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.

Thoughts About Abigail

I have not written in a while because I wasn't sure what I would say after Abigail left. I have different feelings everyday, but I always find myself in deep thought whenever someone says her name.

Source: https://pixabay.com/photos/baby-hand-infant-child-father-2416718/

Abigail's name means "gives joy" and is very, very accurate because of the angel she is. In Hebrew, it means "my father's joy" and though I'm not her father, she is my joy as well. In fact, she is her brother's joy. According to Wikipedia, Abigail is "an itelligent, beautiful, loyal woman" which I am sure she would have been if she had lived longer on this earth. It brings me peace to know that that is exactly how she is described in heaven right now.

You would almost think that Abigail would have been able to stay on this earth and that she would be completely fine. It would seem that the two cleft pallets would soon heal and there would only be two identical scars on either side of her face that would hardly be visible. Maybe her brain would finally fully develop and the placenta would be able to be carefully removed from it. She would grow up just like any other child except for her undersized feet and fingers.

But this was not to be. She would return home to her Heavenly Father in 22 and a half hours, letting every one of her siblings hold her before she had to do so. Abigail would leave her oldest brother in tears once he held her. He is now very thankful that someone had donated blankets and that he had one to cry into. He has promised that he would never wash the tears out.

If I had to use one word to describe Abigail, it would be love and--if you gave me another one--I would choose joy. Not just because that's what her name is, but because that is what she is. She is my hope, she is my heart, she is my joy.

And I am glad that she's mine.

How Do We Love You? Let Me Count the Ways

Today we celebrate Abigail's one month birthday. Life has slowed down since Abigail's birth and funeral, and not just for us. The whole world seems to be in the grip of the Covid-19 Coronavirus pandemic. Most of the traffic on our roads is delivery trucks. People are sheltering-in-place at home, whole families working from home. Not much changed for us, but the rest of the world seemed to slow down with us. I'm actually grateful for this, not the disease or the pandemic, but the quiet. It's almost like a moment of silence. Just a week before, I had been saying here on the blog and to my family that it felt like life should slow down. I didn't like how quickly she came, then left, and was honored and buried. The next step in that sequence is either for her to be forgotten or to be consciously remembered. We have been working consciously to remember Abigail.

The FedEx man brought Abigail's angel memorial statue on March 20. We barely dared to take it partially out of its packaging. The last step is to get it and the stone set in concrete with a flower vase over Abigail's grave. I'm eager to get it set. The process of burial just doesn't seem complete until this is done.

Bill and I want to thank all who donated to this memorial fund, from the bottom of our hearts. This has meant so much to us!! We want to remember Abigail in as many ways that we can. 

Our family has been self-quarantining like most everyone else. When we got too stir crazy, we took Saturday, March 21st to go hiking in Payson Canyon. We were going to do the Grotto hike but the road is still closed so we walked up the road for the same distance we would have on the hike and then turned around. Luckily, we saw several waterfalls along the way, and it snowed so we felt like we were in a snow globe, too. 

On our way back from the hike, we picked up a sweet stella cherry tree from a local nursery and planted it in memory of Abigail Réileen. We'll be able to see it bloom from our bedroom window, though maybe not this first year. 🌸🍒

I really wanted to celebrate her one month birthday like this, so I'm grateful to Bill for making it happen, though we did the actual planting a few days before.

This arrived Saturday, as well. Now I can carry a lock of her hair with me, and her name near my heart.

It is very up and down at our house. I think a lot of people are dealing with cabin fever. That can mean more opportunities for interpersonal conflict. One minute, we have this kind of teamwork to surprise Mom (sweet angels) and the next minute there's a war of words that escalates to physical conflict. Ay, me. We need more angels.

Our canvas prints from Costco came in the mail yesterday. It's so special to me to have these where we can see them all the time. This family wall is not done, but it's feeling fuller and that makes me happy. I want to put up a montage of all the boys holding their baby sister so they will remember their personal connection with her on that special day she was born.

