Landmarks and Angels: A Dream

Last night I dreamed of a series of months, each about four weeks long, on a calendar. The goal of each week was to get through that week toward the end result of being changed. It's difficult to describe such an abstract dream--only that the feeling of hope and excitement and striving stayed with me.

At its core, the strange dream was about earth life and progress. My hopes were about improving myself and helping others to progress as well. I think I was experiencing also the hopes of guardian angels on my behalf. They had goals--benchmarks, or maybe more aptly, landmarks--for me to reach so I would be on track for my destination, for my destiny.

Though this may sound self-centered, it was the opposite. I understood in this dream that my progress was tied up with the progress of those around me, and we were all connected--me and the angels and all the people in the world. Specifically, it mattered to my family what changes in myself I accomplished with the help of these angels, but others were affected, too... ripples.

Abigail first taught me the lesson of ripples, how even something seemingly small or brief in duration could send out life-altering and hugely influential ripples. We think of a baby as being helpless, powerless. But Abigail came with power, healing, and forgiveness.

Last night before I went to sleep, my tired mind slipped into thoughts of despair for my long human life. I've been reading made-up stories about immortals and thinking about the more difficult parts of life--the pain and the mundanity. I tried not to let those thoughts be my last thoughts before bed. Using all my practice in controlling my own mood and thoughts, I forced them into a hopeful direction. I remembered my cousin's dream, which she shared with me, of our blissful reunion with Abigail as a young girl in heaven. And I let myself feel hope for that blessed day--that long-awaited reunion.

It was enough.

Thriving and Growing (GoFundMe Update5)

Twenty-four days ago we launched a GoFundMe campaign to cover the medical costs from Abigail's birth and my postpartum healthcare. You all responded so generously, and we are now $779 away from our goal! THANK YOU!

I am still experiencing troubling symptoms, but it isn't all the time and I have hope of finding answers. This coming month will be one of testing and trying different things to see what helps with my full recovery. In the meantime, there is family and there is joy.

Sam, the day after returning from Simulations Week

Corbin, Ben, Daniel, and Layne enjoying each other

The little boys all started copying Layne and following him around the house. While other times this might have annoyed him, Layne chose to laugh at it and take advantage, making his brothers put on a show. "La, la, la, la, la--hey!"

Sam recently returned from a leadership camp put on by Ensign Peak Academy. He shared some of the fun experiences he had. As part of the architect guild he designed and built two buildings for the new city, a theatre and a dance studio. The first two days they designed them using Minecraft and then they built them from foam, hot glue, and other materials. Unfortunately, he forgot to take pictures of anything except for some silly door signs! He had a roommate who kept calling him Wesley because he "looks like a Wesley." The entire group of attendees sang a song about a beautiful city, which was the theme of the conference. They recorded it on video so I'll see if I can find and share that when it gets posted. Sam really liked the song. By the time we arrived home, he was too wired to want to sleep so we had to send him to bed. So much excitement for four days in a row!

Burst of Joy rose

Every rose that blooms in our gardens reminds me of Abigail. This one's name is Burst of Joy. Because Abigail means "Joy of the Father," this rose especially reminded me of her. Every new bloom in Abigail's garden brings me so much joy. I believe they bring her joy, too.

Father's Day at Abigail's gravesite

Abigail's new flower arrangement

For some reason, it makes me indefinably happy to put new fabric flowers in Abigail's memorial vase. This time I chose a few of my childhood favorites: hibiscus like we grew in Arizona when I was a young girl, and Gerbera daisies, which were my favorite in college.

Abigail's new baby tree - a honey locust

The tree by Abigail's grave died during the winter, along with a few other young trees in the cemetery, and we were joyful to see them all replaced when we visited Abigail's grave for Father's Day. The new tree by Abigail's grave is a baby honey locust tree. Its little green leaves are so abundant and cheerful. I can't help but imagine how happy she is to see things growing around her.

Abigail's family is thriving. We miss her every day. Every day. That will never change. But she is not totally gone. She is here with us and we are reminded of her gentle influence in so many ways, from day to day.

Here's your Dumbledore quote for the day:
“The ones who love us never really leave us, you can always find them in here.”

