Heartbeat

Seven years ago today I heard the words, "I'm sorry, but there's no heartbeat." 

It was a morning appointment, and for some reason I was so nervous for it. I hadn't felt the baby move that morning yet, but I had just the evening before so I expected everything to be okay. 

I remember leaving work and driving to the appointment, expecting to go back to work afterwards. Jayze was at his work, too, so I was all by myself. When the nurse practitioner couldn't find the heartbeat on the heart doppler, she told me to call my husband so he could be there for the ultrasound. Even then I still had hope. Maybe the heart doppler had malfunctioned, maybe the baby was turned in a certain way to where the heartbeat was hidden, maybe everything would be okay after all, maybe, maybe, maybe...

I walked through the doorway into the dark ultrasound room and laid down on the bed. They started the ultrasound, and Jayze arrived just in time for us to see the ultrasound tech look at the nurse practitioner and shake her head. Just like that, our baby was gone. 

Today I woke up, fed our kids breakfast, helped Aidan with his kindergarten classes and homework, played "Spot-It" with Kimball and Lincoln, and snuggled with Ryah before her morning nap. Usually after Aidan's school, I send him off to play by himself or with Kimball and Lincoln. With the two moves and all the changes, I've given in to the temptation too many times to retreat inward and push them aside. To just go through the motions with them and do my own thing. But I've been feeling the urge to change that. To find joy in the simple moments like I used to. 

Today I wanted them to feel joy, and I wanted to treat them like I always imagined I would treat Alma if he were here. I wanted to treat them like I've preached about so many times on here before I had any kids with me. I wanted them to know through my actions that they're important to me. I wanted to not just be there, but actually be present with them. 

So instead of retreating by myself after Aidan's school, I made popcorn and played with them instead.  

I chased them around the living room, wrapping them up in blankets and plopping them on the couch, pretending to be a "blanket monster." I tickled their cute faces and bellies as laughter erupted from them over and over and over. As we ran around, I could almost imagine hearing their hearts beating like crazy from all the playing. They are still here, and so am I.

When things get hard...when triggers come up...when hard memories surface...when my heart hurts and my courage disappears and the anxiety comes...I like to stop and take a minute. Sit or stand up straight, take a deep breath, and look around. Where have I lived a little? Where have the kids been? Where is the joy?

This morning I found it. 

-A naked baby from a blow out.

-Remnants from a snack after a morning of kindergarten.

-A toy rocket on the floor landed there from a child with a huge imagination.

-Natural light coming in to keep me sane (AZ is amazing).

-An almost empty fruit basket from the kids eating all the oranges and bananas (and no time to go to the store.)

-Country music playing in the background while Ry girl and I bob our heads.

-Little boys in the other room building a city with their mega blocks and cars.

Seven years ago I was beyond heartbroken hearing that my baby didn't have a heartbeat. It felt like our home's heartbeat had stopped too. BUT now, this home has a heartbeat. It is so full of life and beauty and mess-ups and little boy giggles and baby girl squeals and imperfections and love and forgiveness. It's full of healing and hard work, and I'm grateful to be here for it.  

And I'm grateful that one day I will get to hold Alma and see him alive and well and hear his beautiful heartbeat again. 

Armor of God

***I wrote this post a few weeks ago and then didn't make time to post it. I've been feeling prompted to write in my blog more and felt really strongly this one needed to be shared this morning. So I cleaned it up, and here you go. :) We're all going through hard things, and just like I've always said in the past, if it helps even one person (even if it's just me), it's worth it.***

I could write pages of everything I'm going through, of everything my kids are going through, of everything my family is going through, and of everything still ahead of us. But the worst part that's happened in 2020 so far has been my dad's death.

Even writing that doesn't feel real. Something doesn't feel right. I never thought it would happen. In a similar (but also different) way, just like I never thought I would lose a baby. In my moments of despair and hardship, I've asked the questions: Why is God putting me through so much grief? Why do I have to endure even more pain? Why does it feel like my soul is being wracked over hot coals, drug through gritty sand, worn down and wet and cold in dark and stormy weather, and tied up so tightly in ropes so thick I can't breathe. My soul is in shreds, broken into a million pieces, and cracked seemingly beyond repair.

"Our Heavenly Father, referring to His Beloved Son, said, "Hear Him!" As you act on those words and listen to Him, remember, joyfully and reverently, that the Savior loves to restore what you cannot restore; He loves to heal wounds you cannot heal; He loves to fix what has been irreparably borken; He compensates for any unfairness inflicted on you; and He loves to permanently mend even 

shattered hearts."

(Dale G. Renlund, April 2020, "Consider the Goodness and Greatness of God")

I read something today that finally described grief in a way that made sense to me in just a few words: "Grief is like being extremely homesick without ever being able to go home."

C.S. Lewis also explains it like this (maybe not grief, but this unsatisfied need, kind of like homesickness):"If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world."

That grief, that homesickness, that ache, that deep down sorrow can be subtle and rear up at any moment. 

A few weeks ago we were still living at my mom and dad's house, and my husband's family had planned a "diving off cliffs and swimming" trip. I was hurrying to pack and get everything ready before Jayze got off work. The towels were one of the last things I grabbed, and those ended up taking the longest. I stood in front of the open linen closet, trying to make sure I had the right amount of towels. "Okay, let's see, we have five kids, so I need seven towels, but we only have four kids here, so I actually just need six towels..." Then I grabbed seven towels anyway, had to put one back, then tried counting again. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. I finally put all of the towels back and tried again. I counted as I grabbed the towels one by one, "Aidan, Kimball, Lincoln, Ryah, Jayze, Me." But even then, as I stuffed them in the bag, I kept counting over and over, thinking I was missing one. Which was true, I was missing one. We're always missing one. Simple moments like that can become complex in an instant. 

