think it'll help me process some things if I can get them out.

I love all my dear friends, family, and all the kind strangers who have been so dear and life-saving to us throughout the last week+. We are overwhelmed with people's generosity, thoughtfulness, and beautiful hearts. We feel your love. I'm seriously humbled to my core to watch your giving and feel your succoring. I wish I could adequately express my deep, deep gratitude for all you do. And your prayers are sustaining us. Miraculously, I make it through each day. I'm not always sure how that will happen, but it does each day and I feel a remarkable amount of peace a majority of the day. I know prayers for our strength and comfort are being answered.

I'm sorry I don't take more phone calls. Please forgive me. For some reason, as much as I love and am so deeply grateful for all of you, it is really hard to talk to/see people right now. It feels like a monumental task, except for brief, random snippets each day. Even typing a text seems overwhelming about half of the time and doesn't happen until hours after the fact. Mostly, I just want to sleep. I'm tired down to my bones and my soul aches. I don't know that I've ever felt this tired and heavy before - even during cancer. I don't know. But this isn't me asking you to stop trying. So, I may not answer when you call or text you right back, but it is SO good to receive it still. Thank you. And also, I may just be in the bathroom. :)

I feel all sorts of opposite feelings:

Some mornings I wake up feeling like I've been bludgeoned half to death, other mornings I feel surprisingly good.

My eyes seem to be permanently puffy and ache all the time from crying. I've given up trying to wear my contacts.

My milk is slowing down - which is a relief. And also makes me want to cry because it feels like another dying thing as my body continually tries to let down small, pitiful amounts of milk. It feels like the last struggles of a dying thing. And that dying thing was the thing that was trying to support my baby.

I have moments of beautiful peace and clarity. I wish I could find a way to make that my reality all day. The peace and comfort have been coming to me like a sunrise. Just kind of quietly swelling and there without me realizing it was coming. I'm so grateful for the beautiful communications of the Spirit. I know the Lord knows me and stands ready to comfort me. I see His love in a million different ways every day - the sun shining in through the blinds in the morning, something silly my kids do that warms my heart, a beautiful memory from the last week, a kind note from a loved one, the love and concern of my dear husband, and so many other things - not the least of which are the many, many things you, my dear friends and family, have done for us.

My brain function is still severely limited. It's not an exaggeration - I'm really not firing on all cylinders and everything seems fuzzy. I was trying to recall a family members name the other day and couldn't. I searched and searched through my brain in the usual way I recall things and there was nothing to be found. Should I be worried or is this par for the course? Will my brains ever return to me? So much of life feels very fuzzy right now.

I seem to be recovering well from giving birth. The usual stuff... but I am recovering well. And giving birth was awesome. Awesome.

After sleep, I usually feel pretty good. In the evenings, I hit a very decided wall. A wall of tiredness and tears.

I happily banished from the house all evidence of my careful baby preparations. Every time I looked over at the bottle of baby wash or the stack of neatly folded tiny clothes, I felt sad, slightly angry, awe-struck at how ironic life can be, frustrated, and longed for the baby they were meant for. My midwife, husband, and brother and sister in law dispatched most all of the items for me and it helps. At the same time though, I long to quickly get up reminders of our beautiful Kate Nicole. I want pictures on display in every room - anything that will help cement her reality in my daily existence and normalize all that has happened. I think I figured out last night that the difference is that one is a hard reminder of how so much anticipation and excitement were cut off. It's a reminder of the hard things about what has happened. But the other is a reminder of the beautiful things that happened - our sweet baby girl, the kindness of so many people, and the love of the Lord.

Some songs I am loving right now: "After All" by The Idea of North, "From this One Place" by Sara Groves, "The Sun Will Rise" by Kelly Clarkson, and "Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson. They are seriously awesome if you're having a hard time or just looking for something inspirational.

This morning I woke up with the scene from the church movie, "Joseph Smith: The Prophet of the Restoration" in my head. The scene where Joseph is digging a grave for their firstborn child and Emma is sitting in a chair next to him holding a tiny coffin. I don't really know what relevance this has to anything, but I was really moved by the experience. I felt such kinship with them - I understand Emma's slumped shoulders and the soul tired look on her face. I've seen my husband pushing hard to serve and take care of his family in the midst of grief. I've picked out and lovingly touched a tiny coffin. And I'm feeling those impossibly conflicted and complex feelings of losing a child I just carried and dreamed about and loved for 9+ months. Oddly enough, it gave me such comfort to think of Joseph and Emma in that moment and to feel that kinship. And it gives me hope and strength to think of their courage and example of strength and faith moving forward. And to think of the happiness and purpose their lives had in the future.