Angel Watch, which has been very kind and helpful throughout our experience with Abigail, had to cancel our visit yesterday because of Covid-19 and social distancing protocol. I was a little disappointed, but I understood.

We've found ourselves feeling grateful for the timing of our experience. As dear friends get ready to welcome their own babies into the world, there is so much anxiety about going to the hospital and how their experience will be different because of Covid-19. We pray for them. I cannot imagine having Abigail and my near-death-event in a hospital today. Even if Abigail had been born three weeks later, on her due date, the pandemic would already have been declared, and even husbands are being kept out of birthing rooms today in many hospitals. Bill might not have been allowed in the operating room!

The beautiful family celebration that happened in the labor and delivery room, in which all of Abigail's present family members got to meet her and hold her and be photographed with her, would not have happened today. How different would our grieving process have been then? I shudder to think of it. My heart couldn't have withstood that. 

I'm already struggling to be grateful for what did happen. I asked God to help me to feel more grateful for my life. He put several books in my path, some that are old friends from my library, and some that are new kindle ebooks. I've been presented with passages about how precious life is, how good the Savior is for all He endured so He could succor us, and I've also been given stories of the suffering and subsequent gratitude of others. 

Last night when I couldn't stop crying or fall sleep, I searched amniotic fluid embolism stories online and discovered a website to support survivors of AFE and their families. AFE is why my heart stopped, according to the doctors' best understanding. In my case, my heart stopped for 20-30 seconds, long enough for brain activity to cease, but my heart was immediately restarted at that point by a shot of epinephrine into my IV. I didn't even need a blood transfusion.

But my experience with AFE was rare. In many cases, mothers who experience an AFE event die, or they incur serious and lasting injury. In many cases, babies die, too. I read one woman's experience of fighting for her life on and off for weeks while her baby went home with her husband and her other children. Not only did she suffer so many traumatic health events in the hospital during those weeks, but she suffered the guilt and loss of not being able to spend her baby's first month with her. If that had happened to me, I would have completely missed Abigail's one day on earth. What I have called our best day ever wouldn't have happened. 

Fortunately, this woman did get to go home eventually, and she got to raise her baby. I don't get to raise Abigail right now, and that's where the heaviest grief is coming from. Scriptures teach that faith and fear cannot coexist. But what about grief and gratitude? This is me today, wearing my necklaces to remember Abigail.

I'm wearing a shirt I bought before Abigail's birth. It was actually the shirt I wore the day she died. It says, "Blessed." And the sticker is one Corbin picked out for me. Ironically, it's a character named Joy. So today, on March 25, 2020, as we remember Abigail on her one month birthday, I'm wearing all the reminders of gratitude and joy. Even Abigail's name means joy.

Throughout this ordeal, we have been the recipients of many acts of love and remembrance for Abigail. I have never done anything to deserve all of those acts of love, and yet people have given them anyway. I feel grateful for them. Today, two friends remembered Abigail through thoughtful gifts.

This beautiful gift made my husband cry.

This one helped my back to stop crying.

(Lava Bag, made by my friends the Coopers at Lavahq.com to heat my soreness away.)

We all need these tender mercies. Here's an uplifting article from my church about all the many ways people are reaching out to each other to minister during this collective experience of isolation. We have felt the love of angels in human form ministering to us. Thank you!

I know that somehow we are made to be able to feel both grief and gratitude at the same time because it is happening to me all the time lately. I am sort of like a hurt child whose mother has her arms open wide to receive her, but I can't bring myself to surrender to her embrace. I felt God asking me today why I am resisting His love. I don't mean to do that, but I have to admit that by refusing to feel gratitude I am resisting the joy that comes only through that pure love of Christ. Maybe the grief and gratitude paradox is resolved in Jill Thomas's HOPE WORKS talk, "Seeing Green."

Yes, it's blue, and yes, it's yellow, but at the same time, it's something altogether different. I'm not at the peaceful place Jill seems to be when she gives this beautiful talk, but her words, and the words of so many other people who see green, have given me hope that one day I will.

