Time.

In the middle of last July I felt pregnant.  I did not have physical evidence quite yet but there was just something within me that knew that someone else was in the picture.  After seeing a few negative results from over the counter tests I scheduled a blood test with my doctor's office.  When the blood test came back negative I was stunned.  I still felt pregnant and as the weeks went by I could not shake the feeling. I began to worry that I was developing a psychological condition.  I wondered if my desire to become pregnant was causing my body to create hormones or sensations that led me to believe I was pregnant even though the tests said otherwise.

By the beginning of August I became seriously concerned that I was imagining things.  Symptoms were starting to materialize and in fact, they were too big to ignore.  I told Rob that I was going to take one last test and then I needed to see my doctor to seek help.  But as I suspected all along, the "final" test I took was not really the last because it came back positive.  And that test was really just the first in a series of blood tests, scans, and procedures that became routine to monitor our baby and keep him safe.  In the first few months alone, this baby easily beat out his older brothers by the sheer volume of appointments, ultrasounds, shots, and prescriptions that were necessary for what became a very high risk pregnancy.  

From the first meeting with my doctor it was made clear to us that although things were starting well, that due to my complicated history, there were great risks associated with having another baby.  Even though Henry was born at 37 weeks and was technically full term he was still early and I was given an increased risk of early deliveries after he was born.  Eddie only fulfilled that risk and then some when he was born much more premature than we ever could have expected.  His abrupt birth was the wild card in my pregnancy deck.  Much like other premature births, the exact cause of Eddie's sudden arrival was and is still unknown and so there was no telling how long this next pregnancy would last.

And so, it seems that from the very beginning we truly did not know what was coming with this new babe.  My track record was not much help since it is punctuated with two surprise births, a tragic loss, long hospital stays, and quite a bit of trauma.  Initially, the risks did not seem to matter as much.  Although we worried, prayed, and loved our new little one since the moment we knew he was coming, we did not have cause to truly worry until the second trimester.  By the beginning of the third trimester we were operating in full panic mode and did everything we could to keep our baby in where he belonged.

I became well acquainted with OB Emergency Services at the University of Utah Hospital.  One of our greatest concerns was that I would repeat the process of Eddie's premature labor and I would be too dilated to keep the baby safe.  My doctor was understandably worried about that too so I was instructed to go straight to the ER any time I could not get contractions to stop at home. Between the beginning of November 2014 and the week before Tommy was born, I was in the ER seven times.  

(It got a little old...)

I originally wrote the majority of this post in the middle of January but I was never able to complete it.  At the time, I was on modified bed rest and had been to the emergency room for contractions four times within a matter of weeks. I had just started my third trimester and although it was absolutely incredible to be past 28 weeks (the week that Eddie was born), I did not feel like I could be honest enough about my feelings to blog about them. I wish I would have mustered the energy and courage that was necessary to detail what it felt like to be in the throes of what was to our little family, something very stressful/wonderful/scary, but I could never quite put my feelings into words.  Looking back, I think it is mostly because I did not want to remember every part of that time in my life.  It was my hardest pregnancy yet and it challenged me in almost every aspect of my life.  And to be honest, some things are too humbling to own up to in writing.

But for posterity's sake, I think I owe it to my family to at least make an attempt to describe that important chapter in our family's history.  And aside from the fact that I am taking this quote completely out of context and I have never been able to get through more than three chapters of A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens puts me to sleep faster than Benadryl), when I think of my pregnancy with Tommy I think it truly was the best times, it was the worst of times.  It was a time of the fulfillment of dreams, it was a time of great anxiety, it was a time of unending love and service from family and friends, and it was a time of physical pain, sleeplessness, and sacrifice.

It was a time when these two cemented something that was already special and made it into a bond that is unbreakable and completely limitless.

It was an eerily quiet time, a time of forced rest, great sickness (poor Ed), and snuggles that turned into peaceful afternoon naps.

It was a time to sit at every possible opportunity.

And it was a time for my profile to expand to limits that I never thought I would see again. But most of all, it was a time for us to appreciate time and to be grateful that we had it. 

(This was taken the night before Tommy was born and it was our final picture 

as a family of four. I'm certain that Henry is right next to his dad.)

Honesty.

It is finally starting to feel like the beginning of fall in our little home and I am very happy to greet a new season.  It was an unusual summer.  Indeed, it was probably the most bizarre summer of my life.  And to be honest, I do not even know when this past summer really started.  I cannot remember the exact day when I consistently wore flip flops or when all of the barbecues were in full swing.  I have a vague recollection of when June, July, and August began but only because of shift changes or new room assignments.  At some point, I do know that the weather started to get hotter because the air conditioning in the NICU turned on and I had to take a sweater with me each day when I sat by Eddie.  I also remember the summer holidays but only because, like the rest of our days, they were unlike any Memorial or Father's Day that had come before.

Although I do not recall exactly what happened each and every day that Eddie was in the NICU, I will never forget how it felt to be there for two months.  Our lives changed the day Eddie was admitted and they changed immediately and drastically.  Aside from all of the emotions that were involved in the birth of our son, our entire schedules were turned upside down.  We adjusted everything so that we could be by Eddie's side.  Each day, Rob and I would start the day together in the NICU at 8:30 a.m. and then Rob would go to work.  I would stay at the hospital during the day until Rob got off of work and we would then leave the NICU at 6:45 p.m. when the nurses changed shifts.  We would then go home and eat dinner and be back at the hospital by 8 p.m. and stayed until 10 p.m. or later.  Then we would wake up and do it all over again.  And every day started and ended with the same questions: would Eddie be able to manage his breathing?  Would he eat well?  Had he gained or lost weight?  And who would his nurse be for the next 12 hours?

It was an exhausting and emotional routine and at times it felt like my nerves could not bear another day.  But time passed and somehow we became accustomed to our unusual and highly regimented schedule, all the while looking forward to the day when Eddie could come home.  Day after day we drove the same route, formed new (and lasting) friendships with Eddie's nurses, and adjusted to our new lives.  We ate, slept, and breathed the NICU for nine weeks and then suddenly, and blessedly, Eddie came home and our routines and schedules changed once again and even more drastically.  And to be perfectly honest, at first it felt like bringing him home was almost as frightening as it was to have him in the hospital.  Maybe even more so.

