Does it ever get any better?

I remember learning something about "stages of grief" at some point in my life. I don't remember when or where but something about denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance seems to sort of float around in my head. Later I learned that this theory of grief actually specifically applies to a terminally ill person, but for some reason it seems to get applied to grievers in other situations. My grief hasn't looked anything like that. There is no set of stairs that I progress up as I pass through successive stages. Instead I have discovered that my grief cycles.

A question I had from the moment I found out I was going to lose my baby was if there was any way I would ever recover. I was fortunate to have a wonderful nurse that had also lost a baby girl many years ago. She listened to my fears and told me about her story. She gave me advice on books to read and all sorts of other support. She was also very, very real. She told me it still hurts (8 years later) and she still misses her every day. I heard this "hurts every day" kind of thing from many others as well. I didn't totally understand. Part of the reason I didn't really get it was because of how I felt in the first few weeks after my loss.

The way I felt for the month after my loss was the biggest surprise for me. I came home, planned a graveside service, said goodbye to my baby and kept on living. In the first weeks I ached for her, I missed being pregnant and I cried, but I felt confused about how I could possibly be doing so well. I felt guilty that I still wanted to do fun things with my kids and my husband and every time I laughed or enjoyed myself I wondered why I wasn't having a harder time. I realize now there were a few reasons for this:

-Shock- it took some time for the grief to really, truly set in
-Peace and comfort from the special spiritual experiences we had when our angel was with us
-Amazing support from family and friends

After about a month I simply fell apart. That is an understatement. I withdrew from people I loved and cared about. I avoided people that I didn't absolutely have to see. I put up a sunshiny fake front to avoid ever talking about what was really going on. I sat in a job interview and stared at the interviewers when they asked me if I was excited about the opportunity. Excited? I couldn't even process what that meant. I'm sure they thought I was the least animated person they had ever met. Everything about surviving got really hard. Going to church was almost to the point of torture. I wanted badly to feel uplifted while I was there, but I was surrounded by people and situations that paralyzed me with heartache. I sat silently sobbing as my sweet little boy wiped my tears and snuggled me. I checked out on the whole mommy business for a while as well. I had no energy to give them. I hated the person I was becoming, but I saw no way out. Thankfully the tender mercies of the Lord shone a light for me. I started to see the world around me again. I started to write my story and share my feelings, just in my own personal journal at that point. I discovered that one hour of uninterrupted time out with my husband had the power to keep my head above the mirky water of grief for a few days. I remembered how daily prayer was like water in the dessert. I found inspiring words in scriptures and other good books. I rediscovered my passion for fitness and the way that a workout is literally an antidepressant for me. In short, I found ways to cope.

Throughout it all a quote from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf (second counselor in the First Presidency of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints) was constantly on my mind. It was especially significant to me because just a few weeks before I lost my baby girl I had written it, along with some other thoughts, on a 3x5 card and taped it to a cabinet in my bathroom. I had no idea what was to come. It is still there, the words very faded but reminding me and giving me comfort daily: "what you see and experience now is not what forever will be. You will not feel loneliness, sorrow, pain, or discouragement forever."

Now I know a little bit better how to answer the question "does it ever get any better?" The short answer is yes, but that is too simple. My grief still cycles in and out of "those days," the ones that feel like somehow time is just passing by me and I am trapped in a fog. The days when I can't understand why I just feel so tired, or I can't seem to do a single thing right no matter how hard I try. On these days I know it's time to stop and give some time to my grief-- let myself wallow in the ache I feel for the baby girl that should be in my arms, look at pictures that make me cry, hold onto my boys a little tighter and a little longer, shut the world out and just remember how her short life has forever changed mine.

I don't think I have enough understanding of this process just 6 months after my loss to give any more insight than this, but I know that I don't want to forget her even though remembering her hurts, and I know that I have more good days than I used to, and most importantly, I know that what I experience now, is not what forever will be!

