Life and Thoughts

WOW. I cannot believe its been nearly 10 months since I've last posted anything in my blog. What the what! Ha, and its definitely not like nothing has happened in the past year ! I think my New Year's goal this next year will be to post once a month. For a non-journal writer, I think that's a good goal for me.

Anyways. Life. Oh Nelly, life...

Sometimes I look over the past 18-months and wonder how on earth I'm still standing, still smiling, still laughing, and still living. That, my friends, in nothing short of a miracle. And, a miracle I'm incredibly grateful for. Some people call this "strength," but I'm not always too sure about that. I think this is more along the lines of survival. Survival for my family, survival for my kids, and survival for my myself. If I let everything between Carver and Tristan's birth defects take over my life, I'd turn into a giant puddle of jelly. As I type this long over-due blog post, I'm sitting in Tristan's hospital room, listening to a gently lullaby playing from the mobile over his bed. I look at him and see pure, unmitigated strength. This sweet little guy has been through so much in his short life, and he's endured so well. To me, he's the perfect example of enduring to the end. And, enduring cheerfully.

Award for "Happiest Baby Ever Despite Difficult Life Circumstances" goes to this guy! 

Carver's first birthday was this past April 21st. I had all these grand plans for us to drive far up a mountain in Provo Canyon, release balloons, and then have a picnic in his honor. I was SO excited for this. And then, Arlee got sick -- poor kid, she got really sick. So, I spent my angel baby's 1st birthday cleaning up puke and soothing a very miserable little girl. Heh, all in a day's work, right? Since we were visiting family in Rexburg a few days later, we instead decided to hike R Mountain (an old dormant volcano) a few miles from my inlaws home, release balloons, and then go out for ice cream. Well, as we were driving to R Mountain Arlee got violently sick. Again. I then had my first experience cleaning vomit out of a car seat... Needless to say, I was frustrated. Why was the universe against us doing something special for Carver's birthday?! Of course it wasn't Arlee's fault, but I couldn't help feeling frustrated at her for throwing up again as we were so close to the mountain. Well, third time's a charm, right? After going back to my inlaws home, cleaning up Arlee and the car, and putting Arlee down for some much needed R&R, Austin and I decided to just drive to Carver's grave to release the balloons. Even though this wasn't at all what I had originally planned, it turned out to be a really sweet experience. We each wrote a message to Carver on a balloon, laid down on the grass next to his little grave, and released the balloons. We watched the balloons float away until they were completely out of sight. It was a very tender experience and I could truly feel Carver there with us.

I struggle every day with the death of my son. No matter how many more children we have, you cannot replace the life of one child with the life of another. A part of my heart will always be with him, and I will not feel whole until we're reunited. My faith and belief in the Plan of Salvation is what brings me so much hope and peace. It really is the Plan of Happiness; I look forward to the time, which I know is decades and decades away, when I can be together with all my children in the Kingdom of Heaven. That will be a beautiful time. But, until then, I will cherish the children that I have here on Earth and look forward to the children that I know will join our family in the years to come. I've always yearned for a house full of laughter and the pitter-patter of lots of little feet.

Grief isn't something you just "get over;" its something you learn to live with. I may seem more like "Old Karen," before Carver came into our lives and forever changed our family, but that's simply because I'm learning how to live with my grief and I think its learning how to live with me. I still have my good days and my bad days and all the days in-between, but I'm getting better at listening to my own emotions and when I just need to step away for a bit.

Arlee and I have also been able to have lots of conversations about Carver and where he is. Her innocence and tender spirit is such a beautiful gift. Sometimes we'll just be driving around in the car while running errands, and she'll ask me what Heaven is like. I'll tell her that Heaven in a happy, peaceful place, where everyone wears white, you listen to beautiful music and choirs, and walk in wonderful gardens with lots of flowers and waterfalls. She'll then ask if Carver is happy, and every time I tell her that Carver is so happy and he's with people that love him. As I tell her this I've received the sweetest confirmations that of course Carver is happy and safe and in the best place possible. On more than one occasion I probably should have pulled over, because the silent tears of joy and comfort were too much to properly see the road clearly. I've had far too many tender experiences close to the Spirit to ever discount them as a mere coincidence or deny my faith. Heaven is real. It may not be a concrete place in the sky, but its real. I think its more real than any of use can comprehend.

My sweet parents and inlaws gave me this beautiful Greg Olsen painting, titled Take My Hand, for Christmas this past year.

I discovered this painting a few months after Carver passed away, and it spoke to my soul. To me, this painting is like looking into a glimpse of Heaven. With how Arlee looks, I'm pretty sure this is a good representation of how Carver would have looked around age 2-3. As I took the wrapping paper off this beautifully framed painting, I immediately started to cry. (For anyone who doesn't already know, I'm a crier.) I love it. Its hanging in our kitchen and I can see it from almost anywhere in the front half of our apartment -- I could look at this painting for hours. As silly as this may sound, I look at this beautiful painting and just feel peace knowing that my sweet little boy is in a safe, wonderful place, with people who love him. All a mother wants is to know is that her children are safe and loved.

I think its now time to talk about my gentle, adorable, and patient little man, Tristan. I think he was blessed with an incredibly calm and relaxed personality to help him get through all the obstacles he will have in his path in the coming months and years. Austin made the observation a few weeks ago that if it wasn't for his colostomy, this kid would hardly ever cry. Seriously. He's also developed an amazing pain tolerance with all the wafer/bag changes. I don't think any mom ever wants their baby to develop a pain tolerance...but I'm sure this will be a good thing to have as he soon starts to deal with the worst diaper rashes known to man. I've been told by many doctors and surgeons to brace myself... Yikes.

I'm not sure if many of you know this, but Tristan's Imperforate Anus (lack of bum hole) wasn't actually diagnosed when he was first born. In fact, he even passed the bum hole check test! I know...crazy! It wasn't until he wouldn't wake up, was spitting up way more than he had eaten, and then started spitting up stomach acid that the nurses agreed something might be wrong. When my nurse came into my room at 4am (because Tristan had been in the nursery for close observation due to these worrying symptoms) and told me that something was wrong and he was going to the NICU, my heart dropped into my stomach. I was terrified. The only other experience I'd had with the NICU was with Carver, which didn't lead to the happiest of endings. It took all my self-control to not jump to conclusions and start crying hysterically (that happened later...). The nurses thought that maybe there was a knot or a closure in his intestines, which could also cause all these other symptoms. Well, upon closer examination of his sweet little body, it was discovered that there was no bum hole! Over the course of the next several hours I was given more medical terms and information then I could mentally process and all I kept thinking was, "We have another child born with a birth defect... How is this possible??" I felt beyond overwhelmed and like I was going to suffocate from all the stress and worry.

Around 9:30am I was finally able to see him. I still wasn't walking very well, so I was wheeled up to the NICU in a wheelchair and wheeled down to his little bed. As soon as I saw him, I lost it. He looked exactly like Carver and was hooked up to all kinds of machines and IVs...just like Carver had been. I felt like I was experiencing everything with Carver all over again. I think the best word for my crying was 'hysterical.' Here was my sweet perfect 8lbs 3oz baby, and he was hooked up to everything (it seemed...) except life support. I have no idea what the doctors told us, because I was crying too hard and too hysterically. My sweet husband stood by my side the entire time and signed all the consent forms and listened to everything the doctors needed to tell us. I was so afraid of losing another baby and was convinced this was going to be exactly like Carver's experience. I'd had so many dreams during Tristan's pregnancy where he died right after birth and then the dream basically reenacted everything we went through after Carver's death. Needless to say...those dreams were so so so bad. And, here I was...thinking those dreams were all coming to life. The whirlwind of emotions I felt during this time were beyond overwhelming -- I felt like I was reliving a nightmare.