Right after my dad passed away, I remember setting the table. I reached into the cupboard and mentally counted the plates we'd need. Then I realized we needed one less this time because my dad wasn't there anymore. It was a heartbreaking moment putting that plate back in the cupboard and seeing the empty seat at the table as we ate dinner. 

To deal with the grief, I've been diving into my scriptures more. I've been on my knees. I pray all day long as I go throughout the day. I pray while laying in my bed at night even after praying on my knees by my bed. I read and listen to conference talks. I try to serve others. I've been exercising like crazy to keep my anxiety at bay. I've been doing all of these things, and I've still felt sad. I've still felt this aching and tightness in my chest that won't go away. I've still felt the realness of the fact that my dad isn't coming back. And I've thought, why? Why, if I'm doing everything right, why do I still feel this way? This grief is hard. I'm in the valley of sorrow right now, and I don't want to be here.

I was sifting through my old journal entries the other night and came across this beautiful and powerful image. I had forgotten about it, and I'm glad I wrote it down because I needed that image again. I edited some things out, but the core of it is there. God is here. God is near. God is with me.

1/10/18 - Today was rough. I've had a hard time wanting to get out of bed lately. Winter and dark, cloudy days do that to me. Or even sunny, but cold days do that too. Cold where it seems like I can't ever get warm... 

And today wasn't even that rough - it just felt rough inside of me. I feel this heaviness and sadness. I had the thought today while I was driving the kids and myself to meet [our friends] for a walk that why? Why do I feel this way if I truly feel like I'm putting on the armor of God? Why do I still feel heavy and hurt? 

I had an image come to my mind of me dressed in armor in battle. Arrows, swords, and stones came at me. And even though I was able to withstand them because of my armor, my armor still got dented. Those hits still hurt. I still got out of breath from the effort. IT WASN'T EASY. The thought came, "It's the way it's supposed to be. It's okay that it's hard. I'VE GOT YOU. YOU ARE OKAY." 

I couldn't help the tears from falling. Heavenly Father has me. I am in His loving, protecting, sacred hands. I am His. It's going to be okay. I'm going to be okay. And it's okay to have hard days. Everything won't be perfect or easy just because I have my armor on - it just means I can face my battles in the strength of the Lord. And I am grateful for that. 

I couldn't stop thinking about that journal entry for days after I read it. About how my armor is a pretty hot mess right now. Satan and grief and life are throwing all they have at me, and I'm doing all I can to hold them back. I can feel the dents digging into the skin of my soul, the massive bruises forming, and the dirt and sweat stinging my eyes. I can feel myself getting more and more tired from the pain and the seemingly relentless power from the other side.

Yet, I cannot deny the peace that's buried deep down in my very soul. The flashes of joy I catch that help me bear the weight of sorrow. The trust I have in my higher power, even Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. The hope I have in better days ahead.

"I speak to those who are facing personal trials and family struggles, those who endure conflicts fought in the lonely foxholes of the heart, those trying to hold back floodwaters of despair that sometimes wash over us like a tsunami of the soul. I wish to speak particularly to you who feel your lives are broken, seemingly beyond repair. 

To all such I offer the surest and sweetest remedy that I know. It is found in the clarion call the Savior of the world Himself gave. He said it in the beginning of His ministry, and He said it in the end. He said it to believers, and He said it to those who were not so sure. He said to everyone, whatever their personal problems might be:

'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"

(Jeffrey R. Holland, April 2006, "Broken Things to Mend")

The really beautiful thing is that as I keep reading my scriptures and praying and doing everything I can to be on the Lord's side, I can give him my whole heart, my whole soul, and He can heal me. He can heal my armor and make it even stronger. He can mend the rips, the shreds, the holes, the cracks, the pieces, the cuts, and the bruises grief has left on my soul. He can clean off the dirt and sweat, give me newer and stronger armor, and with a smile and loving nod of his head send me back to the battle with the sweet assurance I'm not alone. He is in this WITH me. And He can make this light if I just keep coming unto Him.

"And it came to pass that the voice of the Lord came to them in their afflictions, saying: Lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage.

And I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs, even while you are in bondage; and this will I do that ye may stand as witnesses for me hereafter, and that ye may know of a surety that I, the Lord God, do visit my people in their afflictions.

And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord."

(Mosiah 24:13-15)

I'm trying not to let this opportunity to come closer to God go wasted. I'm trying not just to get through, but to thrive while doing it. My husband and I were talking about Nephi last night. I love how even though they had left their home and were traveling in the wilderness and it was hard, as long as they kept the commandments, God led them to the more fertile parts of the wilderness (1 Nephi 16:16). They still had to work for their own food and work to walk. I'm sure they got tired. It was still the wilderness - not the promised land. But it was also the best parts of the wilderness. God can, and is, doing that for me as I keep coming unto Him. 

I know He can do that for anyone who comes unto Him. 

"Armies of Heaven"

This week (Saturday) is Alma's birthday. I've thought about it many times throughout the month, but it hasn't been like in the past where August 1-August 31 is hard. We've just been so busy with moving, Jayze starting law school, Aidan starting kindergarten, and so many other things that I hadn't had time to really sit down and think about Alma's birthday until this past weekend. I knew his birthday was coming up, and I hate waiting last minute, so I wanted a plan for Saturday so I would be prepared.

We talked about it with Aidan and Kimball yesterday during dinner, and decided that we're going to make a cake, maybe drive to the temple, and of course, serve someone (we always try to do some sort of service on Alma's birthday). I also might snag a candle from the store, and that will be that, I thought. It's going to be a great birthday.