Eddie was born on May 24th and even though one or both of us was with him every day since he had been born, in many respects, it felt like he was not truly ours until July 24th.  Yes, we had a baby and we changed his diaper, took his temperature, and fed him every three hours during the day, but always with the careful assistance of a nurse - and always in a highly controlled setting.  Eddie's first hours in our home were our first hours utilizing parenting skills that we had only been partially exercising for the past two months.  And for me, those first hours were scary ones.  Not only was he an infant and we had to learn to interpret his signals to give him what he needed, he was also on supplemental oxygen and he was just five pounds.  What was more, his immune system was (and still is) fragile and we had to screen every visitor to make sure they were germ-free to keep Eddie healthy.  For me, everything was new, everything was high-stress, and everything was very, very important.  

During that first, tenuous month I was confronted with some surprising realizations: being a mom is hard work; parents really do not get much sleep; babies cry a bit more than you would like them to; and new moms tend to get stir crazy.  Even though I had heard similar revelations from other parents, these realities still shocked me largely in part because after Henry's passing I made some well-intentioned vows to myself that were a little unrealistic.  At the height of my grief, with empty arms and an angry heart, I promised myself that I would never need help.  That if we were blessed with another child after losing Henry that I would never grow tired of waking up with him or her in the night.  And more importantly, that if I ever felt like I needed help or I was tired that I would never ever admit it.  Admission of such feelings would be a betrayal to my own sense of pride and to my grief in general.  During those dark days, I ached to comfort, soothe, and love my Henry and if I could not be with him then I wanted to be with his sibling.  And it felt incredibly ungrateful to be choosy because I knew in my heart that no amount of sleep deprivation or colic could be worse than the hollowness of loss.

And in a way, I was right.  Even though we are still very much operating on all cylinders in the wee hours of the night in our house, the lack of sleep is an easy sacrifice to make.  In fact, it is not a sacrifice at all.  But it took me the first month after Eddie came home to give myself permission to be a somewhat normal mom with somewhat normal emotions.  I tried to stay strong in my resolve after those first long weeks but I eventually had to make some concessions.  I needed to come to terms with the fact that I could talk about being tired and admit that it made me anxious to hear Eddie cry and still be true to my feelings and Henry's memory.  That it was okay to beg for advice from the experienced mothers around me and admit that I did not have all of the answers even if I did have the best of intentions.  And once I did that, things started to get a little easier.

Eddie's second month at home was incredible.  He began to fully track things with his eyes, he started to coo and babble when we sang to him, and he has started to smile and giggle.  In fact, he sometimes smiles so big and so broadly that the little corners of his eyes close and he squints (it looks like my cheesy grin is genetic).  And as of three days ago, he has officially spent more time with us than he did in the hospital.  He is now a little over four months old, six weeks gestational corrected age, and is 9 lbs and 4 oz.

His presence makes our house feel like a home and to be perfectly and completely honest, he is healing our broken hearts.

Expecting.

Today is my birthday.  And I am in trouble.

I have difficulty remembering odd numbers.  For reasons unknown to me birthdays, anniversaries and ages that all end in an odd number are essentially doomed in my memory.  Weirdly enough, single odd digits are not as difficult for me to remember as double ones.  But once a two is assigned to a solitary odd digit it practically receives the kiss of death in my memory unless I write it down.  And as you have undoubtedly guessed, my age would seemingly be difficult for me to remember this year.  You see, it is unfortunately in the double digits and it has that dreaded odd number assigned at the end.

Now that I have approached this odd age, I have tried to make sense of the time that has passed since my pregnancy with Henry.  I think of what Rob and I have experienced, where we have been, what we have seen, and what we have done and it just does not add up.  How has it only been two years?  How has grief not turned my hair completely white and taken a more insidious toll on my body?  How am I not older?  How has the emotional insight that I have (sometimes begrudgingly) gained from loss not propelled me twenty or thirty years into the future?  And yet, how can it already be two years?  How can it already be two years since we first laid eyes on Henry?  Two whole years since we held him, smiled over his perfectness, and basked in the joy of being parents.

Two years.  Just two years.  That is all.  A period of time that to many other couples is a desirable gap between children.  An intentional pause to stop and reflect.  A time to grow, to relax, and recuperate.  Time to adjust to a new lifestyle, a new addition, and a new happiness.  Just two years.  But our two years cannot be easily described as just just because they have been so much more and so much less than I could ever imagined.

There was great joy and there was great pain.  There were moments of great strength and times when darkness threatened to lurk forever.  There was emptiness that seemed all-consuming and there was so much grief.  There were countless hours spent crying in agony, frustration, and sometimes even happiness.  There was so much crying.  And yet there was Rob.  There was Henry.  There were our family, our friends, and even strangers who are now life-long friends.  There was Riggins.  There was hard work, our dreams, and our hopes of a happier time.  And there was our faith.

So I ask myself, on this, my birthday: how am I possibly going to be able to remember my age when I have felt so much?  Is there room for more?  And how will I ever remember this odd age in what has proved to be an incredibly odd period of my life?

Thankfully, something or rather, someone, has answered that question for me.  And he tells me that this will be a year to remember.  Because at last, Henry is going to be a big brother.

Our second son is due on August 15th and as you can imagine, our expectations are exceedingly high.  We expect nothing less than a successful and redemptive experience in the delivery room, pure love at first sight when we lay eyes on our son, and endless smiles from our family and friends. 

A celebratory balloon sent to heaven for the proud big brother.

We are expecting the unexpected and our joy is full.

Thanks.

I hoped to have written this post much sooner and the sentiments that I am about to express are shamefully long overdue.  Unfortunately, my emotions have been such that up until now I have honestly not been able to fully express my gratitude.  Although I have been able to politely say "thank you" when appropriate, full acknowledgement and recognition of those who have touched my life has not been possible.  This Wednesday, February 9th, would have been Henry's first birthday and I cannot think of a better way to honor him, a boy who has given us so much, than to give thanks to those that we love.  