A few hours later, Tristan was whisked off to surgery to create his colostomy. Right before Tristan was taken to surgery, Austin and his brother, Redge, gave him a priesthood blessing. Austin blessed him to be safe and protected during the surgery and that the surgeons would have calm and steady hands. He also blessed Tristan that Carver would be with him during the entire surgery to help him feel calm and safe. We all felt the Holy Ghost so strongly when they ended the blessing. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Carver was by Tristan's side the entire time, and I know he has been with him during all the subsequent surgeries, too. Since no one in our family can physically be there with him during the surgeries, I'm glad Carver can be there for him. Haha, the perks of an angel brother. :)

Tristan's surgery went well and we were able to see him again a few hours later. By this point I was a little more in control of my emotions and not quite as hysterical. His little body, in the time the colostomy had been created and we joined him again in the NICU, had already released 3oz of stool. That is a ton! Poor little guy, his stomach must have hurt so much. Honestly, if it wasn't for modern medicine, this precious baby would have died a few days after he was born. When I hear statistics about how many babies used to die after childbirth, and then I think about my two sweet boys (both of which have had fixable birth defects -- except Carver's lack of lung tissue prevented his diaphragm from being fixed), no wonder so many babies died. :( Modern medicine is an amazing, life altering thing.

While we were with him post-surgery, one of the NICU's social workers came by to talk with us. I explained a little bit about why I'd been so hysterical earlier, and we talked about everything. (Keep in mind, it had only been 11 months since Carver's birth and death when Tristan was born.) This social worker pointed something out that I hadn't realized before..she thought I might be suffering from PTSD. It was really eye opening to hear this, and I completely agreed. Since that talk with the social worker, I've met with a grief therapist and looked more into this possible PTSD diagnosis. I don't have actual PTSD, but I do have PTSD-like symptoms. I wouldn't be surprised if everyone who's lost a child has PTSD to some extent. 

(Whoa, my hair has grown so much since this picture!)

Tristan defied the odds and was home from the hospital a whole week earlier than predicted. And, he's continued to defy the odds by having no additional birth defects and sphincter muscles. This baby is a champ. His first 24-hours home was probably the second hardest day of my life (with Carver's death taking first)... Oh man, it was bad. Learning how to take care of a colostomy, especially on a baby, is HARD. Like, really really really really really really really hard. The NICU nurses and Wound Care Team at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center tried their best to train me on colostomy care...but they really had no idea either. In those first 24-hours his wafer leaked 6 times. Yeah...6 times. It was BAD. Each time the wafer leaked, we'd have to take the whole thing off and put on a new one. Each time we'd take off the wafer, it would pull off skin. So his tender, sensitive skin was being pulled at over and over and over again. I could go on and on about how bad that first 24-hours were... Honestly, to an extent, I think it scarred me and Austin. Tristan was in so much pain and was screaming non-stop. It got so bad that we even had a home health care nurse come to our apartment at 11pm to help. And, bless her heart, she also couldn't get the wafers to stick. She tried twice, and the second wafer only lasted 3 hours... The next day I had an emotional breakdown at Tristan's pediatrician's office, and I don't think his pediatrician had previously cared for a child with a colostomy before -- because she was like a deer in the head lights. Austin's matra during all of this was, "Well, at least it can't get any worse. We've already hit rock bottom." And, he was right -- it only got easier from there.

Anyways. Let's fast forward... A wonderful, angelic, amazing Intermountain Home Health Care and Hospice Nurse came to our apartment and *properly* trained me on colostomy care. She was heaven sent. And, an old friend from my days as an employee at This Is The Place Heritage Park, who's second son also had a similar birth defect, became my emotional rock. Seeing how far she and her son had come gave me so much hope that Tristan and I would be okay. This wonderful friend, Charlene, even called insurance companies to get me free sample, brought me special swaddles that helped her change her son's colostomy, and tons of feel-good movies. And, you know what, we got through. We survived. I was in charge of colostomy care and Austin was in charge of holding up his (little but surprisingly mighty!) arms so I could do my thing. When Austin was at work and I needed help, I'd either bride Arlee with crazy amounts of praise, whip cream, and YouTube or I'd call upon a neighbor to come to my rescue. To everyone that's helped me in the past few months: THANK YOU! I couldn't have done it without you. Holding down his incredibly strong arms and legs and still attempting to clean/change the wafer and bag is pretty impossible by yourself.

We've come a long way in the past almost 7 months. Honestly, I can't imagine caring for Tristan and not having to work with a colostomy. Its gonna be kinda weird... Hahaha, now I'll be able to hold up his legs and clean that cute little bum without the help of at least one more person! How cool is that?! The hardest thing for me lately is just the fact that Tristan has had to deal with so much and there's nothing I can do about it. It breaks my mommy heart to see my baby in so much pain and agony and all I can do is try to soothe him...I can't take away the pain or the experience. So much of the time I just feel helpless.

Seriously people, don't take your kids' bum holes for granted. I know this sounds like an amusing thing to say, but I'm being completely serious. If Tristan's body had simply formed one more centimeter of intestine, none of this would have happened. One centimeter. Its crazy how such a small thing can make such a HUGE difference.

If you're still reading this blog post, KUDOS to you! :)

I had a really sweet experience today at the hospital -- well, this experience kinda started on Tuesday evening. On Tuesday evening I was in the kitchen of the Ronald McDonald Family Room in Primary Children's. I started talking to another mom and she told me that her 3-month-old baby boy was dying due to organ failure and would be leaving the hospital soon to pass away in hospice care. My heart absolutely broke for this mom. She told me, "Please don't think I'm not sad...I'm just out of tears." And, oh boy, did I understand that feeling. We sat and talked for a while and I told her all about Carver. She also told me that she has a 2-year-old little girl, and I told her that Arlee was also 2-years-old when Carver passed away. I told this sweet mom that her little daughter will give her a reason to live, a reason to get up in the morning, and a reason to keep on going. We hugged and cried together. Over and over she kept saying, "I'm so glad I ran into you tonight!" I bumped into her again the following night in the Family Room and she told me that her little guy had been baptized in the mini waterfall next to the hospital by a medicine man from her Shoshone tribe earlier that day. She then invited me to come by and meet her sweet baby the next day in the NICU. As I walked down the NICU hall this afternoon, I had all kinds of memories come back to me of when we toured the NICU before Carver was born...it was almost surreal. But, it was such a sweet experience meeting her baby boy. His liver and heart are failing, and he will slowly pass away on morphine so he doesn't feel any pain or pressure...just like Carver did. I met her whole family and gave her a few more hugs. Losing Carver was the hardest thing I've ever gone through, but when I meet another mom going through a similar experience, I'm so glad I can be there for them in a way no one else can. People can say to you, "I'm so sorry!", but when someone who's also lost a baby says "I'm so sorry!," it has a whole new meaning.

They left the hospital today at 5pm and took him off all his machines. I've been thinking about this sweet little family all day. I hope and pray they feel peace as he passes. I'm not exactly sure what the Shoshone tribe believes in terms of the afterlife, but this mom kept saying, "I hope my baby gets his wings!" Well, I'm positive he'll get his wings. :) 

Sometimes I wonder what Arlee thinks about everything that's happened lately. Maybe its totally normal to her. Or, maybe having a brother who poops through his stomach is kinda an odd thing. Who knows. But, what I do know is how much Arlee adores her brother. She's always talking to him, kissing him, hugging him, poking him in the face (which I do not approve of...), and playing with him. And, Tristan is equally obsessed with her. They're going to be the sweetest little buddies. Even though Tristan loves to smile, he doesn't laugh very much. However, Arlee can get him to laugh more than anyone else -- its pretty awesome.