I reread my patriarchal blessing yesterday and for the first time ever, the word "everyday" really struck out to me. There are several spots in my blessing where I'm told to do something "everyday". I could really use some help knowing what my "everydays" are supposed to look like right now. And so, I think I'm going to focus on those things - studying the scriptures, pouring my soul out to the Lord in prayer, strengthening my testimony, enjoying the truly beautiful things of the earth, and nurturing my children and helping them feel love.

We keep breathing.

Something I've Just Got to Get Out

For two days now, I've had the fourth verse to the hymn "How Firm a Foundation" running through my head quite persistently. It popped in kind of randomly after our ward choir sang some of the other verses to that song on Sunday. But I absolutely love it.

Tonight we found out that one of our favorite nurses from clinic (in Utah) was diagnosed with cancer. My heart has been aching for her and her family. She took extra special care of Elena -- and our whole family-- all throughout treatment. It's all so ironic. And sad. I wish I could be there to be such a thoughtful, cheerful, patient, loving caregiver to her now.

I can also tick off a list that seems about a mile long with friends and family who are dealing with some very hard, intense things right now. I've been trying to slow my mind down tonight, so I can sleep, but I keep going back to that verse. Maybe it keeps knocking at my brain, so that I'll let it out. I hope it helps some of you who are dealing with hard things:

"When through the deep waters, I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not thee o'erflow.
For I will be with thee, thy trouble to bless.
And sanctify to thee, and sanctify to thee,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress."

"How Firm a Foundation", verse 4, attr. to Robert Keen

There's so much I could say about it. But that would take too long for right now. Just know that I KNOW that it's message is absolutely true and can be relied on 100%. The Lord loves us. He knows us. He is there for us every step of the way. He can make beauty rise from the ashes of our lives. He has a plan for our lives. I know that. We've lived the things the verse is talking about and I know that the Lord's promises are sure. I love all of you - my dear friends and family that are struggling right now.

Eight thoughts for eight months of "normal"

In about a week we will celebrate the eight month off treatment mark AND Elena's 3rd diagnosis anniversary. Three years! And eight months of us living under the radar. That's what it feels like at least, sometimes. Like we are flying under the cancer radar - holding our breath and trying not to be noticed and forced back into it all. But other times it feels like that was all a hundred years ago and we don't remember a lot of it. We forget to freak out and run for the thermometer every five seconds, we play with friends who have colds, there's no medicine to take - not one pill!, we run around barefoot, and Elena sometimes even complains about having hair and how troublesome it can be. :) 

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Elena on Valentine's Day this year at home!

So much better than Valentine's Day spent in the hospital!

I haven't looked back at any cancer stuff for a while. Looking at this picture kind of shook me up. The bruise/crazy explosion/freaky chemo side effect/whatever above her eye, the way her skin was breaking down into horrible rashes all over her body from the chemo, her accessed port, how tired she was, no hair - it's crazy how "normal" that was for us back then. Life is so different now. Elena is really thriving for the most part. It truly is wonderful and a miracle.

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Several times a week, I look around at how normal and relatively worry free we are, and my joy bubbles over. This life is awesome. Not having sick kids is really, really cool. I don't know how else to say it. We don't live in the hospital. We don't worry as much. I can't describe it. It's just really awesome to be "normal".

Sometimes, though, I look around, get a pit in my stomach, and think, "This has been such an amazing couple of months! Things just keep getting better. This can't last. We've had our share of good times and very little worry in the last few months. Something must be coming." It's been so long of dealing with crap after junk after awful after hard after crap that it's hard to relax. And we've learned that trials are a part of life. I'm not perfected yet - I've got lots to learn still. And a lot of years of life to live. What else is coming? When is it coming? 

There is also a lot of survivor's guilt at times. Mostly when we hear about other kids who don't make it. Why their child and not mine? Why do we get to have so much happiness and ease right now and not them?

We are trying to enjoy what we have now. And like I said, a lot of times we forget all the cancer crap and we just live and it's delightful. There were times I couldn't even imagine being at this point. It really is a blessing how far we've come. 

I wonder though if we'll ever be able to really relax. Just tonight, in fact, as I was putting Elena to bed, fears of relapse crept into my mind yet again. "She's so tired. She's been so tired lately - I don't think this is normal. She was laying with her head on the table as she ate her bedtime snack. Is something going on?" And then I scanned her body for bruises and tried to assess her skin tone and thought back over the days events to try and gauge it all-- a routine my mind knows all to well. It's a weekly (or several times a week) occurrence  Not on purpose - those thoughts and fears involuntarily pop into our heads. The curse of going through one of your worst nightmares, I guess. We're a little jumpy.