But in order for me to make sense of these thoughts and thanksgivings, I need to preface them.  Last Monday was a dreadful day.  My psyche had been dealt a lethal combination of too little sleep, too much noise and too many demands on my time and in my moment of stress my thoughts turned to Henry.  I bitterly thought about what I would have been doing if he were here; tasks that seemed (and still seem) much more purposeful than homework and errands.  I thought about his impending birthday of the activities that we would surely be doing and the presents we would have bought him.  My somber mood carried into everything I did that day and I found myself blinking back tears in even the most public of places.  I ached for Henry more desperately than I had in recent memory and somehow the pain I experienced was just as fresh as it had been a year ago when we said goodbye.

At the height of my anguish I went into Henry's nursery and began rocking his clothes in the chair that he tragically was never able to sit in.  In a room that he never slept in and in a house that he never came home to.  The despair that I felt at that moment was complete and I let it sweep over me again and again as I not only mourned our son but also the life that we should be leading.  Loneliness accompanied these intense emotions and in the middle of such pain I wondered how I would ever feel better.  Shortly thereafter I found myself looking through Henry's baby book.  A book which I dutifully filled throughout my pregnancy and even recorded a brief, sanitized version of his birth the day after he was born while he fought for his life in the NICU.  His book is special for obvious reasons and I can remember thinking about it on the night he died as we drove home from the hospital.  Even then I knew it would be agony to see that precious book, illustrated with Peter Rabbit and his friends, knowing not only that my son had passed away but that the beautiful pages would remain empty.  As an act of symbolism and catharsis, we used this same book as a sign-in at Henry's service.  And it was through these comments that I read last Monday.

My tears did not stop right away.  Indeed, on certain pages they flowed more intensely as I read messages of grief and sympathy.  Initially I read each signature and line individually but as I continued to flip through each page I soon became overwhelmed by the sheer volume of condolences.  Whether by his mother or by those that love him, each page of Henry's book has something written on it and seeing that support in writing helped slow my tears and calm my heart.  Many of the people who wrote in that book read this blog and I want you to know that you have made a difference.  That although what Rob and I are going through is still extremely painful and personal, that knowing you and of your love has helped us in even the darkest moments.

After I finished reading Henry's book I thought back to those weeks immediately after he passed away.  I thought of the blog tributes, posts and comments; and of the many Facebook messages, texts and phone calls.  I thought of the beautiful flowers that we received as our sad news traveled to our family and friends.  I remembered the delicious meals that not only fed Rob and me but sometimes our entire family as we gathered together seeking solace and companionship.  I then looked at a box full of cards, notes, letters and pictures; mementos that people have so thoughtfully given us since his passing.  As I read, my fingers found a necklace around my neck from my mother and I not only thought of her but of the many other pieces of jewelry that I have received from friends and family, objects that I cherish and treasure.  But the list does not stop there.  We have other beautiful and sacred items on our keychains, on our clothes and around our home that remind us of Henry each day and most of them have come from you.  Thank you.  

We just received one such item from a dear and very talented friend last week.  It is her gift to us for Henry's birthday and we have it placed on our table.  It reminds both of us that even though we cannot see it right now, that we are in fact a family.               

And lastly, I would be remiss if I did not mention the gifts that we received that cannot be measured.  The long conversations, the visits and the hugs.  The kisses, the smiles, the friendships and the tears.  Even though it has been a year since we have lost Henry, we are constantly reminded that people are praying and fasting for us.  Thank you for opening up your hearts to us when ours have been so exposed and broken.  I know that being around us has not always been easy this past year and that sometimes it was undoubtably difficult to talk or interact with us, but thank you for being patient as we work through missing Henry.  

Spectacular.

It is January, which means that we were finally able to say goodbye to 2010 and can welcome a new year.  Seeing 2011 on the calendar means several things, the first, that we made it through the holidays.  The second, that we have twelve new months ahead of us and the final reason being that we have almost survived our first year missing Henry.  I can scarcely believe that in less than one month we will somehow have to find a way to celebrate Henry's birth, and inevitably, commemorate his death.  We have started thinking about what new traditions we can incorporate into our family to help us find peace on what are sure to be difficult days.  

Unfortunately we are not alone in creating these rituals and we have heard about many beautiful and sacred traditions that surround the birth- and "angel-" days for other angels like Henry.  We recently met such a couple.  Rob has known this angel's father since high school but we did not know about their story until they reached out to us at a party.  The similarities in our experiences are astonishing: like Henry, their angel was born on the 9th of the month and passed away on the 13th.  Their angel also had unknown complications and spent her days in the hospital.  And tragically, these parents know the pain of leaving the hospital with empty arms and coming home to an equally empty house.  Needless to say, we have connected with these people.  In some small way, part of the loneliness that we had been feeling has diminished simply by knowing that a couple that we share many similarities with are also in the firestorm of grief, and have lived to tell the tale.  

But perhaps the thing that has impressed me the most about this angel's parents is their characterization of her life.  Although they have every reason to describe it as anything less than perfect, they choose instead to define it as spectacular.  Spectacular as in something that is impressive or sensational.  I suppose that I have latched onto this word because in my mind, it is unexpected.  When I think about my own posts from the past eleven months I cannot recall using such a positive word in my writing.  Reading this word stirred my soul and it has only been after a couple of days of thinking about "spectacular" and its meaning in relation to their angel and mine that I realize why I have been so impressed: it is not the experience of losing their angel that they are describing.  They are describing her and her time on this earth and I admire their ability to separate her life from the experience of losing her because by doing so they are recognizing someone that truly is sensational and impressive.    

And naturally, that led me to think about Henry and the time we were able to spend with him.  A life, which just like his angel-friend's, also was and is spectacular.

  

Despite the fact that certain doubts and regrets have crept into my mind since Henry's passing I never doubt that he knew and still knows that he is loved.  I might be scorning reason and oversimplifying anatomy by believing this, but I know that he could feel our love from the moment I knew I was pregnant with him.  A love which formed a sort of cocoon that cradled and nourished him for the trying days ahead.  To be sure, the months that we spent with Henry in my womb and the days in the hospital were the happiest of our lives thus far and that achievement of happiness and fulfillment in and of itself is spectacular. 