These adorable kids make my life so full. I'm so grateful for the opportunity I have been given to be their mother. And, I just realized I've hardly talked about Arlee! Hahaha, oh man, where to begin...? She is SO full of life! ALL THE TIME! Never a dull moment with this girl around. She's always cracking me up with the crazy things she says. This girl really does hear everything we say and then files it away for future use -- which isn't always a good thing! She's a great helper and loves to help with everything from vacuuming to cooking to fetching me more paper towels and tissue boxes. She LOVES riding her tricycle outside, and really enjoys going on "adventures" where she looks for sticks, leaves, and rocks (which she likes to call sea shells). She is always ready to speak her mind and verbalizes her wants/needs super well. If Arlee needs something, she'll definitely let you know. ;) She loves watching Daniel Tiger (and sings all the songs, too!) and pretty much anything on PBS Kids, and is obsessed with Princess Play Doh videos on YouTube. Those videos get real old real fast... And, she could happily play with play doh all day long. She's getting pretty good at bargaining with us and she's perfecting her "sweet talking" skills. Arlee's also entered this not-so-fun stage of testing the limits...all the time. Some days I want to sell her to the circus. But, when she crawls into my lap and apologizes for being a hooligan and asks if we can be friends again, it melts my heart. I love this girl more than I can ever express and I'm so excited to watch her grow into the independent, strong willed, amazing woman she's going to become. This girl is gonna do big things -- she'll go far. :)

Well friends, thanks for reading my long over due life update. :) Despite everything that's happened to us these past 18-months, we feel so blessed -- we live in a good apartment, have great friends and family, have 3 beautiful children, live only an hour away from one of the greatest children's hospitals in the United States, both Austin and I got through college debt-free, Austin has a good job with benefits, and, most importantly, we have each other. Is my life perfect? Haha, no way. But, I believe this is the life the Lord needs me to live in order to become the woman he needs me to be.

God is good. 

Handsome boys! :)

Life, Grief, and the Holidays

Well, its been three months since my last blog post, so it's probably high time for an update. Its kinda crazy to me how no matter what happens in life, time just keeps marching along. Sometimes I just want to scream and demand that life pauses for a few minutes (or a few months) so I can sit and catch my breath and process everything that's happened this year. A few nights ago I was joking to Austin that I need a time-turner necklace like Hermione had in "Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban." I have a feeling that this blog post may focus a lot on the things I'm currently struggling with. I'm not really the best journal writer, so when all the thoughts swirling around in my head become too much, I turn to my blog.

One big thing that's occurring to me more and more is that when you go through a big loss, your relationships change with friends and family. Grieving changes you, and there's no way you can go back to being the person you were before going through the loss. Some people are able to accept these changes are the "new" you (especially as you try to figure out who this "new" you is) and others can't accept it or won't accept it -- that's when relationships are strained or really put to the test. Many friends I used to be close to are more distant and familial relationships now have a different element to them, which can be difficult to understand and accept. Before Carver passed away, I felt like I'd gotten to a point where I knew myself pretty well -- I knew my pet peeves, I knew what things I was kinda OCD about, I knew where I stood on certain topics/opinions, and I knew what to expect of myself in various situations when the unexpected happened. But, that's all changed now. I feel like I really don't know myself anymore -- its like after losing Carver I've gone through this metamorphosis of sorts. Thankfully, I married an incredibly patient man who is accepting of me as I try to re-learn who I am now, especially when certain situations set me off that didn't before... (if that makes any sense.) Loss changes you and when people try to assume that I'm the same old person (and treat me so), its just incredibly frustrating.

Another thing I'm struggling with is that people seem to not mention Carver anymore. Several months ago I heard the quote, "Grief lasts longer than sympathy, which is one of the tragedies of the grieving." Yes, lives move on and people basically forget (which really is the only way to put it), but Carver is a huge part of my life. Yes, he isn't here anymore and, yes, he only lived for 6 hours and 24 minutes, but he is a huge part of who I am and who I am striving to become. He's in our family pictures, we talk about him in our home every day, and we thank Heavenly Father for him in our daily prayers. I carried him in my womb for 9 months and endured one of the worst epidural experiences EVER when delivering him; he is a huge part of who I am. Carver will always be my second born and firstborn son. And, a part of my heart will always be with him -- I will never feel whole again until we are reunited. The death of a child isn't something you just "get over" like a broken bone or a missing pair of earrings. I will be one of those little old ladies 50-60 years from now who, when asked how many children I have, will always include Carver in that head count. So, when people intentionally avoid the topic of him, either because they don't want to see me cry or don't know what to say or would just rather pretend it didn't happen, it hurts more than I can ever begin to describe. It hurts far more to pretend nothing happened 8 months ago, than to talk about it and share with you how I'm doing. No two days are the same -- even if I feel like I have a handle on things, I can't guarantee I'll feel like that the next day. Yes, some people don't like talking about their loss, but I'm not one of those people. Talking about everything (and especially crying) releases built up stress and frustration.  When people bring up Carver, or ask how I'm doing when I mention him in conversation, it really means so much to me. Please don't be afraid to say his name -- I know I've mentioned this is several blog posts, and each time I truly mean it.

In October I learned about a 8-week perinatal loss support group hosted through Caring Connections with the University of Utah. Two other couples also attended this support group, and, even though we all lost our newborns in different ways, we were all going through basically the same experience. It was incredibly validating and comforting to talk with other parents who had also lost a baby, to know that I wasn't going crazy when I felt certain ways and responded to certain situations in ways I never did before, and just cry with other mommies who were feeling the same aching in their arms and emptiness in their hearts. There really is something comforting about being with others who've gone through a similar loss (no matter what your loss is) -- you don't have to explain yourself or feel embarrassed when you start to cry for no obvious reason. It was also really nice to know that even if no one else brought up Carver that week, I'd still be able to talk about it, judgement free, at our support group. No one rolled their eyes when I cried, no one judged me when I talked about my struggles with everyday life, and no one thought "Come on, just get over it already!" The 8-week program ended about a week and half ago and I already miss it so much. I'm incredibly grateful for all the wonderful people who babysat Arlee every Tuesday so we were able to attend this group. Since the drive was about 40 minutes each way, Austin and I had some really good talks about life, how we each were grieving, cleared up miscommunications, and just had some really good adult conversation without a 2-year-old interrupting us every 5 seconds. :)

One of the husbands at our support group, from the very first day, had this attitude around other people of, "I don't care what you think; I'm grieving the loss of my son and its this incredibly hard and I want to talk about it and I'm going to talk about it. And, if this makes you uncomfortable, then, I'm sorry, that's not my problem." I've always been way too much of a people-pleaser, so this mindset was so bold and foreign to me. I'm always concerned about offending people or giving others the wrong impression or being a "pot-stirrer," so even after losing Carver I've unintentionally kept up this people-pleaser persona. But, after being around this guy every Tuesday for 8 weeks, I've realized how healthy and good this mindset is. Heck, I'm grieving the death of my son! I really shouldn't care what others think of me. If you can't handle the fact that I need to talk about Carver, then that's not my problem. I need to talk about him, and I need to be surrounded and supported by people who understand this. For the first time in my life, I don't care what others think about me and how I'm handling my grieving process -- and, it feels good to not care.

This has been a rough holiday season for me. When we first found out we were expecting in April, I was super excited to have an 8-month old at Christmastime. I was so looking forward to seeing the joy and excitement in his eyes when he first saw a lit up Christmas tree and lights on the houses, and I was even looking forward to deterring a crawling baby away from the ornaments on the tree. But, when Carver passed away I started to dread the coming holiday season. Not seeing the excitement in his eyes, not watching him sneakily crawl towards the Christmas tree, and not seeing him attack the Christmas presents was a heart-breaking thing for me to realize. I'd heard months ago that it's normal to feel like you're progressing in the grieving process pretty well and then hit a bad month and take 4 giant steps back -- for me, that was November... and then December. When November arrived, I realized this was the beginning of the holiday season; this was the beginning of everything I had been dreading. I felt pretty out of it all month, and by Thanksgiving I was starting to feel emotionally drained. I did okay on Thanksgiving day, but the next night is when the yearly Christmas traditions started and when I felt like I took even more steps back in my grieving and acceptance process. We spent Thanksgiving in Rexburg with Austin's family and the next night they trimmed their Christmas tree. After the tree was trimmed, we listened to an album reserved for just that special night each year, basked in the glow of the tree, and danced and laughed together. I loved watching Arlee dance around the room with her aunts and uncles, but it was so hard for me to not see Carver doing the same thing -- there was no baby crawling towards the tree and no baby dancing around the room and giggling with his aunts and uncles. It just didn't seem right! As Austin and I sat on the couch and looked at the tree, all I could do was cry. My heart was breaking all over again and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. This just wasn't fair; Carver should have been there and should have been enjoying all fun and laughs that we were enjoying. I admit, I've cried more since that day than I have in a couple months. Its really hard to enjoy the holiday season when a big part of our family is missing.