Initially when we moved to Snowflake, the thought crossed my mind that we would actually be close to Alma's grave for his birthday this year. Then a couple of months later when we were accepted to law school and I saw the starting date, I realized that we actually weren't going to be there for Alma's birthday, and I was sad about it. "Aw well," I thought. "We can still celebrate from afar like we've always done." And that was that again.

But I woke up this morning, walked to the bathroom, saw that Jayze had written a beautiful quote by Jeffrey R. Holland on our bathroom mirror, and I lost it. 

 "In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike—and they will—you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham's seed."

~Jeffrey R. Holland~

As I read that quote - When disappointment and discouragement strike - with tears burning my eyes and a sob caught in my throat, I thought about holding Alma. I thought about having to say goodbye SO many times and hating it. I thought about seeing the autopsy stitches all over his tiny body and feeling so badly for him, feeling like I failed as a mom. I thought about how I should have a 7-year-old going to school this year. I thought about having to explain to my kids that they have a brother in heaven, and since I haven't had the heart to show them pictures yet - I haven't felt like it's the right time yet - they don't quite understand the concept. I thought about how we just had to bury their Papa this year and Alma being gone is just another reminder that another person we love isn't here. The concept of how anyone can die at any moment has been a struggle for me, let alone teaching it to my kids and having them see it firsthand. 

I guess I just didn't realize how much I was struggling. "I'm beautiful. I'm strong. I can do this," I've been telling myself since our last couple of weeks in Kansas. And this past weekend regarding Alma's birthday, "It's okay. I feel a little bit sad, but I'm strong. I got this."

It's important to say that to myself - it helps me get through. But in reality, it's also important to say, "This is hard, and I'm struggling. I'm sad and discouraged and feel defeated, but God's got this. God is strong. God's got me." With God, I can do anything. 

"...you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that...you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham's seed."

My dad is a part of the ones "riding at reckless speed to come to [my] protection" now, and so is Alma. I imagine them up there cracking jokes, having joy in the paradise they enjoy, anxiously waiting for our turn, and wanting to help us in any way they can. I'm grateful for them. I'm grateful I'm not alone.

If there's anything I could say to anyone is that we really are NOT alone. Satan tries his best to isolate us, whether it's from us feeling shame about a sin or us feeling lonely in our grief, but that's not truth. God never leaves His children alone. Work hard to come unto Him, and He'll be there. I haven't been able to do any of this without him. And I won't be able to do this week without Him - at least not with true peace and joy. 

So I'm entering this week with courage. Courage to cry when I need to and then stand back up again and keep moving forward. Courage to be happy AND sad. Courage to find peace and healing amidst this ocean of grief. Courage to remember. YOU can have courage too, no matter what you're going through. Trying matters, and you WITH God got this. Keep moving forward one step at a time - there really is joy to be found in the journey. 

Lincoln's Birth Story

Lincoln is almost two and a half years old now! Thankfully I wrote down most of his birth story awhile ago, so I was able to just come in, add some details, and clean it up. It was fun to look back at when I gave birth to him - it was such an amazing experience. So, here we go!

Lincoln Scott Flake was born on Tuesday, January 23, 2018, at 9:09 a.m. He was 7 lbs. 11 oz. and 19 inches long. He came out with lots of dark brown hair and gray-blue eyes. I loved hearing his little cry and snuggling close to him.

I didn't have to be induced this time (just like Kimball) - he came on his own! It was also the first time I gave birth without an epidural (which I loved and didn't love), and the first time I had a female doctor (which I absolutely loved).

Just like with Aidan and Kimball, I had been having Braxton Hicks for weeks (since I hit about 31 weeks). As the weeks went on, it seemed like every night Jayze and I would put our boys down for bed and then tromp on downstairs where I would bounce on my yoga ball and we would watch the show Monk. The end of the pregnancy is always the hardest for me - emotionally and physically - so it was nice to have something to look forward to each night. And to be honest, we were trying to get labor going, haha.

As my due date (Sunday, Feb. 4) approached, my doctor scheduled me to be induced on Thursday, Feb. 1, at 6:15 a.m. For months, I had felt prompted that I needed to give birth naturally this time, which scared the heck out of me. I didn't really know how to prepare. I asked a few of my family members and read birth stories from women who had given birth naturally. When I asked my doctor if I could still go natural if I ended up being induced, she said yes, but it's harder. So I was nervous about that possible scenario, but I still felt strongly like going natural was the way to go.

I had doctor's appointments twice a week (since about 32 weeks because I was considered high risk). On January 11, I measured 37 weeks, even though I was 36 weeks along and already dilated to a 2. The Thursday before I gave birth (Jan. 18), I was 38 weeks along, 3 cm dilated, and 80% effaced. I was SO ready to have the baby!!! I kept thinking I was going into labor any minute and kept hoping my water would break so that I could for sure go to the hospital. The last couple of weeks are so touch and go, and the off and on labor is emotionally and physically intense. I would go into labor and then the contractions would randomly stop. I just never knew if THIS was it and we should go to the hospital. What made things even more complicated is that neither Jayze's or any of my family live close to us, so we really had to rely on our ward family. Which was good, but it also just made things...complicated. It's easier to call up your mom in the middle of the night than a friend who also has little kids to care for. It was just one more thing to worry about.

3 days before Lincoln was born

On Tuesday, January 23, Jayze stayed home from work because I was in consistent labor that morning. But then...the contractions randomly stopped again. They kept doing that throughout the day, which was so frustrating. They seemed to slow down whenever I moved around, but when I sat down they became more consistent. That evening neither of us had to energy to make dinner, so we loaded up Aidan and Kimball and went to Burger King. After eating, we drove across the street with the intent of spending some time before the kids' bedtime walking around the mall. However, after we found a parking spot, I told Jayze that I thought my contractions were getting stronger, so we decided to scratch the mall idea and drove home instead. We put Aidan and Kimball down for bed and then had a mini couple council.