Until that beautiful green day, I will keep giving love to my children, on both sides of the veil. And we will remember Abigail today and always.

To Be A Butterfly

This is the butterfly symbol the hospital put outside our room on Wednesday to let people know we were grieving the loss of our little one. As we mark two weeks from Abigail's birth, I am thinking about how to carry on. So many kind friends have reached out via cards, visits, gifts, and phone calls. Many have told me I am handling Abigail's death with grace, or gracefully. I think if they could see my process close up, they would not think so. I am struggling. At times I feel bitter. Other times I feel stirrings of God, and of Abigail, and feel grateful. It is strange to be so up and down. Many nights I feel emotionally and physically exhausted from it all.

One of the ladies who helped us make memories with Abigail recently said to me that I would find a new normal, that I am a new version of myself. I thought of this little butterfly. 🦋

I don't feel new. I feel old and worn out. I feel tired and frail. Maybe that's how a new butterfly feels. Maybe flying everywhere is exhausting. Maybe the ups and downs of her new life leave her wings aching. Maybe her new normal is overwhelming to her, too. Maybe those fragile wings feel ominously light on her back, and she wonders how long they will last in the real world she must navigate.

I don't know how a new butterfly feels. But new Katrina feels very much unfinished and weak. I must conclude that if God hopes to remake me, He isn't finished yet. Transformation is painful. We know this from past metamorphoses. But this is by far the most painful.

I look at my husband and see him asking himself what kind of father he wants to be now, after Abigail. He is letting this little girl facilitate change in him. He is letting Christ change him.

I am not locked into bitterness, fear, and longing. But they are part of my experience now. I am trying to be more willing to carry this cross, to let Christ transform me into a better version of myself, to let Abigail's incredible spirit continue to touch my heart. I wrote in regards to my carpal tunnel that it was my intention to heal. What I have to decide every day is how I will move toward that intention to heal. I am physically still healing. I have a big scar to prove it. But the emotional and spiritual healing is not so straightforward as sutures and steristrips. 

I have to continue to hope after an aching disappointment. I have to continue to believe after the biggest "not yet" answer I have ever received from my Father. I have to continue to act in purpose and kindness when I feel crippled by what has happened.

I have to rely on the connection I have spent a lifetime building between me and heaven, because that is the only way I have felt true peace and comfort before. Whatever God has planned for me, I am walking toward it. But walking into the OR to deliver Abigail was easy compared to the fear I am facing now in this walk. I described our journey with Abigail as walking through the fire, because I felt I was walking into the unknown. All I knew then was that it would be painful. I hoped it would also be joyful. It was indeed both.

Now that I'm on the other side of that fire, not unscathed but full of the fire, I feel a little lost. Which way do I go now? What do I do with all this fire? What does God expect me to do?

Finding a new normal may take longer than I like. The only things I know for sure are that God is real, Abigail still lives in Him, and I have been given instructions to live for the Lord. This includes loving my husband and all of my children, serving them with all my heart and strength, and growing the talents God gave me for the building up of his kingdom.

Right now my days are full of rest and healing, honoring Abigail with my husband and kids, and getting set up for donating breastmilk for NICU babies. The honoring of Abigail was made easier by the fundraiser many of you gave to, to help us purchase Abigail's angel memorial.

We are looking forward to receiving and installing it at Abigail's grave, along with the stone we had made that bears her footprints.

Baby steps.

It's all just baby steps to walk forward after Abigail. Nobody is flying yet.

But we made her a promise and it's engraven on her stone. We are living for the reunion we hope to have with her in heaven someday.

Waiting for Abigail

Waiting for Abigail has been a hard but beautiful time for our family. We have thought more often of eternity and that which is eternal, like love and our relationships and the things we learn here. We have also thought in more urgent and realistic tones about mortality, the briefness of it, and the fact that no time is guaranteed to anyone. We will all die one day, and chances are that it will happen on a day we aren't expecting it.