      

Yet that love does not simply end with Rob and me.  Henry was and is loved by devoted grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.  He has a network of fans that rallied around him while he courageously fought for survival in the hospital; a multitude of people who prayed, fasted, hoped and wished for his good health.  People who took to every method of communication to let us know that their hearts were not only with us, but more importantly, with him.  After he passed this network has only continued to expand and multiply.  Love for Henry seemed to span cities and states, continents and countries and we received messages of condolence and love from all over the globe.  It is spectacular that a person so special to his parents could be special for other people, including strangers.

And it is spectacular that Henry will continue to be part of lives, though it is in a way we never intended nor wished for.  This experience has been a nightmare, but loving Henry truly is spectacular.

Still.

Christmas is just around the corner and there is a beautiful, fresh blanket of snow in our backyard.  Despite my best and most valiant efforts, I cannot help but wish that I could take Henry out into the snow with me.  If only I could lovingly wrap and pack him into warm clothes and drag him around in a tiny sled.  If only he could experience the tickling sensation when flakes fall onto his nose and see how peaceful the world looks when it is dressed in white.  If only he could tumble with me hand in hand as we run through drifts and make snow angels.  If only I could hear him squeal and giggle with glee as I tug and pull him to and fro.  If only I could see his eyes light up as he smiles and shows me a mouthful of gums.  If only.  

My heart aches for my Henry today as I am reminded again and again of how profoundly he is missed.  I suppose just as the snow covers the trees, cars and fences outside, Henry's memory and most noticeably, his absence, in turn blankets our hearts.  There are moments when I feel blessedly numb from the pain and I can focus on the happiness he brought and continues to bring us.  Unfortunately, the frost cannot stay away too long and as it creeps back in it brings greater sorrow and more tears.   

I do not write these sentiments to evoke pity.  Indeed, I openly confess that I do not know what I want.  Although there are times when I want nothing more than to be left alone with my anger and loneliness, there are also moments when someone is able to say or do just the thing that I wanted or needed to boost my spirits.  But even though I may waffle in emotion, I do know that this blog is fueled by love. Though I started writing in 2007 with no clear purpose or intent other than to experiment online, it has now become a paintbrush that I use to paint an honest, complete picture of our grief and what it means to miss Henry.           

     

In my mind Henry is immortalized as a tiny, loving and pure infant; a gentle soul who taught us more about love in nine months and four days than anything or anyone else in our lives.  This image of love and tenderness reminds me of words to a familiar Christmas song.

"Sleep, sleep, sleep
'Tis the eve of our Savior's birth
The night is peaceful all around you
Close your eyes
Let sleep surround you
Sleep, sleep, sleep
'Tis the eve of our Savior's birth.

Dream, dream, dream
Of the joyous day to come
While guardian angels without number
Watch you as your sweetly slumber
Dream, dream, dream
Of the joyous day to come."

Still, Still, Still

Oh Henry, wherever you are or whatever you are doing, know that we are dreaming of joyous days to come with you in them.  Sleep in heavenly peace, angel.  We love you.

"Blessed."

In the days after Henry's passing, Rob and I tried to imagine the upcoming weeks and months that we would have to spend without him. Shock still thickly enveloped us then and it was almost impossible to get through twenty-four hours let alone think of the future. Initially mornings were the most difficult and we inevitably greeted each day with fresh sobs since we had to continually wake up to the nightmare that our lives had become. In a matter of weeks, evenings became harder because we were unable to wrap Henry in his footed pajamas, read him stories and rock him to sleep. And now, ten months later, our grief has slowly morphed into a presence in our home; something that is not quite as frequent and heavy as it once was, but present nonetheless.

I anticipated that the holidays would be difficult. Though I had never lost an immediate family member prior to Henry's death I did say goodbye to grandparents, friends and acquaintances, and I was keenly aware of the effect that this season had on the bereft. I thought I already knew of the pain of seeing complete, happy families shop, dine and gather together since I had seen it through the tear-filled eyes of my loved ones. I figured that because I had this knowledge that I would be able to face this time of year and feel more prepared to count my blessings. Yet I was wrong. Although I foresaw the anguish that we would feel at putting up our tree this year, it still hurt. I never expected to see a time in my life when in my darkest moments I would wish that Christmas could be over so we could breathe easier and inhale without feeling our broken hearts catch in our chests as we watch the season progress without our angel in our arms. Even though I knew it would be bittersweet to hear familiar carols on my iPod, I never could have prepared myself for the pain. Yes, Christmas is hard this year and, in a sense, it will continue to be difficult because now we are the ones that are bereft. We are the ones that mourn during Silent Night and cringe at "Toys R Us" commercials. And we are the ones that have been forced to redefine our understanding of what it means to be blessed during a time of year when there is a heightened awareness of blessings.

A couple of months ago I wrote about the frustration that I feel about the lack of control we had in Henry's unexpected death. My logical, trusting mind still cannot understand why a loving, stable and prepared couple would lose something so precious. I did not and still cannot comprehend why we have to experience such pain when around the world babies are born into squalor only to live a life of abuse and tragedy. Now I realize that I may never know the answer in this life and no one, save One, can fully enlighten me. In the absence of these reasons I have had to re-examine my understanding of basic truths. Faith, patience and humility have been and will continue to be studied and hope, has taken on new meaning for me. But the concept of feeling and being blessed in my life has come under the greatest scrutiny.

I have lived a good life. I grew up in a safe, loving home with tender and encouraging parents who taught me to be a good person. I never wanted for food, education or clothing and I have been able to provide for myself as needed. I met a wonderful man, fell in love and was fortunate to have him love me back. We got married and in turn I acquired a second, amazing family that I love as if they were my own. I grew up as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and have had a testimony of the divinity of Jesus Christ since childhood. As a member of my church, I spent time studying the scriptures and in prayer and it was easy for me to recognize my blessings. Whenever something went right, I would thank my Father in Heaven for His goodness. I had many instances where I felt His love and it was natural to feel blessed because in the past, I always got what I wanted. But something went wrong on February 9th, 2010 and I thought it was going to go right. And on February 13th, 2010, Henry passed away.