Should we call our friends and go to the hospital or should we wait it out? Jayze finally convinced me to called the night nurse to ask her opinion, and then after hearing what she had to say, Jayze made the decision to call our friends (I'm always the hesitant one because I didn't want to wake up and pack up the kids, drop them off, and go to the hospital, only to be turned away and have to go home again).

We called up our friends we had already asked to watch our kids if I went into labor, but they were actually on their way home from the ER (thankfully, everything turned out fine) and couldn't watch Aidan and Kimball. Then our backup family ended up being sick. We brainstormed on who we could call last minute, and finally decided to call our other good friends (even though they have four little kids). We were so grateful when they were totally okay with it (thank you!!!!). So Jayze and I packed up the boys, dropped them off at our friends, and drove to the hospital to see if I was in real labor or not. Looking back, I would have definitely stayed and labored more from home (Jayze completely disagrees haha), BUT in the end everything worked out just the way it was supposed to.

The contractions were still consistent, but I could still talk, laugh, and breathe normally. Jayze and I were both so nervous, though. We got in right away, and I was nervous because this was the first time I was giving birth in an unfamiliar hospital with a new doctor. And actually, I didn't even think my doctor was going to deliver my baby. Since we went in around 7:00 or 8:00 that night, there was a resident there and an unfamiliar doctor on call (I met her once, and she was really nice). And when that resident went home, another resident took over his shift. My doctor wasn't scheduled to come in until about 7:00 the next morning, and even at the beginning, everyone thought I was going to have the baby before then. So I just gave it all to God and prepared to have this baby without my regular doctor.

As I went through the process of checking in, changing into a hospital gown, and then waiting to be checked, my contractions became irregular again. I thought I was for sure going home, so I was surprised that when they checked me, I was at a 5! Being hooked to a machine that was measuring my contractions made me feel better about the inconsistency because then I didn't feel crazy (it's hard when they're not consistently consistent!) The resident smiled and told me, "Well, you're in labor! So we'll get you checked in." I couldn't believe it! We got to stay! We were going to have a baby!

I think part of me thought they were going to turn to me and say, "Nope, you're still at a four. You can go home." I think that same part of me was hoping they would say that too, because I wasn't sure how ready I was to have this baby right here and right now. It was weird for me to not have it scheduled! Even though Kimball came on his own too, I went into real labor with him while I was already at the doctor's and then they just sent me straight to the hospital. I had never come into the hospital on my own before, so that was definitely a different experience.

They got me situated in a labor and delivery room, asked all of the routine questions, and then I slipped on the hospital socks and Jayze and I hit the halls. The anesthesiologist had come in earlier to explain that if I changed my mind about not having an epidural, he was there and could give me an epidural whenever. That was really comforting to hear, even though I knew in my heart of hearts I wasn't going to call him. Another tender mercy for me was that we found out he had gone to BYU-Idaho too. It was so out of the blue in Wichita, and it was another sign for me that God knew who I was, where I was, and that I needed that connection in an unfamiliar hospital with unfamiliar faces with my ever-constant anxiety about the baby being okay.

We walked the halls for a few minutes while I sucked on ice chips. As we walked by the nurses' station, our nurse let me know the doctor wanted to check me again in ten minutes, so I decided to go back to our room and get in the hot tub. The jets were so loud when I turned them on. I stepped into the warm, swirling mass and sat down. I wanted to stay in there longer, but I felt awkward knowing that the doctor was going to come soon, so I only stayed in for a couple of minutes. I got out and slipped the hospital gown back on right as the doctor and nurse stepped into the room. I walked out of the bathroom and climbed back on the bed so they could check me (let me tell you, it was not fun having them check me so much - it hurt instead of just being uncomfortable because they didn't have as much practice and I really wanted to just walk around or get back in the tub again).

After they checked me (still about the same), they ended up giving me an IV, and I was stuck on the bed. No more walking around and no more getting in the water. I had never given birth naturally, so I didn't know the routine or how to advocate for myself as well as I wanted. I was frustrated by how much they checked me and that I didn't know I could have the option of getting a "walking IV." I thought I was going to be left alone for longer periods of time, but there I was, stuck on the bed. Later, when I asked my doctor about it (when I was pregnant with Ryah, actually) she told me if I wanted to give birth naturally with Ryah then I could just tell the hospital staff that I didn't want to be checked as often. She also gave a few more tips that I think would have made the experience a lot better, as far as getting "in the zone" and getting through the contractions.

As the contractions got harder, I started to cry and I told Jayze I wasn't sure if I could do this. I glanced in the mirror on the wall to my left and saw how pale I was. Jayze squeezed my hand and told me I could do it. I decided then and there that I was going to get through it, with God's help because He's the one who asked me to do it this way. I wasn't alone, I was strong, and I could do this. I deep-breathed through the contractions and hoped this labor and delivery would go as quickly as my previous ones did.

But it didn't.

They all thought I was going to go faster than normal, but the contractions still weren't consistent. Other women who had come in after me had their babies before I did. I labored most of the night with really slow progress, getting more and more in the zone. After being at about a 7 for a long time, the doctor on call advised the resident to put me on Pitocin to help the contractions regulate. I was worried about being put on Pitocin, because I knew that would make the contractions harder. However, at the point I couldn't really tell the difference because everything outside of me seemed a little fuzzy because of how much pain was going on inside of me. I was surprised that the baby STILL wasn't here, when my three previous labor and deliveries had gone so quickly. It was discouraging. However, the length of the labor and delivery ended up being a tender mercy because my doctor was there at 7:00 AM, and she's the one who helped me get through the rest of it. a HUGE tender mercy - one I'm still so so grateful for.