Measuring Grief

After my post last week I was fortunate to get some feedback and thoughts from a few friends that inspired me to write this post. Since losing my baby girl many questions have plagued my thoughts. One of these questions was why the loss had to be so late in my pregnancy. If she had to die, wouldn't it have been easier to lose her earlier in my pregnancy when I was "less attached." It didn't take me long to realize that no matter when the loss had occurred it would have been heartbreaking and devastating. I remember when I found out that I was pregnant and how excited I was that I simply couldn't contain it. I had to tell a friend immediately. I was already attached. I would have felt heartache if the pregnancy had ended the very next day. I think about the heartache of those that I know that are heartbroken over and over again each time the take a home pregnancy test and get a negative result. I think about those that have experienced miscarriages, maybe multiple times. All of these things are sad, and the simple fact is, while all of these experiences are different, they all hurt. There is not a grief-meter which we can use to measure the heartache of another person.

For some reason comparing grief still happens. We hear about somebody's miscarriage in their first trimester and we think (or maybe even say) well at least she hadn't felt the baby move, or, it's better that it happened now before she became too attached. We may hear about a person having a stillborn baby later in pregnancy and think (or maybe even say) that's so sad, but at least she has living children, or at least they can try again. For some reason we may occasionally, and unintentionally discount somebody else's grief because it isn't the saddest story we have ever heard. All experiences of loss are different and unique. In the several dozen stories of infant loss that I have read since I lost my baby, I have never heard a story exactly like mine. A very dear friend that was there for me in any way she possibly could be after my loss, shared her story of loss with me. Even she discounted her own experience some, saying that it wasn't as hard as mine. After hearing her story I ached knowing that she had experienced something so hard. I told her that there is no comparing our two stories. They are both simply very sad. Both of us had our hearts broken. Both of us still grieve for the baby that isn't here with us. Another friend shared her heartache over multiple miscarriages and after talking with her, I learned that even some of those closest to her barely acknowledged the loss that she had experienced. 

The problem with measuring grief is that it is not quantifiable. You can't put it on a scale, place is next to a ruler, or pour it into a graduated cylinder (Oh, by the way, I'm a science geek if you didn't already know). Every person experiences grief differently! Maybe you have experienced loss and within a few weeks you felt peace and were able to face the daily struggles of life, or maybe a year later getting out of bed each morning is still a challenge. Those could be the stories of two people that experienced very similar losses. We can't compare one person's loss to another or one person's grief to another person's because we can't measure it!

Maybe this doesn't resonate with you. Maybe you are sitting there thinking, "yeah, I know what happened to so and so was sad, but really when this other person lost her twins at -choose some number between 30 and 39 weeks- I'm sure it was harder" I'm sure in some small way that may be true. We all face our own challenges every single day. Sometimes we have to go through really sad things and other times our challenges are the everyday frustrations of just getting by. If we stop comparing, we can be far more helpful to those around us that are hurting.

There is only one individual that has experienced the exact hurt and heartache that each of us have and knows exactly how to come to our aid. He is our Savior, Jesus Christ. He knows our pain and our heartache and he doesn't ever comfort us with "I'm so sorry, but at least it wasn't as bad as it could be." No, His words--"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28) do not measure how heavy laden we are. He simply offers his rest. If you have experienced grief you know it is hard work and you are definitely heavy laden and in need of His rest and comfort. He would not tell us that our heartache is not real, or not enough to be acknowledged.

The Savior recognizes our suffering and knows how to give us comfort. He asks us to mourn with those who mourn. Not to mourn with those that mourn things that are sadder than our own trials, or those of a friend, cousin, brother (you get the idea), just mourn with those that mourn. 

So how do we acknowledge the grief of a friend that is suffering and not compare one person's grief to another person's? What exactly does mourning with those that mourn entail? Often (I can say often because it's happened to me plenty and to others that I know) it seems people feel the need to say something "helpful" along with expressing their sympathies. It is well meaning and they are really trying, but somebody experience the darkness of loss may not be ready for those "helpful" things just yet. What they do seem to be ready for are statements like:

I'm so sorry for your loss
I'm so sorry you are going through this, it must be so hard
I'm so sorry, is there anything I can do?
I'm sorry, can I give you a hug (or don't ask, just do it)
I'm so sorry, I'll bring dinner (or clean your toilets, vacuum your floors, babysit your kids… you get the idea)
I'm thinking of you
You are in my prayers

Those are helpful things. Every time I hear words like these I am strengthened to know that there are people in my life that are mourning with me. The word sorry means feeling distress. When you tell somebody you are sorry, you are telling them that their experience is making you feel distress for them--you are mourning with them.