Since that night of trimming the big family Christmas tree in Rexburg, I've been trying to figure out how to include Carver in our Christmas. I knew that he needed to be a part of it and each year during the holidays we needed to make a special effort to honor him. After looking for ideas online, we decided to that every year Carver needed to have his own stocking and each year we wanted to donate a toy (or two) in Carver's name, matching the developmental age Carver would have been that year. It just didn't seem right to not buy presents for Carver, even if he wasn't here to enjoy them. So, last week while Arlee and I were shopping at Wal-Mart, we went to the toy aisle in search of a toy. I told her that we were looking for a toy for Carver, in the hopes of her not wanting every toy in sight, and scoured the infant toy aisle. As I was looking at different toys, it hit me that I would never actually see Carver play with this toy or unwrap it and get more joy out of the wrapping paper. It took all my self control to not break down in the middle of the toy aisle, amongst all the hustle and bustle of people. I eventually found one of those Fisher-Price shape sorter toys, tossed it in the cart, and hurried out of the aisle before I actually did lose my emotional control. I donated the toy to Toys for Tots at our local Toys Я Us, and even though I knew this cute little elephant themed shape sorter would go to a baby in need who'd absolutely love it, my heart hurt that it wouldn't go to sweet little Carver. Since we can't give Carver any physical gifts, we've decided to give him spiritual gifts, instead. All that really matters to him is that we strive to live worthy to be with him again, so Austin and I have decided to write down our spiritual goals for the year (i.e.: attend the temple at least once a month, more focused daily scripture study, etc.) and put them in his stocking. Since I can't give him the gift of toys or clothes or books, then I can at least give him the gift of knowing that his mom is trying her best to live worthily to be with him again.

Okay, to change gears... Our new little babe is doing great! He's perfectly healthy in every way and definitely an active little guy. I love feeling him move around and learn to use his body, and, I'm not gonna lie, I love being able to wear my maternity clothes again. The weekend before our 20-week ultrasound, which is the ultrasound when we learned about Carver's birth defect, I was almost physically ill with anticipation. I just wanted to know what was going on! I felt so scarred from our previous 20-week ultrasound and was absolutely terrified of hearing the same news or equally as scary news about our little baby. When the day of the ultrasound finally arrived, I was numb with feeling -- the thought of losing another child was enough to send me into hysterics. Our ultrasound tech had already read our file, so she was understanding when we entered the room and I super nervous about what was about to happen. She told us that she couldn't let us know if she saw anything wrong (or any happy news, either), but she could give us really subtle hints. :) When she got to the diaphragm, she showed us the beginning, middle, and end of the diaphragm and basically told us (without actually saying it) that this little one's diaphragm looked completely normal. When the tech left and the doctor entered the room, she said, "I'm happy to report that the ultrasound tech left no worrisome sticky-notes on your file. She thinks everything looks perfectly normal." I nearly cried with relief! She then did another thorough exam of this little guy, with extra attention spent on his diaphragm, and reported that all she saw was a perfectly healthy little baby. After she left the room, Austin and I hugged and cried and jumped up and down together. I've never felt so relieved in my entire life! Yes, things can still happen, but the fact that our little guy looked so good at 20-weeks was a really good sign.

Another thing I've been struggling with is that people tend to assume that this new baby, especially since we're having another boy, replaces all the pain I feel over losing Carver. Yes, I'm incredibly excited to have another baby (and I'm still surprised its a boy -- I was SO convinced this babe was a girl!), but the love you have for one child cannot replace the love you have for another, and the pain you have from losing a child cannot be replaced by the birth of another child -- each child is different and holds a different place in your heart. I love Arlee and Carver and this new little baby each so much, and my love for one can never replace my love for another. Yes, my arms will finally be filled with a sweet little bundle of joy, but that little bundle of joy is a completely different baby than Carver. Please be understanding as I still grieve the loss of my firstborn son as my second born son is born. My pain will not magically vanish and I will not suddenly forget about Carver because I finally have a baby in my arms once again.

I know this blog post may have been longer than usual and I applaud you for reading the whole thing. :) Today Carver would have been eight months old; we would have had eight months of baby snuggles, kisses, giggles, pictures, and tons of sleepless nights. Eight months of bouncing a sweet baby on my knee, telling Arlee to be soft, and trying to coordinate two nap-time sleep schedules. Eight months. 2/3 of a year. I can't believe its been almost a year since I last held my sweet baby boy and kissed his soft little head. I'm incredibly grateful for all of you that have expressed extra love and support for me and my family during this holiday season -- even if you feel like you don't know what to say, please know that your sympathy means so much to me.

The second verse of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" has a whole new meaning to me this holiday season.

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
Ris'n with healing in his wings.
Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.

Hark! the herald angels sing

Glory to the newborn King!

I know Christ truly is the reason for the season. He was the first gift of Christmas -- a gift given to us so that we may be atoned for our sins and one day return to our Heavenly Home. Even though this time of year has been more difficult than I ever could have anticipated, I'm so grateful for the birth of my Savior and the light and life He brought to this world.

And, we're expecting!

Well, we're pregnant! :) I'm a little over 12 weeks and this baby is due end of March/beginning of April. I started showing a lot quicker with Carver's pregnancy than with Arlee's, and with this pregnancy a little bump appeared around 8 weeks. By 10 weeks it was getting a lot more obvious that I was either pregnant or gaining a bunch of weight in my stomach. And, by 12 weeks this pregnant tummy is just impossible to hide. I've been trying to wear baggier clothing or dark colors to try and conceal it as long as possible, but I think those days are over.

Yeah, I can't really conceal this pregnant tummy anymore.

To be honest, I had absolutely no intention of getting pregnant again for at least 6 months to a year, if not longer. I remember telling Austin, as we drove to Rexburg for Carver's funeral, that I didn't even want to *think* about getting pregnant again for a very long time. I told him not to bring up that topic of conversation and to just wait for me to tell him when I'm ready. The thought of ever going through this experience, or a similar one, again was (and is) enough to send me into hysterics. I. Cannot. Imagine. And, I knew that getting pregnant again meant that there was a 2% chance of this kind of hernia happening again or just any other possible birth defect or issue. (The fact that so many babies are born perfectly healthy is a miracle in and of itself -- so many things can go wrong during the process of forming a baby.) Also, I was so afraid that conceiving again meant I was trying to replace Carver, which is the last thing I wanted to do. He is a huge part of my life and I couldn't imagine doing that to myself or to him. Not to mention all the emotional exhaustion and trauma I'd just gone through with being pregnant and delivering a beautiful little boy and then watching him pass away in my arms a few hours later. So, all that being said, I had no intention of becoming pregnant again for a very long time.

Well, the Lord had a different plan.

About a month or so after Carver's birth and passing, all I started thinking about was getting pregnant again. It was like this nagging, annoying feeling. I kept brushing it aside and ignoring these thoughts, but they kept coming back over and over and over again. More than anything, it was just frustrating. I knew I didn't want to get pregnant yet, so I couldn't figure out why these thoughts were creeping into my head. Then, a few days later, it hit me: This wasn't just my brain thinking what it would be like to have another baby -- it was a prompting from the Lord. I brought all of this to Austin, who was really happy at the thought of welcoming a third baby into our growing family, and then we brought it to the Lord. And, of course, we each felt the distinct impression that we needed to continue adding children to our family, and not wait as long as I was planning. Heh, funny how the plan you have for your life is often changed around by the Lord's plan for your life.