Life and Death, Again

I took my third oldest son to the ER Sunday night. It had been a weird day. Where Saturday was a celebration of family and life and all the good things we could do together, Sunday was a day of reckoning. I felt attacked on every side and ended up walking by myself toward the freeway filled with dark thoughts, mostly about why I am still here. It was only later that I came home and learned that Ben had fallen while rollerblading and injured some tender skin that might need stitches.

I took this cute picture with Ben in the ER.

I still was taking pictures to commemorate what we thought would probably end in stitches when a button panel on the wall caught my eye. There at the bottom was a blue button that read, "CODE." I immediately had a flashback to watching the videos of Abigail's birth and hearing the anesthesia doctor say, "We've got a problem here." I remembered a nurse I know telling me after the code blue was called, there was a group of people standing outside the OR praying for me. A lump formed in my throat as I thought of those people praying for me while I was unconscious and, very briefly, dead. Were they the reason for our miracle? Most of the day of February 25, 2020 has been reconstructed for me by people sharing stories, pictures, and videos. In fact, these things were shared so quickly after I revived that sometimes I think I remember being in the room when everyone surrounded Abigail and welcomed her to the family. But I was not there. I was being sewn back together and then carted into the ICU with a whole new team of nurses I had not yet met.

Of course when Abigail was handed to me, still breathing like a champ after a few hours of exhausting life, I was very glad I had pulled through to share her moments on earth with her.

But afterwards, that's the hard part. Afterwards, after the funeral, I just wanted to crawl inside that hole in the ground with her. I didn't care if I had to be buried alive. I had the eerie sense that I had cheated death, that I should have died but didn't.

Bill says I couldn't die because we had an agreement. "You promised."

I did. We were driving somewhere and I think we had just turned onto the freeway. We were talking about near death experiencers and how sometimes they say they were given a choice to return to their bodies or stay in heaven. He wanted me to promise that if I was given a choice, I would choose to stay. So I did. I promised.

I don't remember receiving a choice, but I know I couldn't break a promise and I came back.

The problem is that I feel torn between worlds now. Aside from feeling like maybe I should have died but didn't, I also have children now on both sides of the veil. Every time I had brushes with death before, I had been the one bargaining with God to let me stay to raise my kids. I felt strongly that they needed me. But to have one who doesn't need me in a place where I can't reach her--it's an excruciating kind of pain. There's a different kind of bargaining now. If you want me to stay, please give me a sense of purpose again. Please help me to find joy again. Please help me to have righteous desires. Sometimes I feel like these prayers are being answered. I started doing my own research on NTDs for a writing class I'm taking this semester. I'm being creative, making art, poetry, and DIY projects for the house and the kids. I'm growing an entire indoor seedling garden. There's even a little pepper growing on one of my outdoor plants. Purpose.

But on days like today that start out with high emotional demands and physical pain that lingers even after two and a half months, I want to curl up into a ball and die. That's it. I just want to die.

I'm not being dramatic. The sense of purpose just disappears and I spend the day arguing with myself over whether life has any meaning at all. I watched butterflies fighting the wind by latching onto the ground and hanging on for dear life. Dear life.

We recently listened to an audiobook of The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. He's a china rabbit with real rabbit fur ears who goes on an unexpected adventure that lands him briefly with all sorts of different people. 

Once he watches a little girl die, he loses his desire to love ever again. "It's too painful," he explains to another doll who tells him she is over 100 years old. She tells him he might as well just dive off the shelf of the toy store and end it all now if he doesn't intend to love again. He doesn't really want to do that. She offers to push him but he declines politely. Very soon after, the 100-year-old doll gets picked up and taken home by a little girl who falls in love with her. As she's leaving, the doll reminds Edward the rabbit to open his heart again. "Someone will come for you," she assures him.

He repeats her promise over and over again in his mind for years, just sitting on the toy store shelf. "Someone will come. Someone will come."

My purpose isn't to tell the end of the story (you can read the book yourself). I only want to share this bit because it hits so close to home.

I still love my kids and my husband. I still do all I can to serve them and help them prosper. But on certain days or certain hours I lose my ability to be in love with anyone. It hurts too much. I would rather write off love than to feel this depth of pain. The desire to be past the pain, to stop feeling it, is too strong and interrupts my grateful thoughts.

