Learning to Smile Again

The day I had Alma, I was feeling anything but sociable. When they told me I could go home, the nurse brought in a wheelchair, and I slowly lowered myself into it.  I didn't really feel like being wheeled out of the hospital because I didn't feel like a mother.  I didn't feel like someone who had just had a baby.  But I also didn't feel like walking.  I didn't really feel like doing anything.

The nurse started wheeling me out, and then Jayze took over.  Everything was kind of a blur for me.  The only thing I was holding was the blanket the woman had given me to hold during labor.  I remember going past my parents and my in-laws.  Some of their eyes were red from crying.  My own eyes were swollen and red from crying off and on all day long, but at that moment I didn't feel like crying.  I couldn't look any of my family in the eyes.  I couldn't talk to any of them.  I just wanted to make it to the safety of our car.

Jayze had gone and parked the car in front of the hospital a few minutes earlier, so thankfully it was right there and he didn't have to leave me again.  He helped me get out of the wheelchair, opened the car door for me, and helped me into the car.  I was sore and in pain, but none of that soreness and pain could compare with the pain and ache in my heart.

My arms felt empty and heavy.  Something was missing.  My baby was gone.

I couldn't smile at all.  I couldn't smile at anyone.  I just wanted to go home and do nothing.   

Thankfully, Jayze and I were able to have some time to ourselves at home.  His parents were nice enough to go pick up my antibiotics and painkillers from the pharmacy, and my parents went to go pick up some food.

We lived in the upstairs of a house, and it took me about 10X as long to walk up those stairs than it normally did, but Jayze was patient and I was able to make it up one step at a time.

I made it up the stairs, put my hand on the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open.  Inside was our spacious living room, our two couches, our TV, and a few odds and ends.  I paused, letting it sink in that, like my heart, it too was empty.  The crib was empty, the glider was empty, the nursing pillow that came in the mail wasn't going to be used, and no sweet little baby boy was going to fill those clothes I received from the baby shower.

I stumbled over to the big couch and laid down on it.  That's all the strength I had.  I couldn't think.  I couldn't think of my baby now in the mortician's care.  I couldn't think of my empty and heavy arms.  I couldn't think about plans for the graveside service.  I didn't let myself think about any of it.

It was all too hard.  How was I going to make it through the night?

Jayze's parents came back with the medicine, and my parents came back from getting their food.  Jayze and I had food in the house from the kindness of others, but I wasn't hungry.

After chatting for a little bit, Jayze's parents left to go stay at my sis-in-law's house, so it was just my parents, Jayze, and me left.  No baby.  No happiness.

But then I'll never forget my dad and the way he responded to everything- to the whole situation.  I knew it was hard for him, because I had seen the sad, somber expression on his face that morning when he gave me the priesthood blessing.  I had seen that same expression again in when he and my mom came into the hospital room before Alma was born.  But, when Alma was born, my dad had a different expression on his face when he held him.  My dad's face was happy and he knew just the right words to say to make me feel good.  He admired my baby with me-his third grandson and grandchild.  He helped Jayze and me see the family resemblances Alma had.  He and my mom stayed all day in the hospital, even when they only saw Jayze, me, and Alma for about 30 minutes total.

Then when we were home again, my dad still had a happy expression on his face.  He had always teased me growing up, and helped me smile when I didn't want to.  He did that then, on the hardest day and evening of my life-August 29, 2013. 

As my parents and I held a normal, light conversation, I was guiltily thinking:  How can I smile?  How can I be happy?  My baby is gone.  What is there to be happy about?

But my dad and mom making dinner and my dad cutting up the delicious fruit they had thoughtfully picked up on their way to Idaho (how in the world did they have time to do that?) made such a difference to the spirit I felt in my home.  Such simple acts of kindness truly helped my dark mood lighten, and I was able to think and converse with them there. 

For a couple of months before Alma was born and before my parents came, there were some things that needing fixing at our house.  One of the light switches to our kitchen light didn't work, one of our kitchen lights was out, and a couple of other things.  We just hadn't gotten around to fixing those because we were both working and preparing for the baby. 

I remember walking into the kitchen at one point that night because I was tired of laying on the couch.  I walked in and turned on the kitchen light without thinking about which light switch I was using.  It actually turned on that time using that specific light switch, and both kitchen lights actually worked.  It was really bright!  Jayze and I wondered aloud about it, and my dad said that he had fixed both of them while we were at the hospital. 

Little did he know that, with the small and simple services he did, he was helping to fix my shattered heart as well.  Those small and simple services were a huge deal to me and meant so much that night and in the days following.

Those small and simple services reminded me of my Heavenly Father.  He wasn't leaving me alone during this trial-He was sending me small, tender mercies through those around me.  The workers at the hospital, the people in my ward, the people I worked with, and my family.

He gave me the gift of having my parents there helping me out.  If my parents hadn't been there the day Alma was born and the night Jayze and I came home from the hospital, I would have sat crying on the couch in the dark, not eating anything.  Wasn't it so much better to sit there in the bright light, eating fruit, and spending time with the family I did have with me?  I never stopped thinking about Alma or feeling sad.  How could I?  But the strength my parents brought was a huge blessing. 

I love this quote from Spencer W. Kimball, "God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs."

God was sending me His love through my parents and those around me.  He was even sending me His love through family, friends, and strangers who lived far away from Jayze and me.  Through these people, He was letting me know that He was there watching over me and that He could trust that my earthly parents and others were watching over me, too.  They were helping me stay in the light and find happiness even in the midst of such a dark trial.

So, even though I didn't want to smile after Alma wasn't with me-when he was no longer inside of me or in my arms-I'm thankful that I was able to smile in the moments when my dad gave me a priesthood blessing before I went to the hospital, when Alma was born, and as we held him throughout the day.

I found that because of my parents' support that night, I could begin smiling again-even when I didn't want to.  That evening was a beginning.  Heavenly Father was teaching me, through others, that I could learn to smile again and that I could smile again sincerely and with only the true happiness that He provides.