Becoming pregnant again has been wonderful and so, so challenging. It's been wonderful because its shown me that I'm not "broken." I admit, after losing Carver I was so afraid that something was now wrong with my body because it has "failed" and now I wouldn't be able to bring anymore children into this world. This is a terrifying thought. So, conceiving again has shown me that I'm not broken. My body is fine. I can still do this. Losing Carver is not the end. But, its also been more challenging than I anticipated. I'm so worried, like, all the time. Worried that I'll experience yet another miscarriage; worried that this baby won't develop properly; worried that a congenital diaphragmatic hernia will strike twice in our little family; worried that I'll have to bury another child. Just, worried. I know that many of these fears, if not all, are completely out of my control and that worrying about them really won't change anything. But, I think that's all much easier said than done. Due to everything that's happened in the past year, I feel like I can no longer be completely carefree and happy during my pregnancies, like I was with Arlee. Arlee's pregnancy was perfect in pretty much every way. Yes, I was tired and hormonal (but who isn't when you're pregnant?), but everything went exactly as planned. The thought that she could have a birth defect or other issue never really crossed my mind, and her gender check/anatomy check was a joyful and exciting time. Hers was the "ideal" pregnancy, I think. But now, going through pretty much the complete opposite with Carver's pregnancy, I don't know what to think or how to feel. I remember hearing years ago during a General Conference address that "fear and faith cannot hold hands," and that phrase has stuck with me. Its so true -- I cannot have faith everything will work out the way it should and place my faith in the Lord, but be terrified at that same time. A part of me really wants to believe that if I felt very prompted to become pregnant again so soon after losing Carver, then that means this baby will be perfectly healthy and a huge blessing in our lives, right? I truly hope so.

But, please don't get me wrong -- I am very excited to be pregnant again and I CANNOT wait to feel this little one kick! I think feeling Arlee and Carver move around and learn how to use their bodies was one of my most favorite things about their pregnancies. As much as I would have really enjoyed sleeping at 2am, feeling their acrobatic movements was such a tender and amazing experience. And, one thing that Carver's pregnancy taught me is to never complain about how uncomfortable you may feel, because you never know if your time holding that little soccer player in your womb is the only time you will get to hold them. I didn't realize this concept until about 30 weeks with Carver, and I wish I'd realized it sooner so I could have spent more time enjoying his kicks and jabs and less time muttering about how uncomfortable I felt. My stomach is still a bit lop-sided since Carver spent all his time curled up in a ball on the right side of my stomach, and I love it.

To say that this year has been hard is pretty much a massive understatement. Every day I think about Carver and all the new things he'd be learning and doing. I think about how great a big sister Arlee would have been to him -- she's so maternal and absolutely loves babies. I think about how sleep deprived I'd be feeling, and to be honest, I'm kinda sad that I'm not. Being sleep deprived means you're getting midnight bonding sessions with your sweet little baby, and probably 3am and 5am bonding sessions, too. :) I'd rather be completely sleep deprived, covered in spit up, and with awful bedhead hair, than to ever repeat this experience. Every day I still wish that someone will say Carver's name and/or ask how I'm doing. My really, really bad days aren't as common as they used to be, but they still come around.

A few days ago Arlee was holding one of her baby dolls and she said, "This is baby Carver! He's hungry and needs a new diaper." She "changed" his diaper, wrapped him in a dish cloth, and gingerly fed him one of her little toy baby bottles. It was incredibly adorable and absolutely melted my heart. I really feel like her spirit just knows everything that's happened, even if her 2-year-old self doesn't quite understand. She then brought me "baby Carver" and asked if I wanted to hold him. Words cannot describe how much I love this little girl. This past weekend was especially rough for me and Arlee continued to be her tender and compassionate little self. She gave me the sweetest little hugs and at one point brought me her princess coloring book and crayons and said, "Here, Mommy. Be happy." I know I've said this in past blog posts, but she is just the greatest blessing a mommy could ask, especially during this rough time.

Austin and I are really so excited to welcome a third baby into our family, and it would be so awesome if there were some kind of cheat code for moms who've lost a baby so they can speed up the pregnancy -- like instead of everything taking 9 months, it would only take 5 months. Wouldn't that be great? :) Waiting for this little one, after already going through 9 months of waiting for Carver is just rough. This might be too much to ask, but we'd really appreciate it if you could keep us and this new little baby in your prayers. So far everything is going well, but the gender check/anatomy check in about 8 more weeks is the appointment that will really let us know how things are going with this little babe. Thanks. :)

Some Thoughts on Grieving

I've tried to write this blog post a couple of times, but each time it ends up sounding dark and dreary. I admit, being told that I've been incredibly positive and uplifting throughout everything that's happened has been a bit overwhelming to hear. I feel like I've been trying to hold myself to an impossible standard, because that's the front I've been trying to show everyone -- even though it was pretty unintentional. Even though I have a testimony of the Plan of Salvation and I know I will see my baby boy again and get to raise him in the next life, it really doesn't make any of my pain and loneliness any easier right now. A quote from Joseph Smith comes to mind,

"The only difference between the old and young dying is, one lives longer in heaven and eternal light and glory than the other, and is freed a little sooner from this miserable, wicked world. Notwithstanding all this glory, we for a moment lose sight of it, and mourn the loss, but we do not mourn as those without hope." Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith

I love that last bit... "we do not mourn as those without hope." But, we still mourn and I have every right to mourn.

I've come to learn that grieving is incredibly lonely. Sometimes the loneliness is so overbearing that I feel like I'm being suffocated. I'm not entirely sure how to explain it... it can just feel very, very overwhelming. I never thought it was possible to be surrounded by people and still feel very much alone. Even my sweet and supportive husband has a difficult time trying to understand all the pain I feel, because he didn't feel Carver move inside his body or physically push him out. I think the grieving process is different for mothers; its almost as if I've lost a part of myself, because he was a part of me for so long. And, I won't have that part of myself back until we're reunited again.

I've also come to realize that this loneliness and burden will be a part of my life for the rest of my life. Now that is even more overwhelming to realize. Most trials eventually come to end, but I will bear this burden until I pass away... and, seeing how I'm only 25 years old, that's probably going to be a very, very long time from now; I'm thinking 60+ years. My brain can't fully comprehend how that's possible; to my feeble mortal mind, that's an incredibly long time to wait for a burden to be lifted. This next Monday, July 21, Carver would have been 3 months old (such a fun age!), and yet, it seems like I gave birth to him a lifetime ago. I have no idea how I'm going to live with this weight upon my shoulders each day and a part of me always missing, but hopefully, in time, I will figure it out.

I'm starting to learn that everyone grieves differently and no one can tell you how to grieve or when you should be finished. Also, no one can compare their grieving to your own, even if they have the best of intentions. Everyone handles their trials and burdens differently; even the death of a loved one cannot be compared to the death of someone else's loved one. Each situation is different and each person's relationship to their loved one is different. Someone recently told me that they "know how I feel" because their grandmother recently passed away. Please, don't say this to someone who just lost their child; the situations are entirely different. I know this individual had the best of intentions and was probably just trying to my empathetic, but it did more harm than help. My first thought was to ask if she carried her grandmother in her womb for 9 months and then gave birth to her... If you happen to be in a situation where someone just lost a loved one and you don't know what to say, simply say, "I'm so sorry for your loss." And, then, if you're comfortable with this next step, offer them a hug. Its as simple as that. People who are grieving simply need love and support -- don't feel like you need to have some magical words to make it all better; just love them.

Before losing Carver, I was like pretty much everyone else and I didn't know how to act or what to say around people who had lost a child. And, now that I know, I want to kick myself for not doing more or asking more or being there more. Everyone who loses a loved one (parent, child, friend, etc), wants to talk about it. They want to express their feelings, they want to hear their loved one's name, they want to share memories of this loved one, they just want you to show you care. Avoiding the topic because you don't want to make them feel uncomfortable is that last thing you should do. In the past few months I've heard people say "I don't want to intrude," "I don't want to make you uncomfortable," "I don't want to make you cry," and "I don't want to bother you." Please, please, please intrude! (Maybe that's the wrong word for this context...) Please, don't feel like you have to avoid the topic of my son. Please, say his name. I promise, asking how I'm feeling and asking to hear his story doesn't bother me at all! I want to share all these things will you. And, as funny as it may sound, crying is incredibly therapeutic. I always feel loads better after a good, long cry. Crying releases pent up emotions that are just waiting to find a way out. I can always tell when I haven't had a good cry for a few days, because I start to feel emotionally drained. If we cry while we're talking, its a good thing -- it means I'm about to feel better and more relaxed, at least for a period of time. Seriously, tears are good. Carver is just as much my child as Arlee. And, what parent doesn't like talking about their kids? :)

Another thing that's been hard for me is that many of those around me are already acting like nothing happened. Maybe is has to do with what I talked about in the paragraph right before this one; maybe it has to do with that fact that people's lives start to move on and the impact of this event starts to wear off (which is to be expected); or maybe it has to do with the notion that I'm "all better now." Yes, I'm back to my regular routine and I'm finding the strength to laugh and smile again, but that by no means implies that I'm "over" what happened. Carver is as much a part of my life as the weather -- sometimes there are good days, sometimes there are bad days, but I think about him everyday. I think about what it would be like to hold him again, sing him lullabies, smell the sweet aroma that all newborns have, watch him screech as I make him experience daily tummy time, tell his older sister 20 times a day that he's a baby and she has to be soft, and just experience life all over again with a newborn. Now that he would have been almost three months, I'm thinking about the milestones he'd be reaching like finding his feet for the first time and rolling over. Everyday I think about my little boy, and everyday I hope that someone will bring him up or simply ask how I'm doing.