My 5 year old is so good at this. He is such an example to me of true Christlike love. When he sees I'm not feeling well or am sad, he simply says, I'm sorry you don't feel good mom, and gives me a hug. I got to go on his first field trip with him and at one point a girl in his class tripped and fell. As she tried to keep up with the group and rub her hurt knee, my little guy came up beside her and said "I'm sorry you got hurt." It was simple and sincere. He didn't encourage her to toughen up, or move faster or tell her she would be ok in a minute, he acknowledged her hurt in that moment. That is mourning with those that mourn. We all want to feel validated for our feelings. We can give those around us that comfort and that validation in two simple words: I'm sorry. How big or small we may perceive the hurt of somebody else is not what is important. What is important is that they are hurting, and we can help.

I wanted to share some pictures of people that mourned, and still mourn with us (these pictures were a wonderful gift from a friend of my sister in law and they are so precious to me!). As I went through these pictures months after the experience I was again touched to the point of tears by the number of people that selflessly mourned with us, that offered us the simple heartfelt words of "I'm so sorry." There are still countless people that send me messages or simply and quietly offer as we pass in the halls at church- "I'm thinking about you." These words are so simple but so powerful. The pictures below represent just a few of these amazing people in my life. I know you can't see all of their faces, but that's because they were busy mourning with us.

 

 

How to Share Your Happy News with a Grieving Mother

I am not an expert! I only know my own experience, but I think what I have to share is at least somewhat universal. After loss (miscarriage, stillborn loss, infant death etc) your world stops, or at least you wish it would. Other's lives do not stop. Your closest loved ones may be deeply affected as well, but the news of other's new babies or pregnancies will likely not affect them quite the way it does the grieving mother.

I have read quite a few articles and blog posts about what to say, (check some out: here, or here) and what not to say to a grieving mother, but what about the times when you need to share something with them that you know will hurt?

An experience shortly after my loss made it obvious to me that many felt very uncomfortable sharing their happiness around me. Sadly, it was to the point that I ended up feeling excluded from their conversation while I was still right there with them. I do not have hard feelings towards those that were involved because I realize that generally in similar situations in my past when I was around others that experienced loss I didn't know what to say and ended up awkwardly avoiding certain topics and conversations. I have learned so much through my experience and I don't expect other's that have not had to journey through this storm to understand all of those things that I'm just beginning to get.

If you know me well you are probably aware that I generally do not wear my heart on my sleeve. I do my best to appear ok whenever possible and feel pretty uncomfortable getting emotional in front of others. Some call this strong, it's not. I consider it a serious weakness. If I could get past it I could share so much more of myself with others and that would probably be a good thing. Because of this many find it hard to read me and know what I'm thinking and feeling. It also probably makes it seem like I'm totally cool hearing about all the new babies constantly coming safely home. Please do not take what I'm saying to mean that I don't want others to have that! I would never wish the pain I have experienced on anybody, EVER! I want people to be happy and joyously experience the wonder of parenthood. I know that joy, I have my precious little boys upstairs asleep right now, and when I just peeked in on them, it made my heart swell and eyes tear up. It is absolutely amazing. The only reason hearing good news causes me pain is that it does a really good job of reminding me of the baby girl that is NOT upstairs sleeping in her crib, or snuggled in my arms, or crying through the night and causing me sleep deprivation. So should you not mention these things to me? I don't think that is a reasonable solution. Instead I want to share a few ways to make that reminder a little less painful and maintain your relationship with loved ones that are going through infant loss.