Losing Henry has opened my eyes to others who are living with things that have gone wrong in certain aspects of their lives. There are people in this world who suffer bitter betrayal, who are chronically lonely, terminally ill and who are grieving one loss or another. Unfortunately we cannot all lead the same cookie-cutter life and it is too painful to compare blessings and burdens. If anything, I am more careful now when I talk about my blessings since my abundance of one thing or my lack of another may be another's greatest trial or loss. I have been forced to recognize blessings even when things have gone terribly wrong and now, more than ever before, my expressions of thanks and testimony are not contingent upon positive test results, successful medical procedures and good health, rather they are rooted in intangible gifts, persons and experiences which cannot be taken away from me.

Although it is painful to celebrate this festive season in our current circumstances, we will try to make the best of our situation. We will continue to turn on the lights on our Christmas tree and listen to Silent Night even if some of these activities are accompanied by tears because we understand that this time of year is set aside to remember another tender baby. A baby who was born in the most humble of circumstances and who overcame the world to give us everything that we hold dear.

"Believe in God; believe that he is, and that he created all things, both in heaven and in earth; believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth; believe that man cannot comprehend all the things which the Lord can comprehend." Mosiah 4:9

Birth.

The contractions started around midnight on Tuesday morning...a morning which I have replayed, reviewed and relived in my head a countless number of times. Like most natural processes, the rhythmic cramping came over me so gently at first that I doubted its authenticity. Pregnancy ushered in so many new sensations that I became accustomed to mysterious aches and pains in even the most unsuspecting parts of my body. I attempted to stay calm and not let the excitement and adrenaline that were building to completely overtake me. I did not want to start celebrating too early and get my hopes up that our son was coming today and not three weeks later when he was due. It was with these thoughts in mind that I told Rob to go to sleep reassuring him that I would wake him if the pain increased. I dutifully tried to stay in bed, thinking that if I was going into false labor rest would surely help.

Time marched on and after an hour I found myself on the couch tracking each contraction with an app on my iPod (which I highly recommend to expectant mothers). Over the span of two more hours my contractions increased in force and length and I knew something was going on. Although at that point, I still did not know what exactly. Though I was excited at the prospect of seeing Sprout that day I was characteristically anxious. I did not know that I was in fact in labor. I wanted proof and I wanted my instincts to be legitimate enough to warrant a mad dash to the hospital. It was only when I found myself grasping onto the pole of our lamp wincing that I felt it was time to take action. I woke Rob, who shot out of bed in a delirium. I showered while he raced around our room and shoved random clothes, books and electronics in bags. We exchanged laughs and excited smiles as we waddled out of the door with thoughts of meeting Sprout and starting a new chapter in our life together.

Rob played the part of the nervous father-to-be perfectly as he haphazardly drove us to the hospital and each crack, bump and hole in the road reverberated throughout my body. We parked at the hospital and slowly made our way to Labor and Delivery. It was a long walk through the lobby since I had to rest between my contractions which took my breath away as they became more forceful. By 4:00 a.m. the nurse discovered that I was dilated six centimeters and I was in fact in labor.

We made our way to our delivery room and called our parents to tell them the happy news. My mom raced to the hospital to join us and Rob talked to his mom and dad on Skype while I bounced on an exercise ball to relieve the pressure on my pelvis. We rocked and swayed back and forth to distract me from the contractions which were gaining in intensity. Numerous doctors and nurses checked on us, monitoring my heart rate and Sprout's, which were perfect. The next three hours are a blur and although they were filled with pain there was an undeniable undercurrent of joy and love in our room. Rob, ever the watchful and caring husband, was the exemplary labor coach. In the most difficult and painful moments of labor he led me in breathing techniques to help me relax, always reassuring and encouraging me.

When I had dilated to nine centimeters the attending doctor decided to break my water to move things along. Merconium was in my water and the doctor called in a team of pediatricians from the NICU to the room so they could suck it out of Sprout's lungs after he was born. In a matter of minutes I felt the urge to push and the final phase began. Surprise overtook me with the first push as I realized that there were not more endorphins pumping through my body to make the pain more tolerable. The burning sensation in the lower half of my body (legs included) was so intense at times that I can remember crying "owie" as beads of sweat mingled with tears on my face. However, with each series of pushing came a blessed reprieve where I was able to rest and prepare for the next round. In no time at all, my doctor told me that I was making good progress and that Sprout's head was crowning. It felt as good as I imagined it to feel when Rob grinned at me and told me that our son had blond curly hair. I had greater resolve as I pushed but I was exhausted. It then occurred to me that the word labor is an accurate description for the process of bringing new life into this world. Minutes later his head was free and joy and relief filled the room.

But there was a complication.

The umbilical cord was tightly wound around our little one's neck but the situation was unknown to us as I kept pushing. My doctor could not loosen the cord around his neck with her hands so she pulled him out and immediately had Rob cut it free. At 8:10 am on Tuesday, February 9 Sprout was born but within seconds he was with the pediatricians. We did not hear his first cry as we anticipated. Rob did not have a ceremonial Kodak moment of cutting his first child's cord, and my arms ached with emptiness and the longing to hold my son. It was then that Rob and I understood that there was a problem. I wondered why my doctor moved so quickly to pass Sprout over to the pediatricians and I watched her in a stupor as all blood drained from her face. I repeatedly asked her what was going on as I delivered the afterbirth. She told me she did not know, and perhaps even worse, she did not know if everything was okay. My eyes moved over Rob, my mom and my doctor's faces as we all tried to understand what was happening.

He was just minutes old when the pediatricians performed CPR on him for the first time. He was born not breathing and he was making no attempt to do so on his own. When they had finally stabilized and intubated him Rob was invited to see his son for the first time. Even from behind I could see how deeply Rob loved our child. His shoulders softened, his head lowered in quiet reverence and his voice spoke in gentle tones of love. He came back to my bedside and told me how cute Sprout was, how beautiful his features were. It was sometime after this that they had to perform CPR on him for the second time and his condition was deemed critical enough to necessitate immediate treatment in the NICU.