Something else I've started struggling with is that I haven't "leveled up" in motherhood... let me explain. I feel like each time you go through a pregnancy and all the changes that happen to your body and all the emotional roller coasters and all the day dreaming and preparing and worrying and everything else, you finally end up with a precious little baby who makes all the craziness of the last 9 months worth it. You've now conquered yet another life milestone and you've "leveled up." (Maybe this is an awful analogy...) I've gone through 2 pregnancies with all the accompanied emotional roller coasters, day dreaming, preparing, worrying, and everything else involved with a pregnancy, but I only have one child to show for it. I feel like I haven't "leveled up," and maybe this is a mental battle more than anything else. When I look in the mirror, I see the mother of one adorable, happy, talkative, and spunky little girl. But, I wish with all my heart I could also see the mother of a precious little boy, who has his daddy's "elf" ears, and who's just starting to learn how to roll over and babble.

Its amazing to me how we continue to see little tender mercies and the hand of the Lord in our lives each day. Those times when I really feel unbearably alone, its almost as if I feel this little nudge of encouragement from beyond the veil. Again, I'm not really sure how to explain it. Its almost like Carver is saying, "Its okay, Mom. I love you. You can do this. We really aren't separated for that long." I've continued to feel so much love from my Savior. A quote from Elder Bowen's talk in the October 2012 General Conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, titled "Because I Live, Ye Shall Live Also," continues to stick with me. He says,

"...all that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ." "Because I Live, Ye Shall Live Also", October 2012 General Conference

I love that. All things can be made right through the Atonement. Not just some things or whatever is most convenient to the Lord, but all things. I feel like we mostly focus on how the Atonement heals us from our sins and transgressions, and makes us clean in the sight of the Lord, but the Atonement is also there to help us through our trials, give us strength when we feel as if we cannot possibly carry on, and enable us make it back to Him. Elder Bednar often speaks of the enabling power of the Atonement; in fact, in the October 2012 General Conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, in a talked titled "In the Strength of the Lord," Elder Bednar shares some amazing insights and knowledge into the enabling power of the Atonement. (In the Strength of the Lord, October 2004 General Conference )

We've seen a number of other tender mercies occur in the past few months that didn't seem like a blessing "ahead of time" at the time, but have since proved to be. One such blessing is three free Stutterfly codes I received all at one time a few months ago. I know that may not seem like a blessing that could really have that much of an impact on me right now, but it has. Right after Carver passed away, I decided I wanted to make a book telling the story of his life, so his siblings could all know about their brother and his life and how he will always be a part of our family. I worked on this book for two months, and it was an extremely therapeutic project for me. The book arrived in the mail last month and it is precious beyond words. I'm able to perfectly tell Carver's story to anyone who asks, and Arlee loves looking at all the pictures of her little brother. I've since used the second code to make Arlee an ABC book with pictures of her and things that she loves, and the third code I'm using to make a book about Arlee and his best friend who is soon moving away. (Poor girl, she's gonna miss him so much.) Making these Shutterfly books has kept me occupied and my mind busy, which has been such a blessing as I try to process life right now. Shutterfly books can be expensive, but these codes have made all three books essentially free! Another blessing has been our next door neighbors. (Oops, I hope this doesn't embarrass them. ) Last summer new neighbors moved into the apartment to the right of us. They are some of the most tender-hearted and genuine people you'll ever meet. When I first told the wife about Carver's diagnosis, she cried with me and hugged me and we talked for a very long time. I really appreciated all her love and support. From that point on, she always asked how I was doing and told me they were keeping us in their prayers. Fast forward to the day we got home from the hospital without our precious little guy... They brought us dinner that night and asked to hear about Carver. Every time we see either of them, they ask how we're doing. I've laughed and cried with them and felt such support and love. My neighbors are a perfect example of Christ-like love, and we feel so blessed to live next door to them. It truly amazes me how the Lord brings people into your life exactly when you need them.

Arlee continues to be the greatest blessing I could ever ask for. My sweet mother-in-law made the comment a few months ago that before Arlee was born she and Carver were probably talking about who should join the family first. Carver probably said, "You should go down first, so you can be there to comfort Mom and Dad when I have to come back." Who knows if that actually happened, but I love the imagery. Arlee makes me smile every day. She has such a compassionate and loving spirit and really knows when I need a hug. She brings me her favorite toys or stuffed animals when I'm crying or having a rough time, and is learning to say "I love you, Mommy," which absolutely melts my heart. :) She talks almost nonstop all day long (she's definitely my daughter) and comes up with the funniest things. On those days when I just don't want to get out of bed in the morning and face the world, she motivates me to get up. She still needs to get out of bed, have her diaper changed, eat, play, go outside, and just experience life. If it wasn't for Arlee, I'm sure I'd spend most of my life curled up in bed watching Netflix and eating chocolate. I pray every day that she'll stay healthy and safe and can continue to be my little ray of sunshine each day. Arlee is my everything, and right now I owe a lot of my emotional and mental sanity her.

More than anything, I just want Carver's life to be acknowledged. He is a huge part of my life and always will be. He will always be my second born and my first son. No matter what's happening as the months and years go by, he will always be at the back of my mind. Each time we reach a new "first," I will think of him and my heart will break a little. This past week was Arlee's second birthday, and it would have been Carver's first birthday celebration. Even though I was beyond happy Arlee had turned two, it broke my heart that Carver wouldn't be there to celebrate with us -- there would be no baby to hold while we sang "Happy Birthday" and no baby to play with the wrapping paper that was littered across the floor. I'm sure this next year full of "firsts" will be a struggle.

Mommy misses you, Carver. I love you.

Our Angel Baby

I've been contemplating what to write in this blog post for the past several weeks. I haven't known if I should share a watered-down version of everything that's happened to us in the past month or a completely honest, raw emotional version. I've come to realize that if I do water down this experience, I'm not being honest with myself or with Carver. My sweet little boy deserves to be honored, and to have his mommy share his story. I know this blog post will be rather lengthy compared to my others.

On the evening of Easter Sunday, April 20, 2014, Austin and I went to University Hospital in Salt Lake to begin the labor inducing process. My body was nowhere ready to have a baby, so Carver was pretty much having a forced induction. Poor kid. Thankfully, we didn't have an exact set time, so Austin and I could first enjoy Easter dinner with our families and a cute little Easter egg hunt for Arlee. The time up until we left for the hospital seemed to inch by... I was excited to meet my sweet little boy, but all the anticipation of not knowing what to expect was almost exhausting. It had been decided ahead of time that Arlee would stay with my in-laws in Idaho during Carver's time at Primary Children's, since we didn't know how often I'd be in Provo to take care of her. Saying goodbye to Arlee before we left was absolutely heartbreaking. Up until that point, I'd never been away from her at night. Ever. I thought my heart was going to break in two as I gave her one last hug and kiss and we drove away.