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Last week, I FINALLY cleaned out our large rolling cancer supply chest. It has been sitting in the closet untouched for the last eight months. I don't know why it took me so long. But it felt daring and exciting to sort through and throw away and empty all the drawers out. We may or may not have had some really, really expired heavy duty IV antibiotics left over from neutropenic at-home infusions that had been just sitting there for years. Because what if the world ends while you're child is immuno-compromised? That's a freaky thought. But now it's all in the trash. Deep cleansing breath.... ahhhhh. 

The contents of one of many drawers

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Now, the deets on the little miss and what's left of our cancer routine. It goes like this. Elena gets check ups once a month. For a long time. It will depend on a few variables, but her oncologist will follow her until she's somewhere between about 13-18. If I remember right (and I very well may not be because it gets a little confusing) we go for a check-up once a month for two years. Then every two months for two years, then every three months for three years. Then every six months for a year or two. And then once a year for a bunch of years. That's the basic gist. When she hits the two year off treatment mark, she goes to the "Survivor's Clinic" here where they'll run a bunch of tests - check her hearts function, etc. - to see if she's having any long term effects from the chemo. We were making the trek to the hospital for her monthly check-ups. But then our deductible started over with the new year and we worked out a new arrangement to save us a lot of money. So, our new cancer routine goes like this: the day before the check-up we go to the lab (free standing in a little medical complex in town because the insurance covers it then - weird, weird insurance) and get blood drawn. It's a standard blood draw from the arm. Then the next day, we go to the pediatrician for her check-up. He looks over her CBC and reviews it with us, checks her heart, ears, and lymph nodes, tracks her weight, height, and temperature, asks us how she's been doing overall and if we have any questions. And then we go home. We do that every month, except that every six months, we go to the hospital and check in with the oncologist who has just been keeping an eye on the ped's notes. It is a blessing to be able to save some money and travel time by doing that. But it turned out to be even more of a blessing in disguise because we have found that it has been very healing for Elena's mental and emotional well being to not continually be revisiting the hospital with all it's traumatic memories and associations. But more on that in a second.

As for Elena, other than our occasional worries, she is doing very, very well. A few appointments ago her oncologist said that she was doing perfectly and he couldn't ask for a patient to be doing any better off treatment. Her CBC's continue to look great, she is growing, so far no late effects from the chemo have shown up, and overall she's just doing excellent. She's finally mastered the potty, she's smart as anything, it seems like her hypoglycemia is less severe, she loves art and riding her bike and can't wait to start a gymnastics class. We feel so blessed.

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It turns out there are some perks to having cancer. Woot for free stuff. ViaCord Blood Banking has this awesome program called "Sibling Connection" where they will collect and bank for five years the cord blood of a baby who is the sibling of a cancer patient/survivor absolutely free. Sweet, right?! We are getting all signed up and little bebe's cord blood will be stored for Elena, in case she (Heaven forbid) ever relapsed and needed a transplant. Fingers and toes crossed that we never need it. But it is really nice to know it is there. 

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Back about four or so months ago, we started Elena in therapy. She has been struggling with a lot of behavioral and other emotional issues and we felt like some post treatment "exit counseling" would really help. Overall, she dealt with things remarkably well, but we knew there must be things that needed to be worked out. She was two and went through cancer, for pete's sake! She got poked over and over in the chest with a needle, got told she couldn't go outside, couldn't play at the park, couldn't see her friends, etc. Who wouldn't be a little messed up after that?! The Lord guided everything about the situation and the therapy has turned out to be such a wonderful thing for Elena and our family! I'm SO glad we did it. We found an exceptional therapist  - one who had never dealt with our exact situation, but had a lot of similar experiences and had just the set of skills and "tools" that Elena needed. We were truly led by the Lord in finding her.