As they wheeled him away down the hall a nurse called out to us and asked if he had a name for his charts.

Without hesitation and without even seeing his face, I told her.

His name is Henry Robert.

Happy eight months, angel. You are the light of our lives and we love you so much.

Control.

Up until six and a half months ago I had a personal mantra that held true in my life: hard work + good karma = desired results. Though simple, this formula was applied to the test numerous times in school, jobs and in my personal life and it often brought me favored and happy outcomes. There were many moments when things did not go as planned but I seemed to bounce back and situations inevitably worked themselves out. And several months ago I felt that it was important to apply equal effort into thinking positively and working hard, since I could not expect to get something for nothing.

It is now six and a half months later and I am working through a tragedy. I applied my formula to the most important event in my life thus far and it did not work. Indeed, it went horribly wrong.

A year before I got pregnant I started taking pre-natal vitamins just so that my body could be infused with the proper nutrition just in case I happened to conceive without my knowledge. Before that, Rob and I cut red meat out of our diet and tried to rid our cupboards of saturated fats and empty calories. At one point I took up running and made a more conscious effort to exercise and take better care of myself. Thankfully, I became pregnant with Henry at the peak of this healthy stage in my life and I was happily able to expound upon these healthy habits and integrate new ones. During my pregnancy FiberOne granola bars became staples in my diet and our fridge was stocked with fruits and vegetables. I never left home without my green Nalgene bottle which I dutifully filled at least four times a day to make sure I was properly hydrated. I stayed away from unpasteurized cheeses and deli meats and I was one of the first expectant mothers to get inoculated for H1N1. Rob and I read baby books, attended child bearing classes and I feverishly prepared our home for our little one. We did these things lovingly and with the excitement that only new parents can have. And we did these things with a blind trust, never doubting that we would have anything but the opportunity to raise our son.

As a person that put great emphasis into applying this formula in my life I cannot find the proper words to express the frustration, emptiness and anger I feel in not being able to have my happy and desired result right now. We gleefully applied the work into preparing for Henry's arrival and it continues to send a shock through my system that he is not in his crib right now. Whatever control I had in applying my formula in my life seems to have left since the day Henry passed away. Shock overtook us on February 9th and although we did not know exactly what was going to happen to our son after he was born not breathing, it never occurred to us that we would have to say goodbye to him so soon. After he passed away in our arms after just four days it became clear to me more than ever before, just how little control I actually have. I did not have control when I became pregnant, I did not have control when Henry was born 3 weeks earlier than expected and I certainly did not have control in the manner in which he died. As a person of faith I give up my control to my Heavenly Father believing that although I feel powerless, I have power in Him. And although my heart is heavy and my burdens feel overwhelming, that one day I will feel at peace. And one day, I will be reunited with Henry.

Yet as comforting as these sentiments are and as much peace as we find in everlasting truths and doctrines, we still have to find the strength to work through our grief. Each day we are still confronted with the reality of our situation. And as beautiful as it is to know that we have him in the future, it is also extremely difficult to wait for that blessed reunion. Many well-intended people have reminded us of the blessings of eternity but sometimes it feels that they forget that death and eternity are a long way away for us. We do not know what lies in store for us for the rest of our lives, but we do know that we will not be able to see or hold our son tomorrow; and today, we are forced to live with that pain.

We do not have a medical explanation for Henry's death. Despite the fact that my pregnancy was perfectly normal and Henry's delivery was seemingly ideal, the doctors are still perplexed as to why he suffered such extreme complications and subsequently passed away. I suppose that these mysterious circumstances invite interpretation since people want to be helpful to us in this time of hardship and tragedy. The most meaningful interactions we have had with people have not been with those who have sought to explain our situation to us but rather have just expressed their sorrow.

We do not have control in many things in our life right now but we do have the control to be human and to be grieving parents. And most importantly, to miss our son.

Wishing.

"...Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplacable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle.

The world you desired can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it's yours."

Ayn Rand

Yesterday.

Two weeks ago I caught the end of Paul McCartney performing in the White House for the Obamas on PBS. As a long time Beatles fan I was delighted to see "the cute one" sing, bob his head and work his guitar. I felt a smile creep onto my lips as I listened to the infectious lyrics of my favorite Beatles tunes and there were times when I could not help but sing along to the melodies that have been part of my life since childhood. At the end of the program they ran special footage of Paul performing his classic, "Yesterday," at the Kennedy Center (or somewhere similar). I had always been a fan of the song, though the lyrics were a bit too profound for me to try to comprehend. Yet as I listened to the gentle strum of Paul's guitar, the murmur of the string quartet and the lilting quality of Paul's voice I was struck by the song's mournful tone and without warning, tears welled up in my eyes. In just a few short lines the song beautifully captures part of my grief; I too long for yesterday.

I long for seven months ago when I was blogging about back pains and baby books. For that blissfully happy time in my life when my stomach looked like a perfect basketball and when strangers would look at my swollen belly and smile. I long for the hours that Rob and I spent daydreaming about what kind of person our little Sprout would grow up to be, how he would react in certain situations, etc. I long for the kicks, the heartburn and even the discomfort of being pregnant. I long for the excitement I saw in Rob's eyes as he spoke about his son and the love that he could not contain whenever he spoke about his boy. I long for the peace I felt in knowing that my most precious treasure was safe because he was inside of me. I long for the anticipation of Henry's birth, for the four hours I spent at home counting contractions with my iPod before waking Rob up to go to the hospital. I long for that early morning when Rob drove like a maniac to get to the hospital in time. I desperately long for a "do-over" of Henry's birth and for a second chance of delivering him and giving him life. And more than anything, I long for the sight of my living, breathing son again.

I express this longing with difficulty since it seems that society puts great emphasis on moving on, looking forward and plunging ahead. I know that you cannot live your life in the past. I know that is unhealthy and unwise to shut one's self in completely after tragedy and to ignore the world outside. Yet it is clear to me that anyone who has ever experienced loss reacts no differently than I do when I think of the days leading up to the most tragic ones of my life and how greatly I wish I could relive them.

Henry would have turned six months old tomorrow; a great milestone to be sure.

....I think it is okay that I long for yesterday rather than be without Henry today.