We got to the hospital around 7 p.m., checked in, met my nurse for the evening, and got ready to have a baby. My nurse for that first night, Heather, was absolutely amazing. She answered all my zillions of questions without blinking an eye, was incredibly sensitive to that fact that my pregnancy was very high-risk, and was just wonderful in every way. The medicine to ready my cervix for birth wasn't doing much, so by 5 a.m. they decided to turn on the Pitocin. Okay, if you've never had a baby before and you're reading this blog post, I hope this next part doesn't terrify you. I NEVER want to be induced EVER again.  After the Pitocin was put in my IV, my mild and slightly annoying cramps morphed into the most painful cramps of my entire existence in no time flat. It was truly amazing how fast the Pitocin kicked in . . . I absolutely begged for the anesthesiologist to come give me an epidural. I have an incredibly low pain tolerance, so there's absolutely no way I could have natural birth. But, kudos to all those moms that can. The anesthesiologist came almost immediately and was kind enough to insert the epidural when I wasn't having a contraction. By that point, my contractions were getting stronger and closer together. I was told the epidural would take about thirty minutes to fully set in. Ummmm, no.

By forty minutes I was in the worst pain of my entire life. The contractions were about three seconds apart and I thought my abdomen was going to explode. It got to the point where I was essentially screaming in pain and asking Austin if it were possible for me to just black out from all the pain and wake up when Carver was born. My epidural had not set in one bit . . . all it had done was completely numb my right leg. My sweet husband was so distraught from all the pain I was experiencing he almost started to cry himself. I kept asking my nurse, during my three seconds of no pain, when the epidural was finally going to kick in. She was surprised it hadn't taken effect yet, and wasn't sure why is was taking so long. Austin then had the idea to ask my nurse to turn off the Pitocin until after the epidural was set. I'm so glad my husband was able to think clearly when I was losing my mind from pain. So the Pitocin was turned off and the anesthesiologist came back in to fix the epidural. Unlike my terrifying and very business-like anesthesiologist from Arlee's delivery, this anesthesiologist was calm, funny, and would even crack jokes during my three seconds of normality between contractions. I seriously felt like Jekyll and Hyde. I vaguely remember apologizing to my nurse between almost every contraction because I felt so bad for acting like a total maniac. But, then again, that kind of pain will make you act like a total maniac.

The second epidural was loads better. It took full effect within fifteen minutes and I felt like a new woman. They turned the Pitocin back on and waited for my body kick into gear. By about 8:30 a.m. I still wasn't dilating past 4 cm, so they broke my water and with twenty minutes I had dilated to 9 cm. That kind of speed must be a record or something. By this point, six or seven doctors started swarming into my room and prepping everything for the delivery of Carver. After about ten solid minutes of pushing, at 9:36 a.m. on April 21, my beautiful baby boy was born. He weighed six pounds, nine ounces, and was 19 1/4 inches long. He was absolutely perfect. My first thought was how much he looked just like his big sister. My second thought was that I didn't hear any crying... which really worried me. Arlee pretty much came bellowing out of the womb, and I was really hoping I'd hear at least a little bit of that kind of noise from Carver.

As soon as Carver was born, he was whisked away through the window in my hospital room to the NICU. I remember asking over and over again if he was breathing. I didn't even want to think of the opposite. The doctors who delivered him reassured me that he was breathing, even though he didn't make any noise upon birth.

The plan after his birth was to stabilize him for a few days in the NICU at University Hospital, then transport him down the hall to Primary Children's, stabilize him for a few more days, and then have him go into surgery to fix the diaphragmatic hernia.

About five minutes after he was transfered to the NICU, a nurse popped her head through the window and said that he was stabilized. This information was such a breath of fresh air. Now we were hoping everything else would go according to plan and he'd stay on the up-and-up. About ten minutes later the head NICU doctor came into my hospital room to explain the situaion. He told us that Carver was on 100% oxygen (we breath about 20% oxygen), but his numbers weren't improving. They'd done an X-ray of his chest and his lungs were much smaller than they'd been hoping. The doctor and nurses were going to try a few more things to help our precious baby boy, and then he'd come back with another report. By this point, both sets of grandparents, Austin's brother, and my brother and his wife were with us in my hospital room. We all prayed and prayed that Carver's numbers would improve and he'd be our miracle baby. About ten minutes later the same doctor returned and informed us that Carver's numbers were still going down, his lungs were so small that they couldn't send oxygen to the rest of his body, and he couldn't breathe out the carbon dioxide. The build up of carbon dioxide was essentially poisoning him and he was going brain dead. There was nothing more they could do.

This is not the kind of news that any mother wishes to hear. My heart was breaking into a million little pieces and I just wanted this nightmare to end. I wanted to scream and beg the doctor to save my little boy's life, but he had done everything possible. Carver's lungs were just too small to send oxygen to the rest of his body. I was in such shock from this news that I didn't know what to say or do. I remember telling the doctor we were Latter-day Saints and asking if it was okay for my husband to give Carver a priesthood blessing. He said "of course" and we were all directed to the NICU. The NICU had a rule of only allowing two people at a time to visit the baby's bedside, but they let us break all the rules that day. They allowed all nine of us, including my huge hospital bed, because I was still super numb from the epidural, to enter the NICU and see Carver, the most beautiful little boy I've ever seen.

Carver was absolutely beautiful—I was speechless when I saw him. After nine months of imagining what he looked like, here he was. He had ten perfect fingers, ten adorable toes, his daddy's pointed "elf-like" ears, and his mommy's nose. My heart swelled with pride as I looked at him—here was my son, the little boy I'd been praying for and hoping with all my heart that he'd be my miracle baby. Here was my little fighter, my sweet Carver. As Austin and our dads prepared to give Carver a priesthood blessing, I was hoping and praying that Austin would command Carver's body to heal and his lungs to grow. But, that wasn't part of the Lord's plan.

Here is an excerpt from Austin's blog, explaining what happened:

"He was unconscious with relaxing morphine, his stomach was vibrating with rapid breaths of pure oxygen from the machine, and his chest was swollen with all of the organs that shouldn't be up there, above his tiny belly. He looked like a miniature body builder. My wife had done her job as a mom, had suffered so that this bundle of joy could come into the world, and now it was my turn as the father to give him a priesthood blessing. What would I say? Would I rebuke his hernia and command him to be healed in the name of Jesus Christ? Would he gasp and suddenly start breathing on his own, to the amazement of everyone around? Carver's two grandfathers, my dad and father-in-law, stood with me as we placed our fingers on Carver's head. I began the blessing, giving him a name, and then blessing him. As tears streamed down my face I proclaimed him too pure to live in this horrible world, and blessed him to be safe and warm in his final hours on earth, to know how much we loved him and would miss him." (Pretzel Lectern, "Farewell")

I had such faith that the Lord would heal Carver. I knew that He had the power to do so, if only it were a part of His eternal plan. As Austin began the blessing and told Carver that he was too pure to live in this wicked world, what was left of my heart broke into a million more pieces. I began to sob uncontrollably. I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't believe that at age twenty-five, I would go through the experience of saying goodbye to one of my children, not to reunited with him until I pass from this mortal existence. I couldn't believe it. As Austin finished the blessing and told Carver how much we loved him and would miss him, I somehow felt emotionally strengthened . . . as if, contrary to what I was currently feeling, I would get through this day. 

The nurses didn't rush us at all. They told us that we could take as much time as we wanted with him. Since we all knew that these would be our final moments with Carver, the rest of the family members left and let us have some alone time with him. Some of the nurses carefully moved him from his little bed, wrapped in him a blanket, and placed him in my arms. As I gazed at his beautiful face, my heart filled with even more love. I would have given my life for him. I would have done anything to let him live and stay with us on earth. Those hours we spent with him in the NICU were so precious and priceless. We told him how much we loved him and we told him all about his big sister and how much she loved him, too.

I've sung to Arlee every day of her life, so Carver also heard all those same songs each day. Arlee's special song is "Baby Mine," and I sing it to her multiple times a day, most of the time per her request. As we were talking to Carver, I started to sing this song. Up until that point he hadn't made a single sound. Not only were his lungs extremely small, but he was on a morphine drip to help him feel no pain, which pretty much made him unconscious. As soon as I started to sing "Baby Mine" and then "I Am a Child of God," which Carver also heard every day, he made two little sounds. Yes, it may have been a coincidence, but I like to think that he was acknowledging the songs I was singing—almost as if he were saying, "Thanks, Mom! I love those songs! They're familiar and comforting." It was such a sweet and tender moment.

