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. 

Hospital tours and MRI results

This past Tuesday Austin and I went to Salt Lake for an MRI of Little Guy's lung tissue, as well as take a tour the Labor/Delivery Ward at University Hospital and the NICU at Primary Children's Hospital. It was great talking with the doctors and nurses, and we each felt like we (and our son!) are in the best hands possible. Everyone we interacted with was extremely loving and compassionate, and kept reiterating that they want us to have a good experience. We also learned what exactly will happen right after Little Guy is born and how Austin can be involved in the process of getting him to the NICU. Thankfully, the NICU at Primary Children's is a really short walk over a sky bridge from the Labor/Delivery Ward at University Hospital. 

There's really so much I could say about our experience on Tuesday -- it was almost a day of information overload. The most intense part of our visit was seeing all the helpless, innocent babies in the NICU... it made everything so real. Modern medicine is a truly amazing thing, and I don't even want to begin to think what would have happened to our son if he was born a generation ago, but seeing all those babies hooked up to machines and IVs and breathing masks just broke my heart. There is such a special feeling in the NICU and I'm sure there are many, many angels tending to those sweet little babies.

This morning we received a call from my doctor at Maternal-Fetal Medicine with the results from the MRI. Everything we've seen thus far on the ultrasounds gave us a lot of confidence that things would be okay and the MRI would give us positive results -- prior to the MRI, even my doctor said she expected the results to give us pretty normal lung tissue volume measurements. Well, the MRI definitely threw us a curve ball. One of the first things my doctor saw from the results is that a significant amount of liver is in our son's chest, which is not at all what we were expecting. With left-sided hernias, the liver isn't an issue since that organ develops on the right side of the body. Since the liver is also taking up space in the chest, that means the hernia is much bigger than what we've been seeing on ultrasounds... probably spanning across the entire chest cavity. The liver isn't a very "forgiving" organ (in terms of squishy-ness), so it really prevents the lung from fighting back and growing. With the liver being in the chest, that greatly affects survival rate and lung growth. That being said, the MRI wasn't able to detect any lung tissue on the right side and very little on the left side. At this stage in development, the average healthy baby has 70 cm of lung tissue total (35 cm per lung), and our son has 10 cm total on just the left side.

After surgery, once everything that shouldn't be in the chest is back in the stomach, his lungs can grow to full size. Since MRIs aren't able to detect everything, my doctor is really hoping that a small amount of lung tissue has developed on his right side, so the lung can continue growing after he's born. The real worry now is if he has enough lung tissue to make it to surgery. With all this new information, we were told his chance of survival is about 10%.

Needless to say, its been a very emotional day. During this phone call with my doctor, she reminded me that one big blessing is that fact that Little Guy's heart is just fine. Yes, his heart is pushed all the way over to the right, but it has no holes or other defects. If he had a heart defect, then everything would be much, much more complicated. She also told me that in her fifteen years working in this profession she's seen many miracles -- even though this isn't at all what we were expecting, she reminded us that we shouldn't give up hope. One definite plus of living in a highly religious area is having doctors who believe in hope, faith, and miracles. I truly do believe in miracles -- I know they happen every day, whether great or small. Austin and I are just going to keep going with the mindset that everything will be okay. I know that if I give up my hope, my emotional (and mental) sanity is the next thing to go.

Throughout this experience of uncertainty and emotional roller-coasters, we're so grateful that we already have a sweet little girl in our family. Arlee adds so much joy to our lives each and every day! She's absolutely perfect and we cannot imagine our lives without her laughter, silliness, and love. I'm so glad we have her to hug and cherish, especially on days like today. After getting off the phone with my doctor and seeing me in tears, she ran over and said, "Mommy sad!", and then gave me a great big hug. I love Arlee so much and count my lucky stars that I get to be her Mommy.

I know the Lord hears my prayers and knows exactly what I am feeling at this time. And, I'm so grateful for the faith I have in my Savior and His Atonement. No matter what happens, I know everything happens for a reason. We're so thankful for our family and friends, and all the people who've been praying for us and checking up on how things are going. We feel so blessed to have such a wonderful network of support.

Bring on the good news!

Whew, I am THE WORST blogger! Sorry everybody, I know an update is long overdue.