• If you recently found out you are pregnant and need to tell a grieving mother, try to make it private. Do not bombard the poor woman with a great big family gathering and smugly cute pregnancy announcement, but definitely don't try to keep it from her! You may decide to tell her in person in a quiet private place, or over the phone, or maybe in writing. For me, any of these options are ok, and chances are I will be able to show my happiness for you for at least a few minutes, but may need an easy out after a bit to be alone with my emotions.
• Don't be upset if they don't seem happy. For a newly grieving mom, happy is foreign, awkward and may even feel wrong. Let her be authentic. If she gets teary and simply says congratulations, let it be. It's what she can handle.
• If you are having a baby soon or just had a baby and somebody close to you experienced loss, tread lightly. Don't anticipate that they will be anxious to hold your baby to help heal their wounds. They may not even want to. However, holding your newborn may be exactly what they need. Give them the opportunity to if they would like, but be sure to not push their comfort level. I vary almost daily on my emotions with this, and somebody dear to me recently had a baby. She lovingly knows that I have days that I want to hold and snuggle her baby, and days that I'm ok keeping my distance.
• Talk to them about their baby! Ask sincerely about how they are doing, and show them that you really do want to hear the real answer. 
• Don't exclude them! If they do not want to be a part of the conversation they can get out, unless they are physically trapped, like in a car or something. 
• Try to avoid complaining too excessively about pregnancy or child rearing woes, but be real. Something that got tiresome for me was people complaining about being almost to their due date and not having the baby yet. I've been 40 weeks pregnant twice and would give anything to have made it there that third time. It's not the most comfortable state, but it is likely better than the alternative. Full disclosure-- 40 weeks pregnant is not miserable for me at all. Sleeping is tough, but I feel generally pretty good. Other things didn't bother me because they were less applicable to my situation, so know the person's situation and find out what is the hardest thing for them to hear about. How do you do that? Ask them!! I LOVE when people ask me if I'm comfortable talking about certain topics. It puts me in the driver's seat and lets me steer the conversation in a direction that is best for me.

Ultimately, be kind and caring. Sometimes people say stupid things, but when the intention was kindness it's sometimes better than saying nothing at all. Don't hide things because you think it will hurt them. Exclusion hurts badly too, so trust those dealing with loss with your happy news, rather than pushing them away. Grief can cause a pretty intense feeling of isolation. I would rather have friends that are pregnant and enjoying new babies than no friends at all.

As a personal side note, I want to thank all those that have done all of these things for me. I am surrounded by so many compassionate, loving and thoughtful people in my life. I consider myself very fortunate to almost never encounter unsupportive people that make no attempt to be sensitive to my feelings. So if you are one of those awesome people in my life that is always there for me and has simply done your best, even if you are worried you've said something dumb, thank you for just trying!

Me loving on my sweet niece when she was only hours old
I'm sure she had said her goodbyes to my sweet Eirlyse that morning.

Worry Not

I have been fortunate to experience mostly worry free pregnancies. During my first pregnancy there was a little bit of concern about how my heart would handle the extra strain, but everything progressed normally and it turned out perfectly. I felt confident that I would bring home a healthy full term baby each time. I never drank a glass of water and laid down on my left side after eating dinner to count kicks. I never went to a doctor's appointment expecting bad news.  

So many times during my pregnancy with Eirlyse I had the impression that I should enjoy being pregnant, really enjoy it. As I first noticed changes to my body I felt happy to be changing. Each ache and pain I felt I was reminded that I should enjoy the journey. At some point along the way I started assuming it was probably because it might be my last pregnancy. Both Tyler and I felt that this little one may complete our family. So enjoy it I did. I felt amazing, beautiful and strong. I didn't mind the growing, even though I had worked so hard to make the opposite happen over the year before I got pregnant.

Looking back I wondered why such a perfect pregnancy had ended so early and abruptly. This led me to wonder how it would have been different if I had known something tragic was in my future. I even felt guilty that I hadn't worried more. I really didn't worry, not even a little bit, about her. I felt so calm and confident throughout the whole pregnancy. I don't ever remember doubting that all was well. Why should I? Each ultrasound showed a perfectly healthy baby and I felt great. 

One day as I felt bad for not worrying more about my little angel, I happened upon a quote by one of my most favorite authors and figures in history. Corie ten Boom was a woman of amazing strength and faith. Her words always inspire me and when I read these words I felt immediate peace: 

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.” 
― Corrie ten Boom, Clippings from My Notebook

This is why I was blessed to not feel worried during my pregnancy. I could have spent the entire pregnancy worried about my baby and what might happen, but it would not have emptied the day she left us from it's sorrows, it simply would have emptied the days I did spend with her from their strength. Strong is exactly how I felt while I carried her.