Eventually, the rest of our family, one family unit at a time, came back to the NICU to say goodbye to Carver. I'm so glad both sets of grandparents were able to meet this precious grandbaby before he was needed back in Heaven.

After three hours of snuggles, kisses, and lots and lots of love, we knew that it was time to say our final goodbyes and take Carver off life support. Those final moments were heart wrenching . . . I just wanted to hold him forever and never let him go. But, being human and having just given birth a few hours previous, I was physically and emotionally exhausted and beyond starving. After a few last kisses, the NICU doctor removed his breathing tube and we held our beautiful little boy until he passed away. I will never forget that moment. I'd never watched anyone pass away before, and it was a very sacred and reverent experience. We could tell when our little boy's spirit had left his body . . . Our precious baby boy had returned to his Heavenly Father. 

I love this Greg Olsen picture. It think it speaks volumes about the Savior's love for little children. I know my baby boy is safe and happy, back in his Heavenly Home.

The next few hours were a blur. I was transported to my recovery room, where I'd spend the next two days, and where I'd begin to wrap my head around what had just happened. By that point I just felt emotionally numb. That Monday was the longest day of my life.

The hospital staff was absolutely wonderful to us. I had great nurses and everyone was extremely compassionate and sensitive to what had happened. My nurse that first night in my recovery room had lost a baby to SIDS eighteen years ago, so even though we'd gone through different experiences, she was able to relate to me and give me comfort in ways that others hadn't yet been able to. And, as we were leaving the hospital a few days later, I realized I had been put in a different part of the recovery ward, compared to other moms and babies. Half of the recovery ward at University Hospital is for moms and babies with normal deliveries, and the other half is for moms that are there on bed rest, moms with babies in the NICU, and moms who have lost their baby. Not once in the hospital did I hear someone else's baby cry or, for that matter, even see another baby. I'm SO grateful that the hospital had a different recovery area for moms that had to say goodbye to their baby. University Hospital, seriously, is wonderful. I'm so glad we delivered Carver there. They even frequently checked up on Austin, as well as ordered him food from the cafeteria. 

A few hours after Carver passed away, a photographer from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep visited us in our hospital room to take pictures of us with our beautiful baby boy. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep is a non-profit organization made up of volunteer photographers who visit families in the hospital after their baby has passed away, to take pictures of them and their sweet little angel. At first I was nervous to see Carver's body after having already said goodbye and watching him pass away, but taking these photos with him was very therapeutic. After Austin and I left the NICU, Carver's nurse had given him a bath and dressed him in an adorable sleeper. When she brought him to my recovery room, he looked so angelic and smelled wonderful. The photographer took zillions of pictures. He edited a few right away so we'd have them for Carver's viewing and funeral, and he's currently editing the rest. I love, love, love the pictures he's edited so far, and I can't wait to see the rest. Here are two of my favorites. You can see his perfect little "elf like" ears in the second picture. :)

Friday, April 25, we had Carver's viewing and funeral in Rexburg, Idaho. We were (and are) so grateful for all the love and support we felt that day. The funeral service was absolutely perfect. My brother, Michael, and Austin's brother, Redge, both spoke and two dear friends performed a beautiful musical number of "A Child's Prayer." Mine and Austin's kind bishop and his wife drove all the way from Provo to be there and support us. Carver was buried at the Rexburg cemetery, next to Austin's paternal grandparents. These grandparents also lost three little boys shortly after birth, so it seemed really sweet to have him buried next to them. That day was very cloudy and rainy, almost like out of a movie.

Many people have asked how I'm handling all of this. That's a great question . . . Every day is different. Some days I feel like I have a handle on things and I'm doing okay, but other days I wonder how I'm possibly going to make it through until tomorrow. My arms absolutely ache to hold my precious baby boy. I miss him with every fiber of my being. Some days I wonder how I can possibly have any more tears left in my body. I don't think I can properly put into words how I'm feeling, to be totally honest. Losing a child is one of the hardest things you can ever go through—I wouldn't wish this experience on anyone. And yet, what I'm going through isn't some new and foreign experience . . . many people have lost a child and deal with the same emotions I feel every day. At times I feel like I'm stuck on board an emotional roller coaster that will never end.

Throughout this experience my adorable and spunky Arlee has been my little ray of sunshine. She brings such happiness and light to our lives. Really, she is what keeps me going. I don't know how I'd be able to survive this without her. She's always doing something to make me smile, whether its making "soup" with necklaces and little Hot Wheels cars, rocking her baby doll to sleep, or saying "Mommy, hug," and then climbing into my lap and wrapping her sweet little arms around me. I love Arlee so much. I'm so glad I've been blessed with the opportunity to raise her and teach her and be her mommy.

Austin is my rock. His loving hugs give me so much strength and support. When I feel like I can't possibly go on, he is there to pick up the pieces of my broken heart and put me back together. He reassures me, supports me, and understands that I'll never be completely "finished" or "done" grieving the loss of our sweet baby boy. Everyone grieves differently, and I'm definitely a crier . . . which, thankfully, Austin understands. I'm so glad the Lord blessed me with such a loving and sensitive husband.

I recently found this "Bereaved Parent's Wish List" and I feel like all of these things apply to how I'm feeling:

1) I wish my child hadn't died. I wish I had him back.

2) I wish you wouldn't be afraid to speak my child's name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that he was important to you also.

3) If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child I wish you knew that it isn't because you have hurt me. My child's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both. 

4) Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn't shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.

5) I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but, I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of the day.

6) I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you, too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a real big hug.

7) I wish you wouldn't expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.

8) I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he is dead.

9) I wish you wouldn't expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy." Neither will happen for a very long time, so don't frustrate yourself.

10) I don't want to have a "pity party," but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.

11) I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I'm feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.

12) When I say "I'm doing okay," I wish you could understand that I don't "feel" okay and that I struggle daily.

13) I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I'm having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.

14) Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that I'm doing good to handle an hour at a time.

15) Please excuse me if I seem rude, certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.

16) I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.

17) I wish very much that you could understand; understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. BUT I pray daily that you will never understand.

This quote also describes much of what I'm feeling right now:

Throughout this experience my mind has several times been drawn to the words of President Dieter F. Uchtdorf: 

"We sometimes think that being grateful is what we do after our problems are solved, but how terribly shortsighted that is. How much of life do we miss by waiting to see the rainbow before thanking God that there is rain?" (General Conference, "Grateful In Any Circumstances," April 2014)

He is so wise! We've experienced SO many tender mercies in these past few weeks since the passing of Carver. There are always rainbows amidst the rain. Always. Sometimes the rainbows may be hard to find, but I know they are there.

Even though I don't know how I'll react to certain situations or when I'll start to feel like myself again, I do know a few things:

1) I know that God lives and has a plan for each and every one of His children. We may not always understand His plan, but if we put our trust in Him, we will always be okay. Always.

2) I know that families are forever, and I will be reunited with my precious Carver one day. 

3) I know there is always a light at the end of tunnel. The light may look like a pin-point right now, but its there. 

4) I know my Heavenly Father and Savior love me. Even though they know I will be okay, I know they weep with me because I'm feeling such sorrow.

5) I know my Savior felt my pain when He atoned for me in the Garden of Gethsemane. I know I can always turn to Him. I am never alone.

Since the beginning, when we first learned about Carver's diaphragmatic hernia, I've always felt like everything would be okay. I didn't exactly know what that meant, but I knew it would turn out the way the Lord had intended for us. I still know that everything will be okay. We will be okay. I will be okay. I will miss my sweet little boy every day for the rest of my life, but I will one day be okay. 

I know Carver is happy and safe and we will one day be reunited. I know I will one day wrap my arms around him and tell him how much I love him and how I've missed him dearly. Until that day, I  strive to live my life worthy of him and worthy of the life to come.