Today all my pregnancy apps tell me I am 37 weeks pregnant and that my baby will be ready in a few more weeks, but they don't know that she is due tomorrow via C-section. We, her parents and a collection of doctors, have chosen her birth day. But even the doctors do not know for sure when she will die. So we hope. No time is guaranteed to anyone but we hope for time with her.

Time to hold her and smile at her and dance with her and sing to her. I don't know if we will get to feed her. I know there will be time enough to cry over her. We will certainly take pictures of her and memorialize her hands and her feet. We will dress her in beautiful clothes and wrap her in made-with-love blankets. We will introduce her to her five big brothers. She may or may not be breathing when we do.

The only time we are guaranteed to have with Abigail is the time that has already passed with her in my womb. Oh, and I cherish that time! I'm going to miss it so much. Not the aches and pains, but the rolls and punches, and especially the hiccups. Originally the doctor suggested a C-section date a week earlier than this one, at 36 weeks, but at our very next appointment I asked for it to be extended to 37 weeks. I had planned to go all the way to 41 weeks with her if she wanted it, but the risk of my dying was too great for the doctors' liking. Not to mention my husband's. So here we are, a day before the waiting for Abigail must come to an end. 

I'm so grateful for this "extra" week. I know it has made a difference in how we are able to accept whatever outcome we get. I think it has made a difference in how ready Abigail is. She's had hiccups every day, a good indicator of lung/brain cooperative development. I feel there is a good chance she will be able to breathe after all.

Of course, there are no guarantees.

Ready or not, tomorrow morning is the time. This waiting period will end. Her heart has always been so strong, so steady. I have to hope it will keep on beating.

Yesterday I was reading through old journal entries and found one from the day before we discovered Abigail's condition. We were 22 weeks along and I was writing about the difficulty of balancing school with motherhood:

"The fact that I only have a month left of this crazy balancing act is very comforting, though. I know that the tension I feel in seeking this balance is not going to go on consecutively forever. I will get a break next semester. A break to have a baby! And it's a girl! We are all thrilled. We are having a third ultrasound tomorrow, an official anatomy scan to be sure baby is thriving and developing as she should. Her name will be Abigail Réileen Lantz. The middle name is a combination of Renée and Eileen, the first name of my mom and the middle name of Bill's mom. She will be named after both of her grandmothers, which I love! She will likely be our last baby and our only daughter. That's a sad thing to say, but I am getting older and my body can't keep having babies, and the likelihood of getting another girl after this is low, too, seeing as we only have boys so far. Perhaps if we feel so inspired, we can adopt a few girls later on. It's tragic that even in the U.S. sex-selective abortions are done to kill baby girls in the womb and ensure a male baby is born. I will take anybody's unwanted daughters! How can you not want a girl? That's a broken society that can't value a mother in embryo like that.

Deep breath. My mantra with my husband right now is, 'We're going to get through this.'

Whatever we face, we are facing it together. That's the important thing. Nobody knows what tomorrow brings, but growth and adventure are guaranteed."

Growth and adventure are always guaranteed. They are the only thing that is. 

Abigail has already brought so much growth and joy into our lives. Our meeting tomorrow is full of unknowns. But love will be there. Hope will be there. I can't wait to hold her.

Abigail's Gifts

Not everyone can say that they have baby sister in heaven. I can. And I love her so very much. I gave her two very special gifts. 

Above is a picture of my two stuffed animals. The one on the left is the one from my birth. I once lost it and my mom bought me another one (the one on the right). I eventually found the stuffed animal that I got from my birth. I always wondered what I would do with the second one. Now I know exactly what to do with it. I am going to give it to my sister. I know that even though she can't really play with it, I have something to remind me of her. I will never lose it again the first one again.

Above is a letter that I wrote to Abigail. I am going to keep the pencil somewhere safe. Here is the text if you can't see it:

Abigail,

You mean everything to me. You give me so much hope. I love you. I love you so so much! I know that even though you probably won't live long on this earth, you will live forever in my heart. I can't wait to see you in heaven someday.