Now each time my anxiety tries to get the better of me, each time I worry that something bad could happen to somebody else that I love, I remember that quote. Tomorrow will come, and it may hold joys or sorrows, but today I can be strong. Today I can choose to enjoy the gifts that life still holds for me and let tomorrow be what it will be. I feel strong because I have faith in myself, my Heavenly Father and the people that love me, that no matter what sorrows tomorrow may hold, I will make it through. I cannot let worry take that away from me.

Easier said than done, trust me, I KNOW! Tragedy and grief have changed me, and I worry more than I ever have before. Someday I hope to experience pregnancy again, and just the thought of it right now brings me anxiety wondering if somehow I am marked for tragedy. The list of things I worry about gets longer every day, and if I'm not careful it has a way of consuming my every thought. I cannot change my past; it will forever affect the way I view the world. I am all too aware of the sorrows tomorrow might hold, but they will hold them whether I worry about them or not. All I can do is live each day with as much strength as I can muster, and worry robs me of that strength.

Me Feeling Strong

An Angel Named Snowdrop

This journey is not one that we ever wanted to make, but now that we are on it, I feel the need to share some of it with others. I hope that it might help someone on their own journey of loss. Maybe it will help somebody that knows someone that experienced a loss. Maybe it will help those who want to be more aware of this far too common type of loss. Maybe it will just be a place that I gain peace through writing our story.

This story begins about a year ago. The moment I found out I was pregnant with her I knew this pregnancy would be different from my first two. The pregnancy progressed so perfectly. My symptoms were minimal and I felt amazing. She was amazing too. At each ultrasound it was confirmed that everything about her was exactly as it should be.

When we found out she was, in fact, a she we were beyond delighted. We continued to anticipate a picture perfect end to the pregnancy and beginning to our new, more complete family.

Things changed in a matter of hours. One day she was wriggling and squirming around happily in my warm womb, and the next, something was wrong. The story of exactly how it all happened can be found here Our angel came to us with a perfect little body. Her face was the most beautiful thing I had seen in my entire life. Her fingers and toes were perfectly formed. Her hair and skin were so soft I wanted to kiss them constantly. But, for reasons, completely beyond our understanding, her perfect little body stopped working as she made the transition from living inside of me to living outside of me. Our two short days with her were filled with fear and pain, but also with so much love.

Somewhere in it all a name had to be chosen. Like all parents we were very particular. We felt passionate early in the pregnancy that she should have a unique, meaningful but not weird name. Around 20 weeks pregnant, after not feeling like the names we had listed were right for her I searched deeper into names from less used origins. We have ancestors from Wales so when I saw that as an option on my name app I checked it out. Among the names I then sent along to Tyler to read was Eirlyse (We chose to add the 'e' at the end). The name means snowdrop, and both of us felt immediately drawn to it. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if I was pronouncing it correctly and instead of pretty, it might actually be really weird. After some research we determined that our pronunciation was in fact correct and we both felt like Eirlyse (pronounced air-leese) was the perfect name for our first baby girl.

Her name means snowdrop. A snowdrop is a flower that blooms early (really early) in the spring popping up through the snow. They are sweet little white flowers that droop over at the top of their tiny stem. You can read about how we planted these flowers in her memory here.

When she was born, and we knew early on that she would not be staying in her tiny body, we wondered, but only for a moment, if we really wanted to use this name that we loved so much on a baby that would not be coming home with us. Immediately we felt overwhelmed that this was meant to be her name all along, and it is the perfect name for our little angel- Our angel named Snowdrop.

A note about this blog:
You will notice this is not the first published post, but I wrote it as if it was. The other existing posts were taken from my personal family blog, but after a few weeks I realized that I wanted a place to share this part of my life separately and with a wider audience.

My vision is that in the future others that would like to will have the opportunity to post their stories here as well so that this will become a place to read about the many experiences of families that have lost their tiniest loved ones. I hope to have a variety of perspectives so that it can be helpful to many that encounter this kind of loss either of their own child or of somebody else close to them. I don't intend for it to be only a place of doom and gloom. I hope that joyful stories of hope and peace through the pain will be shared as well.