Well, we've been hearing lots and lots of good news -- its been such a relief! :)

I took a blood test long before we knew anything about Little Guy's development, which screened me for my chances of having a baby with a chromosomal disorder (i.e., Down's Syndrome, Trisomy 18, Spinabifida, etc.), and the results came back so positively that the doctors and genetic counselor are pretty certain that Little Guy's diaphragmatic hernia wasn't caused by a larger and more concerning problem. (Wow, long sentence.) This was just a screening, not a definite "yes or no" process, but with the results we were given, the chances are super super low. There's the option to take additional screening blood tests, but with the highly positive results we've already seen, both the doctors and genetic counselors said we'd probably see the same results. Additionally, we found out that since we've had one baby diagnosed with this hernia, our chances of having another baby with the same issue is about 2%, which is still super low and likely that it won't happen again. Since this isn't related to a chromosomal or genetic disorder, its just one of those things that happens for no apparent reason -- most a likely a weird combination of environmental factors meeting biological factors.

A few weeks ago I also had the opportunity to meet with a pediatric cardiologist, who did a thorough examination of Little Guy's heart. With any birth defect, and especially diaphragmatic hernias, since the heart is pushed to the side, there's the concern that the heart could be affected and not develop properly. Well, after a long ultrasound with a tech who wasn't saying much, we found out that his heart is developing just great! All the valves are present and working and there aren't any holes. Another huge sigh of relief! :) I know that the ultrasound techs/cardiologist techs are only allowed to say that the doctor will discuss the results after the exam, but the long periods of silence or avoiding question is really nerve-racking. The cardiologist mentioned that even though he only focuses on the heart and isn't certified to make diagnosis on other parts of the body, he did notice that there was space where the lungs should be. Yayyy for space!

After much deliberation and prayer, Austin and I have decided that we'd like to have a MRI done of Little Guy's lungs. The MRI will measure lung tissue volume and give us a much better understanding of his chance of survival. No matter how great ultrasound machines are these days, they can't detect everything -- like lung tissue growth, especially if the stomach or small intestines are blocking the view of the lungs during one of my routine exams. The MRI will also give the doctors and surgeons a much better understanding of how to proceed once Little Guy makes his debut. At my last ultrasound appoint a few weeks ago, the doctor was able to see part of the right lung but the view of the left lung was obscured by the stomach. Just hearing, "Ohh, I see part of the right lung!" was enough to lessen some of my fears. With all the positive news we've been hearing from our doctors so far, we're just hoping and praying that we hear more good news from this MRI in a few weeks.

Little Guy is continuing to grow really, really well. He's a little over a week ahead of where I am gestationally, so he's going to be a big boy. :) He's incredibly active and loves keeping me up at night. Last night he kicked me so hard that I thought he was going to kick a hole through my stomach. I see a little soccer player in my future. :) He hates any and all pressure put on my belly, whether its gently leaning against the counter, holding his sister, or even folding my arms, which he then makes known by karate-chopping me super hard wherever the pressure is currently focused. He definitely likes his space, which is growing ever smaller. Its crazy to imagine that he'll be here in about 7 weeks! Where has the time gone??

We've really started to feel at peace with this whole situation. The last eleven weeks have definitely been an emotional roller coaster, with more tears shed and more prayers said than I can remember in such a time period. But we've started to reach the point where we realize that worrying about him nonstop really won't fix anything...all we can do it pray for the best and prepare as much as we can. We have a bed and little dresser for him, and we're just going to keep preparing for his arrival as we would any other healthy baby. I'm so grateful for the peace that the gospel of Jesus Christ brings, and my knowledge that if something were to happen and he returned to his Heavenly Home, I know I'd see him again and will be able to raise him one day. I honestly don't know what I would do or how I would feel if it wasn't for my knowledge of the Plan of Salvation and my Heavenly Father's plan for all His children.

Once again, thank you for all your prayers and asking about him -- it means so much to us to have such wonderful and supportive family and friends. I'm also so grateful for all my many, many babysitters! With all the doctor appointments, sometimes 3-4 in one week, I'm so thankful that I have many kind friends who don't mind watching a busy and adorable toddler. I cannot even begin to imagine what it would be like to bring my curious little fireball to all these doctor appointments, especially the appointments where big machines are involved.

We love you all!

Isn't that the cutest little profile you've ever seen! We think so. :)