Sometimes I think it wasn't a miracle at all that I lived. Just a mistake. Because how can I live in a world without Abigail? Like the rabbit, I repeat reassuring things to myself. I'll see Abigail again. We'll still have a mother/daughter relationship. It will still be beautiful. But it never feels like enough to cover the loss--all the things I will never get to do with Abigail.

Other people around me are so busy with their political fights. I don't care. Not really. I want my daughter.

Update: I wrote this Sunday night after coming home from the ER with Ben. We were in good spirits and then the lights went out and it was time for bed. That's when I get thoughtful and it's usually when I cry. I wrote this and cried and went to bed. 

I woke up around 3:30am to go to the bathroom. When I got up, I felt really awful physically. I walked back out to the minifridge to take some liquid iron. I'm terrible at taking supplements regularly so I take them when I feel awful. I woke up Bill and he saw that I was in distress. He came over to help me, and my dizziness, weakness, and nausea just got worse and worse. This felt so familiar. It's how I felt before I flatlined in the OR. 

I sat down and asked for water and then promptly passed out, hitting my head on the door. Bill, poor Bill, was having deja vu, too. He tried to wake me up but I wouldn't wake up. He tried to check my heart but was panicked and had trouble figuring out what to do. Then he saw me gasp for air, just like I did in the OR. Four or five gasps, he said. I do not remember this because I was still unconscious. I just know that when I woke up, I felt just as awful as I had before losing consciousness. He helped me to lie down on the bed and get comfortable. 

Then we were both afraid to go back to sleep. Every time I looked at Bill, his eyes were big and he was watching me with a lot of emotion behind them. I am sure it was as awful for him as it was for me. I felt weak enough that I thought I could go to sleep and die. I saw Bill worrying so much and remembered our deal. I said in the hospital they had replenished my potassium and other electrolytes, so maybe I should try to eat something to get my strength back. He googled potassium and brought me a cooked sweet potato and some sliced peaches. Bill got on the phone with our OB on-call doctor at four in the morning. We had a choice of going to the ER for the second time in one night or going to the OB in five hours when they opened. We chose the latter. My good husband fed me, bite after bite, until I said I wanted to try to sleep again. Once, I opened my eyes and saw him still watching me with worry. 

I slept deeply and woke up in the actual morning still feeling pretty weak but better than before. 

We got blood drawn for tests today. I'm home now, and at the point where I can go to the bathroom unattended again, so that's good. 

So far nobody knows what this is. It's still just a fluke. Vasovagal syncope, a fancy word for passing out. There was some perfect storm of circumstances that led to my episode. It's funny, I feel like the 100-year-old doll just offered to push me off the edge and I politely declined.

I feel like, unlike the china rabbit in the story, I'm not near the end of my miraculous journey at all, but still very much in the middle. But maybe I am near the end, and it feels this hard because it's the transition part of labor or the senioritis part of highschool. Either way, the road feels so long and undoable much of the time. I have to open my heart consciously to love, over and over again. And it's so painful. And it's so hard. But here are the only scraps of joy I find. Joy in the middle of so many hard things: Missing my daughter, fighting with my loved ones, and trips to the ER that thankfully don't end in stitches. Mysterious fainting spells where my heart stops or slows beyond detection and I'm left gasping for air without any further light and knowledge about why this is happening. Trying to make a difference and feeling exhausted most of the time. Feeling insignificant or bothersome, wondering why I'm still here. In between are the tire swing projects, Abigail's beautiful and thriving flower garden, sweet little boys that tell me they love me and miss Abigail, campfires and smores, and my devoted husband who tops them all. There are stunning sunsets and sparkling stars and incredibly artistic brush strokes evident in the play of light and darkness in any patch of clouds in the sky.

Why do I try to make the bad and good in life balance out, as if they ought to rule each other out somehow? I guess, like the china rabbit, I have to wait patiently if I want the joyful reunion. That's when the imaginary scale tips and all the good we cannot even imagine unfolds to our delight.

I must keep repeating to myself, "Someone will come. Someone WILL come."

I hope it's Jesus and I hope it's soon. ❤️