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