Till we meet again,

Sam Lantz

I know that God loves Abby and I and that families can be together forever. These gifts will help me remember Abigail and keep me close to her. No one can take my hope away.

A birth plan, a funeral program, and hope

It's Sunday again, and we are 36 weeks along. Friday was Valentine's Day so Daniel (5) has valentines on the mind. He made this little heart during church and said, "This is for Abigail." 

It's moments like this that I remember how incredibly blessed we have been as a family. When we announced our pregnancy to the kids, they were all excited because they love babies. It's precious to my heart that they see a new addition to the family as cause for celebration.

We were all hoping for a girl, but the boys were the most vocal about it. Sad to say, it might be partially because of well-meaning friends and strangers saying things that make them feel incomplete without a sister, like, "Are you hoping for a sister this time?"

Even after we broke the news that Abigail would ultimately become an angel for our family, the level of enthusiasm for Abigail hasn't diminished. Finally, they have a sister. And even though she isn't staying long, she will always be their sister. They know we get to keep her forever. I'm grateful for that sure knowledge.

This afternoon we put the finishing touches on our birth plan and printed a few copies so the whole birth team can be on the same page. Once that was done, we worked a little while on the funeral program and I asked my parents to sing one of my favorite songs for the event. All of this while Abigail Réileen makes her presence felt with kicks and punches in my tummy. I love her so much already, we all do.

The guiding principle of our home right now is hope. We know what can and probably will go wrong when Abigail is born. There is no false hope, but there's a kind of hope nevertheless. It's a hope that is born of our love for her.

We hope everyone will get to meet her who needs to, and that we will be able to make memories with her after her birth.

We hope to celebrate her life with music and prayer and poetry.

We hope she will always have a place in our family and never be forgotten.

We hope that knowing her and loving her changes us in all the ways she would have it do.

We hope this difficult goodbye brings all of us closer together.

We hope in Christ we shall all be reunited in a higher, holier sphere where none are sick or wounded and all are restored to perfect health.

I have struggled against hope throughout this journey, this past week especially. I have cried and cried out because the waiting seems unbearable. Not this waiting for her birth, but the promise of more waiting after her death. I have wondered aloud to my husband how I can go on after such heartache. 

In answer, I have heard the voice of God saying, "Live for the Lord," and I have been humbled because I am a selfish creature. I always think I know what's best.

Remember the painting of the pioneer woman that takes up an entire wall in the Payson temple?

I told how I had heard the hymn in my head before realizing the painting's title was from that hymn: "Blessed, Honored Pioneer." Today I went to church and the opening hymn happened to be this song, titled, "They, the Builders of the Nation," Hymn #36 in the LDS Hymnal. Each verse's chorus is slightly different but ends with the line, "Blessed, honored pioneer." No wonder I had thought it was the hymn's title. As we sang it today, I realized that I revere my pioneer ancestors exactly for the incredible faith they showed while suffering the deaths of so many beloved friends and family members, while facing death themselves. And I realized that to future generations, we are the pioneers. Suddenly the song became a call to action for me, like the words I had almost seen in my mind's eye written on my bedroom wall: "Live for the Lord."

My eyes went to the bottom of the hymnal page and I knew I had to read the scripture associated with the hymn.

It is Doctrine & Covenants 64: 33-34

I couldn't help the tears that formed in my eyes. This must have been a scripture that gave comfort to my ancestors. They had to have been so tired of being persecuted, driven from place to place, and despised wherever they went. They had to have been weary of the daily work that never seemed to be enough, while many of them lost their children or husbands or wives to mob violence, disease, exposure and hunger as they crossed the plains.

In the super convenient modern world, I had found myself complaining to my husband that I am tired. And I am. I am so tired. But there is no way I could be more world-weary than they were.

"Be not weary in well doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great."

Abigail is a very small thing. She is tiny. But she has carved out a large space in our hearts that drives us to be more than we were, to be worthy to see her again. And that is a great thing.