Pregnancy and Infancy Loss Awareness Day

For the first 30 years of my life, today was a day like any other. I remember my life before loss, even though it seems a lifetime ago. I remember Tyler sharing sad stories from work about moms that lost babies very late in their pregnancies and thinking my heart hurt so bad just hearing about it, how could a person ever live through that. Now I know the feeling for myself.

Today I remember not only my sweet angel, but all the babies, gone before they really came and missed desperately by the parents that happily and anxiously waited for their arrival. It is a loss like no other I have experienced, and I am so sorry to all others that have had to walk this road. 

I wanted to share how we remembered our Eirlyse today. I am determined that her memory will be with me and my family forever!

A few weeks ago my mom went to a few local greenhouses to track down Snowdrops for my little Snowdrop. Eirlyse means Snowdrop, and we are certain that this name was really meant to be for her. It suits her sweet spirit and short time on earth perfectly. Like the flowers, she arrived early- pure, fresh and perfect.

To honor Eirlyse we planted snowdrop bulbs today in our front yard and (don't tell the folks at the cemetery) on her grave. They will bloom VERY early next spring popping right up out of the snow. By the time mowing season arrives they will be just like the other blades of grass. I am so excited to see them bloom next spring as our living reminder of our angel.

After Eirlyse passed away a sweet friend of our parents, who has also experienced infant loss and is an amazing artist, offered to draw Eirlyse. What an amazing gift she has given us. We received the beautiful drawing a few weeks ago and today we officially hung it up in the boy's playroom so she is there with them always. I can't even begin to express how this beautiful work of art warms my heart each time I see it.

Earlier this week Tyler's mom gave us a Christmas ornament to remember Eirlyse. Baby's first Christmas ornaments are a tradition of hers to each new grand-baby, and Eirlyse needed one as well. We selected a very special one for her and today I put a picture inside the locket so that it is ready to hang on our tree. I think I will buy or make an ornament each year to remember our angel, and I'm so grateful for this first one that was a gift from Grandma and Grandpa. Eirlyse is so loved, and will always be remembered!

Thank you to anybody that had us and our sweet baby Eirlyse in their hearts today. We feel so fortunate to have so many wonderful family members and friends that have offered love and support!

Snowdrop image credit: http://ichef.bbci.co.uk/naturelibrary/images/ic/credit/640x395/g/ga/galanthus_nivalis/galanthus_nivalis_1.jpg

When Heaven Seemed Close Enough to Touch

In the 2, too short days that we had our Eirlyse with us on this earth, there were many moments that I felt like I was a breathe away from Heaven. One of my favorite quotes is from a book I read my freshman year at BYU (There was Light by Jaques Lusseyran)

I was carried by a hand, I was covered by a wing.

There were so many times in those short days that darkness threatened to take over, that I wanted to scream and even die, but somehow there were also times of intense peace and calm. I felt at times like I was in a dream and was not moving from place to place by my own power, but instead was being carried through it all. Without those tender mercies from heaven, darkness would have prevailed and I would have been unable to feel the sweet spirit that my angel brought with her. It permeated the space she was in. Everybody that had the opportunity to sit in that little room by her plastic bed felt it. Those that held her know even more that she was heaven sent.

The first time I saw Eirlyse I was overwhelmed (and very confused), yet I still felt a calm as I sat by her incubator. In fact, even though the weight of the situation would normally be more than a person could bear, most of the time I spent in the hospital with her I felt calm. Looking back now, I know that calm could have come from only one source--the love of Jesus Christ.

The first night I spent in the hospital was not a good one. The gravity of the situation was starting to set in and I had a terrible time sleeping. I still didn't understand what was going on with my baby and I felt so alone. I spent much of the night praying and crying. Morning finally came and the doctor that had delivered Eirlyse came to see me. She explained the situation to me. She told me she had been to the NICU that morning already and that things did not look good at all. She explained that we needed to start thinking about removing care. I was stunned. I had no idea we would be arriving at this, especially not so soon. She left me crying in my bed. Tyler came to hold me and we cried together, and then we prayed. It didn't take long for us to be fully aware that our angel's purpose on earth was already fulfilled and it was time for us to let her return to her Father in Heaven. We decided that we would spend the day with her in the NICU, and let family come meet her. We would then spend the night with just us holding her and soaking up every bit of that sweet spirit she had brought with her. The next morning would be the time to stop the medications and remove the ventilator. We would hold onto her as she passed peacefully. The decision was heartbreaking, but we felt an intense calm about it. We knew it was the right decision for our sweet baby. Heaven touched us, we knew it. It made the hardest decision that we would ever have to make so clear.