"Yesterday,
All my troubles seemed so far away,
Now it looks as though they're here to stay,
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Suddenly,
I'm not half the man I used to be,
There's a shadow hanging over me,
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

Why she
Had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say.
I said,
Something wrong, now I long for yesterday.

Yesterday,
Love was such an easy game to play,
Now I need a place to hide away,
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Why she
Had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say.
I said,
Something wrong, now I long for yesterday.

Yesterday,
Love was such an easy game to play,
Now I need a place to hide away,
Oh, I believe in yesterday."

Paul McCartney

Backward.

A couple of months ago I wrote that grief has felt like the kind of toy car that must be pulled back a few inches before it can move forward. I use the same metaphor now to explain that the past weeks have been difficult and there have been moments when it has felt that not only has my little car moved back a few inches, but has reversed two or three feet. To be honest, there have been days when I would have liked nothing more than to simply stop moving. It is exhausting to apply the work that it takes to move ahead when I know that I will inevitably take a curve too fast, lose sight of the road, or just run out of gas. There are still times when I tire of driving. Times where I am angry to be reminded of what I do not have right now and I get frustrated that my car is not moving in the direction that I want it to be moving in; a direction which it was supposed to be taking but has been forced to take a painful detour.

The causes for these emotional reversals are expected ones. Mother and Father's Days proved to be large speed bumps and just when I felt that my car was finally on track it was pushed off again by seasonal detours. Lately my motor has been struggling uphill as it has driven past family barbecues, fireworks in the park, and brightly colored strollers. My car has tried to speed past fathers and sons walking in the park and the sight and smell of baby sunblock. And it has tried to find other roads so as to avoid five-month-old babies, but it has been and will continue to be unsuccessful. I know that there will be a day in the future when the pain of seeing these once-friendly and welcoming sights will not hurt as much. But today is not that day and there are times when I grow impatient for the future.

That being said I do feel that my car has moved forward again. Although it endured driving in what seemed to be relentlessly rough conditions (some of which, I confess, were self-imposed), it has turned another corner. Last night Rob and I spent an ordinary evening together. We sat together on the coach, reviewed the events of the day, and inevitably started talking about Henry. At one point Rob talked about the first moment he saw Henry after he was born and how painful it was to see him so ill. As I listened to Rob and thought about that day I too felt worry, pain and fear. But then I felt a surge of joy which was so complete that it took me off guard. I felt a sense of pride in thinking about Henry's appearance. I thought about his curly blonde hair, his sturdy little limbs and his handsome profile. I then experienced a feeling of great peace in knowing that my son is a person. That he fought to be here with us and that he is still ours. And as difficult as it was to experience these past weeks of hardship and roadblocks I would experience them all again to have those same feelings of joy in thinking about my Henry.

A portion of this same peace has stayed with me through the day and I felt like I was at last able to write about our trip to Europe and do it justice. My tardiness in writing about our adventures has been horrifying but I think you will understand when I write that although Europe was beautiful, there was something and more importantly someone else that we would have rather been concentrating our efforts on.

Strolling along the Thames

Our journey started and ended in London and it took us to Belgium, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. Yet unlike the other countries which we were regrettably only able to spend a day in, we had three full days in London and we became smitten. It is an easy city to love because from what I can tell, it contains something for everyone. Rob and I took every opportunity we could to hit the major sites and we did not shy away from being "touristy" (because we were ones). We rode on a double decker bus (which has to be the slowest mode of transportation anywhere), ate fish and chips, popped in and out of red telephone booths and breezed through a couple of the major museums. We visited the British Museum, British Library, King's Cross station (to pay homage to Mr. Potter, of course), caught a production of Macbeth at The Globe and even went on a chilling Jack the Ripper walking tour. It was fabulous and I suppose my whirlwind description is fitting for our whirlwind tour of such an incredible city.

The Courtauld Gallery

I took many more photos of London and our trip in general but I thought I would just share the highlights on my blog. If you are a glutton for punishment you are welcome to check out an album on my Facebook page. I will post about the other cities soon.

Architecture at its finest

Although we were only in London for a couple of days, it was where we were able to spend the most time and it was special for us because we were able to walk, explore and disappear into its busy streets. Seeing London, and Europe in general, had been a fantasy of mine for years especially since I had been reading and writing about it as an art historian. To be able to walk through galleries filled with masterpieces by Michelangelo, Turner, Rodin and van Gogh was heavenly; but being able to walk through cobblestone streets with my sweetheart was truly memorable.

Father.

This post is overdue.

I suppose that tradition calls for me to have posted it on Father's Day to honor Rob; his new role as a Father, and his love for our child. However I think it goes without saying that this year has been highly untraditional in our household and as such I do not feel beholden to the Father's Day deadline. Rather I feel a greater sense of obligation to honor Rob simply because he is my husband, my friend, and my greatest source of inspiration and comfort.

On July 9 it will have been five months since our precious treasure was born. Looking back over these tortuous and confusing months spent mourning with Rob, it is easy for me to declare that this post should have come much sooner. Fourteen months sooner. Or even five years sooner, if you want to be technical since I knew from our first date that Rob would be an outstanding dad (don't read too much into that statement - it still took us a year and a half to get married after that first date).

I could go on and provide you with innumerable written examples of Rob's goodness, tenderness, and capacity to love, yet I feel that it is unnecessary since it only takes minutes of being with him to see that he is a good father simply because he is who he is. He is the type of person that will pull over on the side of the road to help an elderly lady unlock her door and get safely inside of her house. He is the kind of uncle that scoops up his nieces and nephews and showers them with hugs and attention. He is the kind of brother that will drop anything to help a sibling in trouble. And he is the type of husband that stays awake well into the early morning to comfort his distraught wife.

Yet as wonderful as these qualities are, and as good as Rob is to other people, his acts of charity to others pale in comparison to the love that he gave, and continues to give, to his son. Rob was the first one to buy Sprout a present. He was the first person to feel his kicks at night. He was the first person to tell me to rest while pregnant in fear of harming the baby.