Verse 34 reminded me of the message I felt like I heard or saw, to "Live for the Lord."

"Behold, the Lord requireth the heart and a willing mind." It ends with the promise of good things to those who give their all.

There's another scripture that comes to my heart as I ponder on these things: D&C 122:8

"The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than He?"

Of course, even these gifts of understanding don't make me totally okay or past my grief. In fact, sometimes they are met at first with bitterness. But I can't deny they are gifts. They are the grace that is sufficient to the day. They teach me line upon line and give me strength to take the next steps in my life. They give me that precious ingredient for a life of joy:

Hope.

Less Than Two Weeks Left with Our Abigail Réileen

We made it! 35 weeks is considered term. Abigail Réileen is still inside, growing and kicking with those beautiful feet. She is every bit as strong as my other babies. We still have more than a week until the scheduled C-birth. I'm happy for that because we aren't emotionally ready to say goodbye yet.

Our last ultrasound of Abigail at 35 weeks, her right foot from heel to toe

Two days ago we had our last appointment with Dr. Feltovich. She is a doctor of maternal fetal medicine at the hospital where we will be delivering Abigail Réileen. She's the one who diagnosed Abigail with ABS and helped us to plan the right birth for her. Her kindness and understanding have been indispensable over the past few months.

This week I started packing our hospital bags, which I haven't had to do in 13 years! Abigail has a whole bag separate from mine because we have so many special memories we plan to make with her. I'm grateful for that opportunity. There are people from three different organizations coming to help us make memories, just out of the goodness of their hearts: ❤️ Angel Watch, Common Bonds, and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.

Less than two weeks remain.

In the last trimester of every pregnancy up to this point, I have always reached a point of physical discomfort that made the upcoming birth a can't-wait-for-it moment. In some cases, I got so impatient, I took matters into my own hands and tried to spur labor with natural remedies. Of course it never worked because babies have their own ideas. Sam was due on Valentine's Day, which is his great Grandma Joyce's birthday, but instead he came a week early when my water spontaneously broke. Corbin, our current youngest, was due on my birthday but decided to stay on the inside for three extra days, much to my chagrin. The only child who came almost on his due date was Daniel, who was born more or less on his due date, the morning after Memorial Day. We sang Amazing Grace and Danny Boy during the night-long labor.

Five natural births, four of which were home births and one of which was unassisted, have taught me that I am much stronger than I ever could have imagined, and also less patient. Waiting on the baby is one of the struggles of the last trimester. It feels very strange this time to be scheduled for a C-section and to know when that day is going to be. It's also different because, rather than hoping to see the end of this pregnancy soon, I wish it would just go on forever. Even feeling braxton hicks contractions makes me nervous. We are still actively making plans for the birth.

I asked the mothers and grandmothers in the anencephaly facebook support group for children's book titles to read to Abigail on the day she is born. Whether she is born alive or sleeping, we want to read to her on her birthday. Someone suggested the book On the Night You Were Born. My first thought when I saw the title was that she will be born at 7:30 in the morning. I know that. The pattern for most of my children's births is that I labored for a day and a night and they were born near dawn, between 3am and 6am. The one exception was Layne, who was born at 1:30pm, but that was just because he didn't want to go to church that Sunday. (I kid, I kid.)

I think the book I'm going to bring is Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. That's the book I've been reading to my children all along, and it wouldn't be right if Abigail missed out on that tradition. I recently learned that the author actually wrote the song for his own babies who died, and then built the story around the song. Isn't that amazing? The grief and love of one father resonates in a song that millions of parents and grandparents around the world have sung to their little ones!

It goes so well with a message I've been getting from heaven lately, about ripples. I think we all think it would be so amazing to change the world. How many songs are written with that very theme? Change the world! We want to feel powerful and meaningful, like our lives mean something. It's one of the hardest things about infant loss--having a child who has rocked your world and yet nobody else even knows he or she existed. That feels wrong because meaning is meant to be shared. Robert Munsch found a way to do that in his book that has forever enshrined the lullaby he sang to his two sweet little babies who didn't stay long enough to utter a single word.