Another experience that seems almost strange to share is that through the entire time I was at the hospital, each time I would look in the mirror or see a picture of me, I felt like I was glowing. People talk about pregnancy glow, but with my first two pregnancies I never felt like I glowed, in fact I always felt puffy and ugly. This time was so different. I truly felt the glow through the whole pregnancy. I felt amazing and strong and beautiful in a way I never had before in my life. That glow seemed to stay with me throughout my time with Eirlyse. Even now I look at pictures and think, is that really me? I believe the spirit was so strong with me through the whole experience that it literally shown through me.

There were so many other experiences when I felt the light of heaven shining in on our little cubicle of the NICU, but for now I will share just one more. When my sweet little boys met their baby sister the atmosphere felt sacred. They knew she was their sister and they loved her so much. While normally tubes coming out of another person would make them uncomfortable and awkward, they fully embraced her, just the way she was. They wanted to be close to her. While I was pregnant, J was probably the most excited for our new arrival. He talked about her all the time and he loved her from the day he knew she was on her way. When he met her for the first time the feeling of love in the room was overwhelming. He loves his baby sister so deeply and so sincerly. Their bond is eternal and I know one day when they meet again it will be as if they were never apart! This picture makes my heart ache so deeply, but it also brings me so much joy to see the look of love in J's little eyes and to remember the feeling of knowing that Eirlyse felt exactly the same way, even if she had no way of expressing that with her tiny sick body.

Some Everyday Realities of Grief

I've been working for a few weeks on two posts about my experience of losing my baby girl. One is about gratitude and recognizing blessing from my Heavenly Father, the other is about times when I have felt incredible peace through all the pain. This is NOT one of those posts.

Today was not a day that I felt grateful or peaceful. Today was a challenge from the moment I got out of bed. I have these days, more of them than I can count. Yes, sometimes I have good days--days where I am blessed to feel grateful for the blessings that seem to be overflowing in my life, but today was not one of those days. This isn't to say that everything about today was bad. I started the day with a great work out and had fun walking Jack to school. Work was fine, and this evening I hung out with some great friends (that helped), but it's all the stuff in between that made today a day void of gratitude and peace. Like that moment it hit me, like it does sometimes like a ton of bricks, that my Eirlyse is gone. Or when we drove to the cemetery hoping that today would be the day there would be a marker on her tiny grave to show the world she was here, and it wasn't. Maybe it was when, after I was already feeling broken and vulnerable, I got a text or read a facebook post that pushed me right over the edge.

That's the honest truth. That's the truth you probably won't get when you ask me "how are you?"

A Birth Story- Eirlyse Treasure Bolton

This post is long overdue, but I've had a hard time writing it. Hopefully I will be able to share some of my other experiences with my angel Eirlyse soon, or at least some pictures. For now...

I'm not sure how I'll do recounting the events of that day, but I felt like I need to before they get too fuzzy. This experience is also very personal and difficult to recount, but I know a lot of people are wondering how we went from having a perfectly healthy pregnancy with a super active healthy baby growing inside of me to having a baby that lived only two days. We are still wondering the same thing, and probably always will.

It all began late Monday (May 27) night in St. George. We had spent the day in the car traveling from San Diego. It was a long but uneventful drive and little Eirlyse had wriggled and kicked the entire time. I can't remember either of my other two babies being quite as constantly active as she was. It made for more frequent stops for bathroom breaks but I loved feeling her moving around. After we arrived in St. George at Tyler's grandparents house we went to visit our good friends that used to live in our ward. Near the end of the visit I started feeling a bit strange. Something was... leaking. It did not occur to me that it could be amniotic fluid for a little while because I was only 33 weeks along, and the pregnancy had been far too predictable and easy for something like that to be happening. By the time we returned to Tyler's grandparents I could tell something was weird, and most likely my water was leaking. I did internet research trying to come up with any other answer and tried calling a pregnancy hotline. I also called the hospital in St. George and after deliberating for a while we decided that while it was most likely my water leaking, we had an 18 hour window of safety and I could still feel baby moving and absolutely no contractions, so we would get up early and drive straight to McKayDee (honestly I still didn't really think that it was amniotic fluid and I really didn't want to be at the hospital in St. George). I have second guessed this decision since the moment we started driving the next morning.