Elena has been dealing with textbook Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and other attachment issues. Which mostly manifested themselves in a lot of crazy over the top "freak-outs" for lack of a better term, horrible troubles with anything potty related, often acting out more like a two year old than a five year old, lots of anxiety and acting out in medical settings (like being totally fine all day before the hospital, but once in the room she'd start kicking her doctors, get really loud and silly, stop listening and responding, etc.), and lots of other stuff. She'd have these meltdowns were she'd just be completely out of her head. There was no "getting across" to her - no reasoning with her. And a lot of screaming. It was crazy. Nothing like a normal little kid melt down. Eric and I could literally see her checking out of her mind and completely losing it. A lot of her issues have been extremely frustrating for Eric and me. The day I gave the overview to the therapist and she nodded knowingly and started explaining things to me was a revelation. All of a sudden, I could understand more of where Elena was coming from and why she was acting the way she was. It helped me so much - to let go of my frustration, empathize with her, and have a framework to deal with things that came up. It's long and complex, but besides the PTSD, etc., the therapist said that very young kids who have gone through traumatic events often get "stuck" developmentally in the stage they were in when the event happened. For Elena that was at diagnosis at just under two and a half years old. So, while Elena developed cognitively and physically as she should have, she kind of got "stuck" emotionally and even a little socially at age two and a half. When the therapist talked to me about that, it made SO much sense. We did a lot of work to help her process things relating to the PTSD, worked on re-bonding with her, spent quite a few weeks working on the potty issues, and just otherwise armed ourselves with good coping techniques and exercises to help us continue working on things at home. Have I mentioned that our therapist was wonderful and therapy was lifesaving?? Last month, we had a bunch of breakthroughs in a row. Elena quit diapers (can you hear the hallelujah chorus?). Then we went to the lab for her blood draw. She got nervous and didn't want to go in, but I pulled out one of the coping techniques the therapist taught us and she walked right in and sat down and didn't cry or fidgit one bit. That sounds simple, but if you'd ever seen her and the crying, struggling, screaming, freaking out ORDEAL that every blood draw - port or regular - has been, you would know that it's nothing short of a miracle. Therapy has been such a blessing for us. We were going weekly, but had our last regular session a couple of weeks ago. In a few more weeks, we'll go back to check-in and see how things are going. Then we'll just check in a couple of times a year and come in for any "tune-ups", as needed.

It's been interesting. Unearthing these issues Elena has has really stirred up a lot of feelings in all of us. We've had some emotional days as we've worked on processing things that happened. We were tremendously blessed all through treatment - truly carried and spared a lot of hardship. We got through it all pretty well. But, now that we're past the crisis and some of the effects are starting to become visible, it's hard. I never dealt with anger really throughout the whole of treatment. It was easy to be accepting. I wasn't even "mad at cancer" like I hear other families talk about. It happened, we got through it, it was a beautiful heartbreak, we learned incredible things, and I've made my peace with it. In fact - while I wish with all my heart Elena didn't have to be the one to suffer- I'm grateful for our experiences. I truly am. But, now I find myself having some of those "mad at cancer" emotions. On the days when I'm sitting with my five year old in therapy, while other five year olds are in school or playing at the park. Or when I watch Elena playing with other kids her age and the differences really become visible. Or when I see the fear in her eyes and watch her retreat into a dark place in her mind when she is reminded of some of the things she went through. Then I get really angry at cancer and the damage it has done to my sweet, innocent girl. I have days where I mourn - oh how I mourn- that sweet two year old I was so in love with. I know she is stronger, more empathetic and compassionate  more thoughtful, and wiser for all she has been through. But sometimes I can't help but wonder about what she'd be like if none of it had ever happened. Along with the good qualities she's been forced to gain have come some hard things, too. (And now, cue: survivor's guilt. How can I complain at all when she is still HERE with us?!) Life is a funny thing. I love Elena. And I admire her so much. She is an INCREDIBLE girl - one of the strongest I know - just as she is now. We've got a great life ahead of us. And I know that no matter what happens or what we feel or miss or worry about, one day everything will be made perfectly right.

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And now that I've sufficiently vented and cried and given myself my own mini-therapy session (for FREEEEEE! Blogs are so useful.), on to the happiness! Elena is just about to her three year diagnosis anniversary! It is incredible and so happy! We are having our annual "Day of Hope" blood drive on Saturday, March 16th, in Tempe. (If anyone out there that reads this lives in the Phoenix area (or has family that lives in the Phoenix area - you could spread the word!), we are still several donors shy and would LOVE your blood! :) You can pretty much have your pick of slots anytime from 9-1:30 p.m. Leave us a comment or call or go to bloodhero.com to sign up. Search for Elena Hoffman.) If you don't live in the area, please try and go give blood sometime this week (or anytime!) in Elena's honor. We'd love it if you dropped us a line and told us about it - it does our hearts good to hear. And then, after the blood drive, I think we will party. I feel like celebrating - Elena is a rock star and she did it! Three years of kicking cancer's freaking, ugly, stupid trash!

Here's to life! You are our hero, Elena!

A little rant on a Thursday

Dishonesty and thievery really steams my clams. Teeth clenched, fists shaking, blood pressure rising. That sort of stuff. I just can't stand it. So, in an effort to let off some of that steam, here's a little letter to the thief who stole our identity over there in Maryland:

Dear THIEF:

I hope that $200 charge at Target- that the bank actually let through (we won't even talk about the others that weren't authorized...)- was worth it. Seriously. That's the price you'll sell yourself for? $200 at Target. I sure hope you were at least buying food with it. Because your little children are starving and you didn't have breakfast for them. Otherwise, I have a few books I want you to read. And also you need to sit back and think long and hard and reevaluate your life.