And let me just say, I loved loved loved my nurses. There was one nurse in particular who knew I wanted to do it naturally even though I had never done it before. I didn't want to be like one of those crazy, natural birth stories nurses talk about - I was going to keep it together! She was so kind and was almost like a doula for me. She rubbed my back, told Jayze where to rub my back (I had back labor SO bad), was calm the entire time, didn't once suggest an epidural or doubt me, told me to breathe, told me I could do it, told me when the contractions had hit their climax and were settling down again. She and Jayze were the encouraging voices in my ear as I closed my eyes and went into a deep meditation from the deep, deep down, soul-wrenching pain I had never experienced before. I laid down on my side, clenched the bar attached to the side of the hospital bed, and tried to relax as much as I could during each contraction that reverabrated pain throughout my entire body and soul. I mentally pictured having my baby safely in my arms at last as I kept squeezing Jayze's hand. I needed his hand - it was my anchor in the storm.

I was pale and weak, had chills, and hadn't eaten in forever (remember that Burger King burger I had eaten at 6:00 the night before?). My lips were chapped, and I wished more than anything that I had chapstick. Even my doctor, when she came in, asked if anyone had chapstick because my lips were so bad (no one did).

My doctor finally came in at 7:00 AM, and I was SO grateful for her coaching and calm, reassuring presence. I was still in agony and lying on my side, gripping the handles of the hospital bed, when I suddenly felt the need to push.

I need to push! I need to push! I need to push! I kept saying it over and over. I was frantic, desperate! The nurse said, "Okay," and she and Jayze helped me sit up and get in the birthing position while my doctor stood ready.

I screamed at one point during the pushing, when I heard my doctor calmly, but firmly say, "Don't scream, breathe in, take that energy, and push." I gathered all of the strength I had and pushed one, long, hard push during the next contraction without screaming and...he was here! After only two pushes, our Lincoln was finally here!

It was such a relief when they placed him on my chest. He cried a real, baby cry and had dark hair. I immediately asked if I could have pain relief for the stitching. I was so grateful for that pain relief! The nurse handed me a small package of crackers (yay, I could finally eat!), and I held my new baby as my doctor stitched me up. It was heaven. A literal, tangible piece of heaven.

One of the best parts about giving birth naturally (in my experience, at least) is I was able to get into the mother/baby section so quickly. I was walking really soon after giving birth. I didn't bleed as much. I could get up and go to the bathroom faster since I didn't have to wait for the feeling to come back into my legs. All-in-all, the recovery went smoother than I expected.

The hospital had a huge bed, so that night Jayze got to sleep right next to me instead of on a hard couch. I was so grateful Lincoln didn't have to be in the NICU - we only had to stay at the hospital one night. Our friends were so nice and kept Aidan and Kimball at their house for another night so Jayze and I could have that wonderful one-on-one time with our sweet new baby. And since we had Lincoln in the morning, that meant we got all day long with him. The sun was shining outside, even though it was January, and things were just perfect.

It was a dream to take our Lincoln home. Jayze and I got to drive alone with just him for the few minutes we had until we stopped by our friends to pick up his brothers. Then we officially had three boys in the backseat, one in heaven, and both of our moms waiting for us at our home.

Kimball (20 months old) and Lincoln

I'm not sure if I'll do any of my next labor and deliveries naturally again (I ended up not with Ryah), but having Lincoln naturally was such an amazing experience. I'm so grateful for all of the tender mercies that happened, and I know it was all orchestrated by Heavenly Father.

I had a hard time bonding with Kimball at first (we're so close now!). I think it's because he was in the NICU, I was trying out this new pumping method (that didn't work for me), and we moved across the country when he was only two months old. This time around, I decided to strictly formula feed. Lincoln didn't get jaundice. It was the first time after having a baby that I didn't have school or work to go to, and we had already moved to a bigger place by the time he came. So I just snuggled on him big time while my mom and mother-in-law took care of the two older boys, and I bonded to him instantly.

I love being his mom, and I'm grateful we got to bring another baby home.

January 31, 2018 - Aidan (3 yrs old, Kimball 20 months, Lincoln 8 days)

Faith in the Middle

For those of you who don't know, I'm 28 weeks pregnant with our first girl. Yay! I can honestly say now that I'm excited, but it wasn't like that in the beginning.

A few months after having my fourth baby, Lincoln, I didn't want to get pregnant again. Not yet.

It was the same way after I gave birth to my third baby, Kimball. Jayze and had I decided to wait at least a year after we had him. My pregnancy with Kimball, especially the very end, was difficult emotionally and physically. I had a hard time bonding with him, and I was ready for a break. But, after a special experience and a flip-of-the-switch-type-answer from Heavenly Father, 9 months later we were pregnant with Lincoln.

I've been really fortunate in my pregnancies. Morning sickness in the beginning (all day car sickness and extreme fatigue), energized with a cute baby bump in the middle, and then waddling my way through more waves of fatigue and pain until I have the baby. You might say I have textbook pregnancies. It was that way even with Alma all the way up until he passed away. My labor and delivery with him and my physical recovery from giving birth went quickly and well. In fact, one of the women I used to work with told me (soon after I had Alma), "You're born to have babies!" 