Our drive was fine and we made great time. I could still feel Eirlyse moving, but far less than the day before. I was leaking fluid slowly (sorry, some of this post may fit in the TMI category, but stop reading if that bothers you). We got to the hospital and I was feeling fairly calm and had thought out several possible scenarios of what might happen next. Really the worst I considered is that we would have to induce labor immediately and we would have a very tiny but fairly healthy baby girl that might have to spend a few weeks in the NICU to gain weight and develop her lungs. I was totally unprepared for what happened next.

We checked in and got prepared for triage. The nurse took longer than I would have liked to come check me. Finally she came in and started listening for baby. She was not very friendly and I could tell right away that she was concerned. She could not find a heart rate. When she did it was far too low--50. She started calling out for help, calling my doctor and shouting out orders to prep an OR for a C-Section. I was stunned. I have never felt so afraid in my entire life. Tyler stood so calmly by telling me it would be ok, but I knew right then that it wouldn't. I was about to have a C-Section and something was wrong with my baby. They started IV's. Everything hurt a lot, but I didn't care, if something was wrong I just wanted them to get her out right now and save her. I felt so guilty for driving 5 hours instead of just going to the hospital in St. George.

In the OR everything was so fast and confusing. They started an epidural anesthetic, which started working very quickly, and the doctor arrived. It wasn't my doctor. She was out of town. I wanted my doctor. She had the nurses reposition me and the baby's heart rate returned to over 130. She was ok. We waited for a few minutes, talked about what would happen next. I would keep the epidural in, I would wait in a regular room for 1 hour while they started antibiotics and steroid shots to develop her little lungs. If her heart rate stayed normal we hoped to wait to deliver for 2-4 days--the longer the better. Things seemed happy and hopeful. We sent out texts and waited. After about 45 minutes her rate dropped again.

Back to the OR, more drugs and more panic. I felt the pressure from cutting and I don't remember the moment when they actually got my baby out and took her to another room. Tyler was gone. I had no idea what was going on and I still don't remember much after that. I know they took me to another room and got me cleaned up, my parents and Tyler's brother came. I received a priesthood blessing, and over in the NICU so did Eirlyse. I had no idea the severity of her condition. I had no idea that it had taken 11 minutes to revive her, and that she had never taken a breath. Maybe they did tell me, but I don't remember now. Tyler says she was blue when the delivered her. He went with her and watched as the desperately tried to revive her. He believes they may not have gone for the 11 full minutes if he had not been standing there. I can't even begin to imagine the desperation and fear Tyler must have felt for those 11 minutes.

After they got me cleaned up, they took me to see her. I was confused. She didn't seem like my baby. I thought I was still pregnant. I didn't know who this little girl was with tubes and stickers and IV's. She was beautiful though. She looked so much like my first sweet baby boy, just with more hair. I didn't want to stay long. Seeing her scared me. I was so tired and confused. Now I wish that I would have never left her side, but Im glad that at that moment I had no idea how hopeless the situation was. I needed to, at least for a little while, feel that I had a normal healthy baby that I would someday bring home from the hospital.

They took me to my room and I was still unsure that this baby girl was really mine, and unaware that she was in really bad shape. I mostly stayed in my room. My mother in law visited, and I remember talking about Eirlyse staying in the NICU while the our family would be on vacation, I still assumed this little girl was coming home with us. I can't remember visiting her more than once that evening. Tyler visited her often. He came back crying. Something was wrong. I didn't know what. I don't remember anybody telling me that she wasn't ok. I was so confused. I don't know exactly what I thought was going to happen at that point, but I think I believed she was going to be fine, just not for a while. I thought I would have a lifetime to spend with her, but that was not the plan... at least not this lifetime.

Eirlyse Treasure Bolton

May 28, 2013 16:21

3 lbs 13 oz 17.5"