Again, I really hope that charge at Target was worth it. Because my husband has been working long, hard hours every single day to fund your shopping spree. We never see him anymore (except for those ten minutes when he comes home to change his shirt and shoes) and he's like constantly sick because he gets very few hours of sleep every night in between jobs. Because he's WORKING (what a concept!) really hard to earn the money that we need to pay OUR OWN BILLS. Which include many medical bills from our daughter's health problems - and cancer treatments. You freaking dirtbag. 

Don't take stuff that isn't yours!!!!  You (most likely) have two hands - go get a job and work hard YOURSELF. Besides the fact that stealing is lazy, wrong, despicable, etc, etc., you don't know the cost. You don't know the stories of the people you are stealing from and the sacrifices they were already making to have that money before you stole it. But maybe you don't care.

I'm mostly outraged right now (and it's a really good thing that we're on opposite ends of the country), but there is also a part of me that feels really sorry for you. That those clothes or speakers or iPhone accessories or toys or whatever were worth it. That your views of life and decency are so far gone that this was acceptable to you. I'm sad that you don't know the lessons and growth that come from rolling up your sleeves and digging in and working hard and accomplishing things yourself. It's not easy, but it's a good feeling. So, maybe tonight... after some of this fresh disgust and anger has faded, I'll include you in my prayers, too. Right after the family I know who's son just passed away from cancer two days ago. 

Sincerely,
Me


Now, the happy thing in all this is that our credit union is AMAZING!! (Thank you, Fro, forever for getting me signed up with them all those years ago!) They caught the identity theft quickly and stopped authorizing charges and are helping us get everything reversed. But, we'll still have to deal with a negative balance from all these shenanigans for a few days. And the hassle of not being able to use our cards and having to file reports and fill out paperwork, etc. But oh well, I guess. It could be worse. Another letter:

Dear America First:

You are the bomb. We love you so much it hurts. Thanks for rocking. There's a reason we go to the trouble of keeping you as our financial institution even though we're out of state. 

All our love,
Us

Just what it needs to be

You know those moments of clarity/inspiration/etc. where truth hits you quietly, but powerfully? I love those moments. They are some of strongest evidences to me that God lives and He loves me. And that He sends His Spirit to whisper things to me as I need them and am receptive to them.

We've got two little sickies on our hands this week. I'm pretty sure they are cycling through the same thing that held Eric and I hostage over Christmas break. And the same thing that it seems like everyone has got. Nasty winter sick season. But I'm beyond grateful that we're not facing it this year with a cancer kid. Anyways, Lily is really sick today and we have all spent the day laying pretty low - snuggling, shower-humidifying, cat-napping, sippy cup refilling, rinse and repeat. Lunchtime came around and I reheated leftover soup from last night's dinner and wrapped her in her blanket and held her in my lap at the table. She ate for a few minutes while I snuggled her. And I was struck with how nice it was to be able to sit in our quiet, comfortable house and just slow down when circumstances demanded that things slow down. I have a good job here taking care of our girls. In spite of the less than ideal circumstances, I felt content and blessed.

And then Lily set down her spoon and turned into me and just sat there cuddling. I sat there for a minute with her and then asked her if she was done eating. "No," she said, "I just want to sit with you and sleep - I'm tired." And she closed her droopy, sick little eyes and rested quietly for a bit against my chest. It was a divine moment - one of the ones you just live for as a mom. My sick baby (she still feels like that even though she's turning three in a couple of weeks!) getting everything that could comfort her at the moment from me. Heaven! I looked down at her and also caught a glimpse of the me that was providing all that comfort - still pajamed and unshowered at 12:30 p.m., stubborn muffin-top poking out. I work hard at taking care of myself, but still I'm more squishy and stretch-marked and pale and and and than I wish I was. But that heavenly feeling was still there, despite the imperfections. And then a whispering came to me in that quiet moment in the dining room, "Your body is perfect. It's doing everything it needs to do right now perfectly." And I felt such peace and such gratitude for my somewhat squishy, imperfect perfect body. It was a rare moment of being able to strip society's scales off my eyes and see and feel and know with clarity the truth about my glorious body - that is such a gift. That it can do everything it truly needs to do. It can hold and cuddle a sick child. It delights my husband. It can work hard and do amazing things even when it hasn't had much rest. The squishiness of my mid-section isn't seen by my little ones as imperfection, but an extra comfortable place to lean against. It is a beautiful thing - fulfilling the measure of it's creation. I'm so grateful for the little moments where my vision aligns with Heaven's. What a vision it is.