With that little bit of context in mind, you would think that making the decision to try getting pregnant for me is easy, but it's soooo not. I've described it to others before that it's like a light switch. I have a baby, then I really don't want to be pregnant again until suddenly I do and it feels right to try again. We've received the go-ahead from Heavenly Father every time. (It was a little different after Alma, but I won't go into that right now). People ask us how many kids we want, and I know after having Alma, it's not that simple. I can have a specific number in my head, but who knows if that's what God has in mind for us? So our way is taking it just one baby at a time. 

However, even with all that, Jayze and I were determined to wait longer between Lincoln and the next pregnancy. And I mean really determined, especially me. I wanted longer to heal and time to accomplish a few personal goals. Plus, I was already slightly overwhelmed with three boys at home. Not enough to be crazy hard, but just hard enough for that daily stretching and sometimes painful HIIT moments that come with being in the trenches of motherhood.

A year went by, and it was weird not to be pregnant with another baby while celebrating Lincoln's one year birthday. That light switch hadn't flipped yet, and I wasn't sure when it was going to happen. To be honest, I was grateful I hadn't felt it yet. I always have a lot of fear during my pregnancies, and I just was not ready.  

Not long after Lincoln's first birthday, Jayze and I started talking more seriously about trying for another baby again. Was it the right time? Were we ready? Was there another child waiting for us? We couldn't decide, so we let it sit. 

One night, a few weeks later and after a moment of subtly knowing I was pitting my will against God's on this matter, I had the very distinct impression, "Do you trust me?" It came like lightning to my heart. I still felt overwhelmed by the thought of being pregnant again, but I couldn't deny it. I knew it was time to set aside my plan and put my faith in Heavenly Father's plan.

The next month we were pregnant. 

I'd like to say I was excited, but the reality is when I saw the pregnancy test results, a mix of emotions washed over me - mostly sadness and anxiety (which is soooo hard to admit). I thought, How am I going to take care of four children here at home four years old and younger? Aidan doesn't start school for another year. They all have such different needs. How am I going to do it all?

In my opinion, one of the hardest parts of motherhood is splitting my attention five different ways. Each of my children all have such different needs and love languages, and I hate not having that one on one time with each of them like I had when it was just Aidan and me. But, I took a picture of the pregnancy test and told Jayze later that night the news. We sat on the couch holding hands, trying to envision the next 9 months. We knew it wasn't going to be easy. It doesn't have to be easy every time. That night as I prayed, I held onto the truth that this was right. I felt a deep peace because I was intentionally putting trust and faith in God. "Do you trust me?" kept coming back, and I decided that yes, even though it was hard, I did trust Him. 

Fast forward to the much-anticipated 20-week ultrasound appointment. We thought we were having a girl (like all the other times!), but this time we were secretly hoping for another boy. We even had a name picked out, which was a miracle in and of itself (boy names are so hard for us!). But at the very end of the ultrasound, after I went to the bathroom three different times and switched positions about 100 more so she could get the right measurements, the ultrasound tech finally saw the gender and announced, "You're having a girl!"

Immediately I was excited, but I was also so scared. You know that feeling of wanting to cry, but it just gets stuck in your chest and the tears won't come? I had that. I walked out of the office to my car and just sat there for a few minutes taking it in. As I stared out the front window to the sunny outside, I thought of when I got the news that Aidan was a boy. It was a similar feeling, except with Aidan I did cry.

It's hard to describe to anyone who hasn't been through it, but I felt that way because just like that I was back at square one. Actually, more like square one and a half. This pregnancy with this sweet little girl right now feels so much like my pregnancies with Alma and Aidan - a perfect mix between the two. Perfect, yet terrifying. Anxiety and what if's and denial waging their war against peace, trust, and faith. An entire 40 weeks of not knowing if we're going to get to bring this child home, but really really really hoping we can.

My pregnancy with Lincoln was the most peaceful I'd had. I truly feel like it was a beautiful, precious gift from God - one I am still immensely grateful for. I knew my body could handle carrying a healthy, living baby boy past 37 weeks, and my heart had healed in so many ways since bringing two other boys home. I felt prompted to give birth to Lincoln naturally (another post for another day), so that's what I focused on. I wanted another boy because I knew I had handled it before and could handle it again.

Having a girl this time makes it feel like we're having our first baby again. New clothes, new blankets, the thoughts of, "What do we do with a girl?" Comments from other people didn't help either. It was painful and annoying to hear, "You finally get your girl!" This might savor a little of bitterness (although I know people really do mean well), but whenever someone tells me that I think of bluntly responding, "Are my boys not good enough?"; "Well, we actually wanted a boy again"; "We're not just over here having all of these kids hoping for a girl"; "I'm glad you're excited I'm pregnant again, but would you be that excited for me if we were having another boy?"

One day I was cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast when the song, "Faith in the Middle" by Hilary Weeks came on. My kids were running around playing, there were dishes in the sink and dirty dishes on the table, but with a wet dishcloth in one hand I stopped in my tracks, leaned on the sink, and just cried. Like, ugly cried cried.

Heaven is open, God has spoken, He has spoken to you
You've had a witness, You know that this is what you're meant to do
The flame is burning and hope is alive, but you've been here before 
And you know there'll be times

[Chorus]
When doors are gonna close and you need them to open
Some will second guess the direction you are goin'
Lot of fading hope might dwindle 
And you're gonna need some faith in the middle
To keep you moving forward when you think you've reached your limits
To step into the battle when you're not sure you can win it
When you question or doubt more than a little, well that's when you're gonna need faith in the middle

Maybe you're thinkin' about leavin', let go, or turning around
You've come so far, you've worked too hard, don't walk away now
You're gonna make it, it's worth the climb
So don't you give up, even though there'll be times 

[Chorus]
When doors are gonna close and you need them to open
Some will second guess the direction you are goin'
Lot of fading hope might dwindle 
And you're gonna need some faith in the middle
To keep you moving forward when you think you've reached your limits
To step into the battle when you're not sure you can win it
When you question or doubt more than a little, well that's when you're gonna need faith in the middle

You're gonna make it, it's worth the climb
So don't you give up even though there may be times

[Chorus]

Those lyrics were perfect for me that day, and they keep coming back to me on the hard days. This spiritual fire is intense and scorching, but I know enough from past experiences that when I turn to God I will come out stronger and more refined in the process.