And Rob was always excited to think of the future with Sprout in it. Rob being Rob, he fantasized about the sports he would play with him. The BYU games he would be able to take him to and the happy hours he would spend replaying key trick plays and touchdowns. He thought about piggyback rides, Baby Bjorns, and strollers. He daydreamed about soccer matches in the backyard and baseball practices. And although he spent many hours thinking of these physical things, most of Rob's thoughts were centered around his relationship with Sprout. He talked constantly about his desire to be a resource to him and a reliable source of information who would be able to guide Sprout to become a good person. And more than anything, he spoke about the friendship he wanted to establish with his son and his desire to be a good father.

I do not doubt that Rob's desires were much different from any first-time father, but I do know that he completely immersed himself in the idea of being a Dad and even before Henry was born or passed away, Rob savored each moment that he had of it.

The hand that Henry is holding onto while he cries is his Father's. This was taken on Henry's birthday, a day which was meant to be happy but was filled with terror for us, and undoubtedly for little Henry. It comforts me to look at this picture of Rob's hand, which was a hand that was always close by and willing and ready to be present at any moment. It was a hand that gave Henry a name and a blessing on that first day and administered several blessings thereafter. It was a hand that bravely wiped away fearful tears, and it was a hand that tirelessly worked to make our son as comfortable as he could possibly be while in his mortal body.

I finish this post with my perhaps my favorite picture of Rob and Henry because like the other pictures above it shows the incredible bond that they shared. Rob did not leave Henry's side unless it was to eat, sleep, or provide updates to our family members, and even then he did not venture too far from the hospital in fear that he would miss something. I happened upon this scene the day before Henry passed away and I asked Rob to strike this pose again. I love that Rob offers a comforting hand and watches while his baby sleeps, not quite knowing what the future holds but wanting to stay by Henry's side.

Rob is fearless in his devotion and his attachment to his loved ones. He loved Henry when he was our Sprout, he took care of while in the hospital, and he applies the same loving vigilance as he sits by Henry's graveside in a lawn chair today. I am forever grateful to this man and it is my greatest wish that I will have the chance to watch him shower another child with such profound love and tenderness. Thank you Rob for being such an incredible father.

Happy belated Father's Day, sweetheart.

Memorial.

There are many things that I want to say in this post, but as of this moment, I am overcome with grief and it is difficult for me to write. Moments such as these are inevitable when I write about Henry and typically in the past I have stopped writing and left my thoughts for another day while blogging. But today is already June 1, which means that Memorial Day has come and gone and although it is painful, I do not want to miss the opportunity to honor our son.

"Our Sprout"

Henry Robert Koelliker

February 9, 2010

February 13, 2010

See you soon, Son

Once the winter snows melted, Henry's headstone was finally installed last month. We designed his stone two days after he passed away and much like his casket (which was basic wood) we wanted it to be simple but dignified.

We were out of town for Memorial Day (pictures from Europe to be posted in the coming weeks) so some of our family gathered at Henry's grave with us before we left. It was the first time that a large crowd stood with us since Henry's service and we took great comfort in mourning with people that love and miss him as we do.

Above is a shot of Owen, one of Henry's cousins. I do not feel that the tenderness of this image, or the ones following it, require much explanation because it is clear that these special little people love their cousin Henry.

Henry's cousin Caleb and Aunt Emily.

Henry's cousin Tanner.

Rest in peace, dear one. We love and miss you.

Mother's Day

Today is an interesting day. It is of course Mother’s day and to most people, interesting isn’t quite the word to capture what Mother’s day encompasses. However for Erin and me it is interesting because we’re still very much in the thick of our grief as we deal with the emotions that naturally come when losing a firstborn baby. We’ve definitely reached certain stages and we do feel as though we have a better grip around the situation but yet we still have our difficult moments and although today is a celebrated day for us it is still a reminder of the loss we experienced.

Erin and I are constantly trying to focus our thoughts towards things that don’t center around what we lost but more so about what we gained and learned and are continuing to learn. There are about a thousand things I could list and although it may be therapeutic I think it would drive most of Erin’s readers away. She’s worked hard on her blog to capture her thoughts just right so I’m trying to keep it somewhat simple and brief. I’m not as clever or as insightful as she is but I do feel that it’s important for not even others to know but for Erin to know how amazing of a mother she truly is.

When Henry was born he had to be taken away quickly due to his complications. Erin did not get that special moment that most mothers experience of seeing their baby before they were taken away to be cleaned up. So it was an hour or two later before she was able to see him. Again because of his complications this wonderful caring mother was only able to look at her new baby boy from his tiny bedside. My initial thought was that it would be a difficult experience for Erin to handle. He was covered with tubes and wires that were all attached to machines that beeped every few seconds. Nurses and doctors were racing around him, writing down information and discussing it with their fellow peers. I remember feeling so out of place. I was confused, frustrated and completely terrified as medical terms were being exchanged faster than I could store away in my head for future questions. Every fear Erin and I could have imagined was now becoming true and the worst part about it was that Erin still hadn’t even seen her newborn son. I didn’t know what was going to happen to Erin when she came to his tiny bedside. I was bracing myself for something I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle. However what I feared and what I ended up seeing were quite the opposite. It was the most beautiful image of pure love that I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life. Describing it in detail won’t due it justice however I’ll never forget how their eyes locked on one another after she said his name. She gave me the best image of the Savior’s love. He was her son and she was so proud of him. It was truly a glimpse into what Heavenly Father feels for his children. I’ll be forever grateful to her for that sacred moment.

That moment will always be special to me and I don't know if it can ever be recreated however this picture above reminds me of that experience. When I look at the two of them I’m reminded of that moment. I don’t believe I could do their relationship justice through any type of description that I write. He was her very special friend and continues to be that to her. Regardless of how much I love Henry, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to comprehend or understand the special relationship he has with his mother. It’s a relationship that is every mother’s privilege and right to have.

I will simply point out from this picture that her eyes are not faced towards anyone else in the room. Not to me, not to the doctors or nurses, not friends or family members. Her eyes are completely and perfectly focused in on him. And although his stay was short with us I have a very strong feeling that Henry is not too far from us right now during these difficult times and that his eyes are still focused in on his mother. I love you Erin, happy Mother’s day.