Loss, A Love Story, and Other Lessons Learned

I don't know where September went. Put that one on record as officially the fastest month of my life. Officially. But I'm so happy it's October. Yay for fall! Yay for the holiday season! Even if it doesn't feel like it here... yes, it's 105 today. Tears fall on my pillow at night because I love the fall/winter season so much and it feels like the middle of summer here. No changing leaves and lots of sweating. Oh well though, it's not forever. Last night we decorated for Halloween, which always makes one feel festive in spite of the weather. And in a few days we get to celebrate one of our favorite little lady's birthday! It's a happy time of year.

The last few months have been so full. Full of joy when, after our long wait to be done with cancer and move on with life as previously scheduled, we saw this one summer evening:

The best part was when Eric had grabbed it for a closer look and then looked down after a minute and said, "I'm holding something you just peed on." The way we revere that silly little pee stick. :)

Our excitement and anticipation was too much too keep to ourselves and bubbled over into an excited explanation to the girls about a sibling to be expected right around Daddy's birthday in April. Elena was in instant love and Lily was cluelessly happy, if a little confused about the timing.

"The baby come out of your tummy now?" she asked 30 minutes later.

"No, Lily. The baby has to grow for a long time and mommy's tummy will get really, really big before it comes out. We have to have Elena's birthday, Halloween, Thankgiving, Christmas, Mommy's birthday, Mommy and Daddy's anniversary, Lily's birthday, Valentine's Day, and then almost Daddy's birthday! And then the baby will come out."

Each Thursday (the day I "changed weeks"), we had a family ritual of sitting down at the computer to look at BabyCenter's pictures of what the baby looked like that week. And then a silly rummaging through the pantry and fridge for the appropriate foodstuff that represented baby's new size. We spent many fun weeks thinking of names and devising a clever way to tell all our family and friends our much anticipated news. That was the difference between this pregnancy and previous pregnancies- we were waiting to spread the news. From the moment I saw the second line on the pregnancy test, I had an uneasy feeling in the back of my mind and I announced to Eric that I wanted to keep things quiet for a while. I wasn't sure why, but I felt it strongly. It was strange since with Elena and Lily's pregnancies we started spreading the word at about 4.5 weeks along. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I wanted to be good and past twelve weeks and sure things were "sticking". And so we sat, tucked away in our little Arizona house, cozy and comfortable and content with our family secret.

On the weeks marched, until it was mid-September and we had hit 10 weeks. My belly was starting to pop out just a bit

and I was starting to feel almost confident about things. We we were all anticipating the upcoming appointment at the midwife's that week where we'd hear that little "whoosh-whoosh" of a heartbeat for the first time. Wednesday night, as I went to bed, I noticed a little bit of spotting. But the blood looked old and there wasn't very much. I consulted my pregnancy books and read mostly reassurance that a little spotting is normal -- as long as it's not bright red and doesn't get heavier. The next morning I woke up feeling lousy. Tired, slightly crampy, and out of energy. The spotting, which had been absent first thing in the morning, returned as the day went on. I did some more reading - this time online - and got slightly less reassuring information. It seemed, with the extra symptoms I was feeling at that point - that things had a 50-50 chance of going either way. In denial, I held on to the hope of things swinging to the "good" 50%. Maybe it was just that we were having twins and I was just miscarrying one of them, but would still keep one. That was a common cause of first trimester spotting I'd read about. Maybe, maybe, maybe.... hopefully that was all. I could deal with that. But, the feelings of uneasiness I'd been trying to crowd out since the beginning came on even stronger. In retrospect, I can see that it had been the Spirit whispering to me, preparing me along the way for what was ahead. I spent most of the day off my feet watching shows with the girls, trying in vain to "take it easy" and reverse what I was worried was coming. Late in the afternoon, I returned to the bathroom and held my breath as I waited to see if there would be any spots of blood and what color those spots might be. I held up the toilet paper and started bawling at the bright red profusion before me. The ball that had been hanging over my head for the last six weeks since I first saw the positive pregnancy test, had finally dropped.