In one of my workout videos, the people in the video and I are practically sitting on the floor because we're doing such low squats. My legs are burning and I'm hating the instructor because he's not letting me stand up and I don't know when I'll get to stand up. He's sweating and pumping his fist into his hand and says, "Don't run from the pain. Embrace it."

And guys, that is so.hard.to.do. Like, are you kidding me? How am I supposed to embrace this? 

But I tell people now who have lost a baby, "Feel all of the feelings. Don't run away from grief - let it run its course. It's okay to not be okay. It's okay to grieve. You're not crazy. It's painful, it's hard, but if you let it you will become stronger because of this pain. You will rise from this, and it will be beautiful." 

"There's no grief like the grief that does not speak," said Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Speak your grief! Don't hold it in. It will get worse if you run from it, but it will get better if you let it out. 

I love this quote that I posted in one of my blog posts What Matters Most: 

"The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay."
("Refined in Our Trials," James E. Faust, 2006)

With all of these feelings I've had, I know there is something to learn from this. With this pregnancy with my sweet baby girl. I am paying the price yet again to know God. It's not easy, but it is worth it. And as hard as it is, I am thankful for it. Because to know God is worth it.

So I'm going to keep showing up. Showing up for me, for Jayze, for my baby girl, for my boys. Showing up for the battle, and having the faith that no matter what happens, God's got this. God's got me. 

28 weeks + 1 day pregnant with Baby Girl Flake

Love Notes

August is a heavy month and last year was no different. I dreaded it. I always found my mind straying to the past and anxiety was almost a constant. Last year was easier than the one before that, but difficult moments were never far away. It just seems to be one of those months, and I have a feeling it will always be like that in one way or another.

But just like every August since Alma passed away, tender mercies began showing up. Sweet reminders and messages (I call them love notes) from Heavenly Father letting me know He's there and helping me feel Alma nearby. I've come to depend on those love notes, especially when August rolls around.

On one day last August, I was at the temple. I always love going to the temple, and I was especially excited to be there because this was my month. The month where the darkness seeps into my soul and I needed my Savior's light more than ever. The temple is also the place where I usually feel Alma most often, and I was hoping so much to feel his presence there. I desperately needed that comfort and reassurance. As I went about the temple, I kept watching and waiting for something, anything that would let me know Alma was close by, but...nothing. I felt disappointed as I changed back into my dress. I tried to shake the feeling and thought, "Well, maybe next time." I grabbed my bag and began walking toward the exit. As I passed through the doorway, I glanced down and noticed a small rainbow prism illuminating the soft carpet. I took note of it and then strode right by it, thinking, "Hmm, that's pretty," with no further thought. When I stepped out into the foyer, that's when it hit me. That was my love note from Alma. There, at the very end when I had almost lost hope, was a very sweet and very personalized message from my son and from my Heavenly Father.

"...the Lord's tender mercies are the very personal and individualized blessings, strength, protection, assurances, guidance, loving-kindnesses, consolation, support, and spiritual gifts which we receive from and because of and through the Lord Jesus Christ..." (David A. Bednar, "The Tender Mercies of the Lord," April 2005).

Later that month in the evening, I was driving by myself to a church meeting. It had been raining earlier, so the air and ground were still wet and the clouds were white wisps in the blue-gray sky. Since it was summer, it was still light out even though it was approaching 7:00. I was thinking about Alma and was rounding a curve when suddenly, right in my line of sight, was a beautiful, vibrant rainbow set against the soaked trees and rainy sky. I couldn't stop the tears from filling my eyes. Another love note.

"I will not leave you comfortless. I will come to you" (John 14:18).

To those whose grief is still very raw and whose sorrow is still a constant companion, don't give up. To those who are struggling through a trial, some heartache, or failure, hang on. Feel all of those hard feelings and know that it does get better. There will come a time when there is more sweet than bitter. Love notes are all around you...if you just look for them. God is there. And just like He has never, ever left me comfortless, He will not leave you comfortless. You can feel peace. Ask God to help you recognize those tender mercies, and He will send help and you'll come to cherish those sweet love notes. God knows who you are because you are His child.

"We should not underestimate or overlook the power of the Lord's tender mercies. The simpleness, the sweetness, and the constancy of the tender mercies of the Lord will do much to fortify and protect us in the troubled times in which we do now and will yet live. When words cannot provide the solace we need or express the joy we feel, when it is simply futile to attempt to explain that which is unexplainable, when logic and reason cannot yield adequate understanding about the injustices and inequities of life, when mortal experience and evaluation are insufficient to produce a desired outcome, and when it seems that perhaps we are so totally alone, truly we are blessed by the tender mercies of the Lord and made mighty even unto the power of deliverance (see 1 Ne. 1:20)," (David A. Bednar)

March 2019

I recommend this talk (so good): The Tender Mercies of the Lord.
Why rainbows remind me of Alma: 20 Weeks: Rainbow Baby

Shift

I avoided social media for about four months after Alma passed away. I felt prompted to check my messages the night before I gave birth to him, which was a tender mercy because one message in particular brought immense comfort and helped me focus on the good the next day. However, when I was back in the routine of things (as much as possible after losing a child), I logged onto Facebook. After about five minutes of seeing baby picture after baby picture, my heart turned so bitter and hard that I signed out and didn't get on again.