It is an interesting thing to start miscarrying a baby. I hadn't "bonded", per se, with that baby. I knew right then and there in the bathroom that, for me, there wouldn't be long term mourning over some member of our family "lost". But what I did feel very intensely was the loss of the pregnancy that I had given so much of myself to over the last couple of months. The nasty cold I had suffered through - congested and headachy and miserable - because there wasn't any cold medicine I felt comfortable taking while pregnant; the reading and researching done with such care to make sure I was being as healthy and careful as possible; the extra care taken to make sure I was eating enough leafy greens and omega-3's and so on; giving up the blessed ibuprofen that my finnicky post-workout shin muscles demand; the nesting instincts - already kicking in- that had me sorting through boxes in the garage and thinking up how we'd arrange the bedrooms; and the days of nausea and exhaustion borne for the promise of a baby on the other side. All of those things - all of the care I'd taken - to protect the little life growing inside of me which was now slipping slowly, piece by piece down the drain. Despite my best efforts there was nothing I could do to stop it. It is an ache that, I think, only woman (the "a" in woman is on purpose) who surrenders her body to pregnancy - even to just the hope of pregnancy- and devotes her mind and heart to it's success can feel. The moment you make that decision to try and have a baby - whether one eventually comes or not, you sacrifice a part of yourself and a part of your heart that leaves you very vulnerable. My heart ached to cling to what was leaving me. And my mind was troubled over the loss of time. These months we'd be set back now! After cancer setting us back and now this! Lily would be creeping closer and closer to four years old by the time we might be having another.

What followed was a rather hopeless, somber trip to the ER for an ultrasound, blood work, and Rhogam shot, so that future pregnancies wouldn't be compromised by this miscarriage. The ultrasound confirmed the miscarriage - there was no heartbeat, the baby had died. It was a lonely moment laying on a hard table getting an uncomfortable, invasive trans-vaginal ultrasound while cramping. The room was silent as Eric and the tech stared at the screen and I stared at the ceiling since the screen was turned away from me. I wish there was some other way to go about that business. Finally, we were sent home to wait for things to really get started.  We followed up at the midwife's office for our previously scheduled appointment to hear the heartbeat. Only now, it was changed to a miscarriage check-up. The irony and sadness weren't lost on us, and yet, we were so grateful that things went the way they did and we didn't just show up naively to our first appointment, girls in tow, only to have them find no heartbeat. It was a blessing. I saw so many, many blessings in those few days. The Lord is aware of us. He is with us - especially in our dark moments. When we got home from the hospital late Thursday I was exhausted and so worn out from crying that I couldn't cry anymore. But there was also an overwhelming feeling of gratitude and sacredness. I was so humbled by how much I had seen the Lord's hand that day. From the very compassionate ER doctor we had to the members of our ward stepping up to take care of our girls, the whisperings of the Spirit I felt to the gratitude I felt for an attentive, sensitive, loving husband. And there was an especially sweet, tender moment I had with Lily right after I knew I was miscarrying. I spent a few minutes sobbing in the bathroom after I discovered the blood had turned bright red. And then I gathered my composure so that I could walk past the girls, who were watching a show, and into my room to lay down and sob some more. I didn't want to upset them or to try to have to explain what was going on. I made it and crumpled on my bed and cried into my pillow. Not long after, I heard little footsteps pattering into my room and thought it must have been Elena, but I didn't move to acknowledge them. A minute or two later, to my surprise, I heard Lily whispering and grunting to herself as she tried to pull herself up onto my bed. I looked up and she said, "Momma, you sad? I will hug you." I pulled her up and she snuggled into my arms and laid there with me. She gave me a little pat and said, "It's ok, Momma." And then laid and snuggled with me for several good minutes. Usually she is a wiggly little thing if we let her up on our bed. But she just laid there still and quiet and hugged me. It was such a tender mercy. I was sure hurting at that moment and she was a little angel sent by Heavenly Father to comfort me. He knows us!

We spent the rest of the weekend laying low, waiting for the miscarriage to begin in earnest. Finally, Sunday night, the steady, dull cramping I'd been having all weekend picked up and I begin having hard contractions a minute or two apart. They continued relentlessly for about four hours. I was so glad I'd been through labor, so I at least had some inkling of what was going on (like what a contraction was), but I was also nervous having never been through a miscarriage and knowing what to expect in these different circumstances. After a bit spent burying my head into my pillow and trying to breathe through the pain of each contraction, Eric suggested I might find relief laying in the shower where the blood, etc. could flow freely and I'd have the hot water to comfort me through the pain. And this is where the love story comes in. I thought I loved Eric Hoffman on the day we got married, but I LOVED Eric Hoffman after that night spent miscarrying in our bathroom. Like ridiculously adore/borderline worship/gazing at in awe and admiration for many days afterwards. I'll never be able to put everything I felt into words. But, there was something about me lying there writhing in such vulnerability and humility and Eric being right there by my side in the quiet of our home, doing everything he could to try and ease my pain, comfort and distract me. Counter pressure on my lower back? He got to work, arthritis and all. I suddenly needed a glass of ice water, he went running. Distraction while waiting for another bad contraction to come? He sat on the hard tile next to the tub and read a book out loud. He made the bed up with layers of towels, brought me drinks, helped me in and out of the shower, rubbed my back, spoke encouragement in the middle of rough contractions and reassured me that my body knew exactly what to do, took care of the girls, made meals, cleaned up blood, sat on the floor next to me and held my hand, and researched miscarriages on Google to try and get us more information about what to expect. There really aren't words for it all other than just to say that it was one of the most intimate, empowering experiences I've ever had. I love that man so much. It deepened and broadened the depths of my love for him. I think that I'm actually literally able to feel more love for him than ever before. The miscarriage itself was awful, but the overall experience was enlarging and enlightening and painfully beautiful. Nothing like what I expected.

After that night, things were quieter - still painful, but I was able to get some sleep. Monday morning I woke up in pain and quite out of it, but the worst was over. That afternoon I passed what remained and we had another check-up with the midwife to make sure that everything looked alright. The midwife confirmed that the baby had passed and that relief should come soon. Sure enough by late that evening, I was feeling really great. What a night and day change. I'd spent several days just feeling crampy and tired and rotten. All of a sudden I had energy back and the darn cramps had finally stopped. It felt almost blissful. And thankfully, the worst of the emotion had passed with everything else, as well. Each day since then has been healing - physically and emotionally. I'm grateful for the speedy recovery - another blessing. Last week I marked the day I should have hit twelve weeks with a few passing moments of sadness. But now we are looking anxiously forward to the future and hope it won't be too long before we'll be expecting the next member of our family.

So many things have differed from "our plan". I feel now, acutely, that things are in the Lord's hands. I have been humbled and reminded that not everything is in my control. The order I had placed in my mind for a baby born "not during RSV season, or camp, or right after the hot summer months (so I don't have to be hugely pregnant during them), but just perfectly positioned for a late March, April, or May arrival" has not panned out. Despite all my carefully laid and executed plans. Who knows what time of year the next one will come? And finally - after years of stressing about it after our RSV drama with Lily - I don't care. Life will go on however it happens. For the major control freak that I am, this is huge for me. :) I know the Lord has a plan for our family. And it is a beautiful one. Here is another chance for me to really prove my faith when I say that. It isn't my plan, but I am trying to have the faith to put aside my plan and accept the beautiful, enlarging, enriching one that He has for me in all of the little ways it reveals itself.

Yesterday, a dear lady from our ward stopped by for a visit. She had heard about our miscarriage and dropped in with a pot of sunny yellow flowers for my table, some great reading material, and a listening ear. In the course of our chat, she indicated that they'd had some trouble getting pregnant throughout their marriage and that she'd also had a miscarriage at 12 weeks. We both talked about our worry about having large spaces between our kids and wanting close knit families. After she left I was musing over our chat, the things I'd learned about her, and so on. I was struck again by a verse from one of my favorite hymns, "Lord, I Would Follow Thee"- one I wish I could write on the fleshy tablet of my heart and make a part of me! It's something I struggle with and need to internalize so badly.

"Who am I to judge another 
When I walk imperfectly?
In the quiet heart is hidden 
Sorrow that the eye can't see.
Who am I to judge another?
Lord, I would follow thee."

(Hymns, "Lord, I Would Follow Thee",  #220, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints)

It's a lesson I learn time and time again. And when am I actually going to learn it?? In the quiet heart is hidden, sorrow that the eye can't see. Every time. I have seen that with person after person. I went to the store for a quick errand during the weekend I was miscarrying and I thought, "Wow, all these people going about their lives. Just looking at me you'd never guess I was miscarrying - in pain and having an awful day. I wonder what some of them are going through that I don't see?" So often I make unfair assumptions or judgments about people and then I learn something about them or the experiences they've had that brings me to my knees in humility. Even when they aren't terrible assumptions - just surmises I make about people's decisions and motivations and thoughts - still! You can never take a person for granted based on what you see on the outside - physically, in their family, in the things they do, etc. Oh, to be more gentle and humble and loving and be kinder to people! To just lay off the judging! There's no need, really. It's just a big waste of energy and time. Anyways, I was reminded once again of the need to just be gentler with people. Everyone is going through hard things and has a myriad or different circumstance and experiences they are drawing on that we don't know about. We just need to love each other. Simply love.

My harvest at the end of summer this year has been full. Full of emotion and learning and growing. I'm so grateful for my little family - for the dear girls I have who bring me so much joy. And for my amazing husband who is just right for me and such a blessing and who I love so dearly. We have a happy life - it has it's challenges. But it is remarkably blessed and happy. I'm excited to see what the next season brings.