I admire those who have been through something similar and are still able to get on social media right away because it was too difficult for me. It took me awhile to even look at all of the kind messages people sent me online because my mind was blurred with grief and nothing anyone said at that time was good enough for my grieving heart.

When I finally decided I was ready to come back, it was for multiple reasons. One of them was that I needed resources. I needed help. I needed perspective from those who had done this or who were going through it right then like I was.

I remember jumping on the computer and searching online for any sort of personal reference to stillbirths. The hospital had given me a list of in-person grief groups I could attend, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to go and open up to a circle of strangers - even if they had been or were trudging through the trenches too. I think that was the denial part of grief talking me out of it. That, and fear. But one day when I got on Facebook, I saw a message from a girl in my ward. She had linked a blog post authored by a woman who had just announced she was pregnant with her rainbow baby. Although I was skeptical, I clicked the link which led me to find more posts. Posts of her grieving her first child. And I couldn't get enough. It was like I could have written them, and it felt so good to know I wasn't alone. Someone else had gone through this too, had the courage to share, and provided some relief. I thought, "I'm not crazy for feeling all of these things!"

I'm not crazy.

I clung to those blog posts. And then when I found more blogs written by women who had also lost one of their children, I clung to those as well. Then it was my turn. Four months after Alma passed away, I found the courage to log into my blog and write a few posts. Six months later, I changed my blog's name. The month after that, I shared Alma's story.

Looking back on some of my old posts, I am amazed by how open, vulnerable, and raw I was in my thoughts, feelings, and experiences about Alma. I shared a piece of my heart with the world. And in the process of trying to help even one person, I was able to help myself too and gain a greater relationship with my Heavenly Father than I ever had before.

However, a couple of years ago, I found myself at a crossroads. I felt like my blog had become just about Alma and that people were probably thinking, "Man, just get over it. Why do you feel like you always have to talk about him?" So I stopped writing so much about him. I began to lack the courage to be so open, but I guess, in a way, deep down I was also ready to stop writing about him so often. My perspective and healing had changed. The grief was still there, but it had slightly...shifted.

A blogger I followed once shared what she called her, "Piano Post." In it she shared an article describing personal, daily grief, which continues to resonate with me.

STEVEN KALAS:

When you lose a child, grieving is a lifelong experience

When our first child is born, a loud voice says, “Runners, take your marks!” We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It’s a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called “I’ll race you to the grave.” I’m currently racing three sons. I really want to win.

Not everyone wins.

I’m here at the national meeting of Compassionate Friends, an organization offering support and resources for parents who lose the race. I’m wandering the halls during the “break-out” sessions. In this room are parents whose children died in car accidents. Over there is a room full of parents of murdered children. Parents of cancer victims are at the end of the hall. Miscarriages and stillbirths are grouped together, as are parents who have survived a child’s suicide. And so it goes.

In a few minutes, I’m going to address Compassionate Friends. This is the toughest audience of my life. I mix with the gathering crowd, and a woman from Delaware glances at my name tag. Her name tag has a photo of her deceased son. My name tag is absent photos

.

“So … you haven’t … lost anyone,” she says cautiously.

“My three sons are yet alive, if that’s what you’re asking me,” I say gently.

She tries to nod politely, but I can see that I’ve lost credibility in her eyes. She’s wondering who invited this speaker, and what on earth he could ever have to say to her.

My address is titled “The Myth of Getting Over It.” It’s my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?

You don’t get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.

You don’t want to get over it. Don’t act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child’s life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you’d fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.

The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it’s still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

You learn to play that piano. You’re surprised to find that you want to play, that it’s meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief — together — begin to compose hope. Who’da thought?

Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you’re 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child’s life mattered.

You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.

Copyright: Las Vegas Review-Journal

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. Contact him atskalas@reviewjournal.com.

My piano, persay, continues to shift. A few years ago, it made me feel almost like a broken record sharing about Alma. But now I'm realizing that he is part of my play and my story, and he will always be a part of my life, even if the grief is no longer obstructing my view and I'm not constantly banging into it.

Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

So now it's time. It's time to come back and write the piano into the story of my life. It's time to open myself up again, to weave the hope back in, and help others (and myself) in the process. Because hope is there and healing is possible.

Kimball Funnies #1

Whenever I ask him if he wants to do something, "Do you want to do...."
Kimball, "Yeah, sure!"

"Look! A bird!"
Me: "You saw a bird?"
"Yeah! Cheep, cheep!"

Holds up a piece of bread and says, "Duck!" Then slides it along the table. "Quack, quack! Swimming in the water!"

He would just randomly go around the house saying, "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blooooooow your house in."

"K, if you say so."

"No, Mom, NO."

When we went outside during the summer, he whined, "It's hot in here!"

"Bye, Mom. Love you," then air kisses me.

While looking out the window, he called out, "An airplane, Mom! An airplane!"

After sneezing a few times he said, "I sneezed and sneezed and sneezed and sneezed."

Me: "Where's your belly button?"
He lifts up his shirt, smiles, touches his belly button, and says, "Belly but!"

Jayze to Kimball, "Who are you?"
Kimball: "I am me."

One time he goes into the bathroom while Jayze is getting ready for work, starts closing the door and says, "I need privacy."

I heard him singing after putting him down for his nap, "All by myself...annnnymooooore..."

Aidan was buttoning his shirt and said, "These are really big buttons."
Kimball said, "Those are really REALLY big buts."

Trying to move the chair to the sliding door, Kimball says, "Excuse me, trash. Excuse me, table."