But the concept of ripples operates on the understanding that it doesn't take a big splash to make an impact. Even a tiny ripple, stretched out across the water, can reach distant shores. Somehow we are all impacting one another in this way, with a smile, a phone call, or a thoughtful gift. Even with a disagreement and forgiveness. We are forever touching each other's lives. Even just hearing about one person choosing a higher path can inspire some stranger to do the same.

On Sunday I couldn't go to church. In addition to my body being just plain uncomfortable at 35 weeks and 185 lbs, I'm getting over some congestion in my sinuses. When my husband came home, he handed me a book, lent by some church friends. It was Blaine M. Yorgason's book, One Tattered Angel.

I read it all on Sunday, finishing it by dinner that night. It's about a baby girl that comes to them as they are serving as newborn foster parents. She has hydrocephalus. The story is all about ripples, how each person who meets baby Charity is lifted and changed by her sweet spirit, and even how preparing to receive Charity as a family brought them closer together. I could relate to this on some levels, though their story is fundamentally different from ours because they are adoptive parents and their journey with her began after her birth.

Also, our Abigail likely won't live nearly as long as their Charity did, and that means that all of Abigail's impact is being made in the very short time of her growth in my womb and her birth. Maybe she will continue to have an impact in our lives, if we are attuned to more spiritual things, since she will be with us in spirit. We take it on faith that this is true. It hurts that Abigail won't have much time to make an impact on others, but I have been touched by the few people who have told me that learning about Abigail's situation helped them to see their own children in a new light.

The way ripples work, we will probably not even know all the people she has touched with her short life and with the stories we tell about her. It's another thing we'll have to take on faith. We do know that every child of God has a purpose, and Abigail is a child of God. She has changed me, and I believe our whole family will be forever changed because she came to our family. If the song is true that claims, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return," then at least Abigail has learned the greatest thing. And any parent who has lost an infant at any stage of development can have the peace of knowing that their babies were loved and that they also learned the greatest thing.

Born the Same Month as Her Brother

Source: https://pixabay.com/photos/michelangelo-abstract-boy-child-71282/

My birthday is coming up tomorrow (Feb 8th), but I'm not quite as excited for that as I am for Abigail's birth. I used to think that it was coming in March, which was true until Mom decided to have an early one on the 25 of Feburary. "Is that OK?" she asked me. I was astonished. Why would that not be OK? Then it hit me. My mom was born the same month that her older brother was. My uncle's birthday is a day before my mom's. He is exactly 4 years and a day older than her. Now I saw why my mom asked me that question.

I am both excited and nervous for Abigail's birth. Being nervous can be a good thing sometimes. I once went to a Tween Author Boot Camp. I was very nervous. The last thing I expected to happen was that I would win. Those who didn't win were thrown into a pit (I just made that up but it was still pretty scary). I won first place in my age zone. That experience exceeded my expectations greatly. I'm glad I didn't have pride before I knew the results because I would have had less enthusiasm finding out that I won. I believe that being nervous for Abby's birth is a virtue. I know that she will bring love to our family. I know that she will do other great things for us that we just don't know about yet.

Source: https://pixabay.com/illustrations/puzzle-heart-love-two-hearts-1721592/

I can tell that my little sister's birth will be a very special one. I can feel her love and I know that she will never really die. I will always have room in my heart for her. Nothing can give me more peace than to know that she will always be here with me. I am proud to say that I have an angel as a sister. Abby is my angel friend now and forever.

BIRTH UPDATE:

Abigail's birth was very special. You could just feel the love reflecting off of Abby and onto everyone else. She is and was a very special baby and we love her just as much as she loves us.

A Spoonful of Sugar-Coating

January 7, 2020
I've mentioned how powerful and peaceful temple service has been during this time, helping me to grasp at eternity and to broaden my perspective to see Abigail's life in terms of forever, rather than the deeply felt loss of her life here on earth. Last week, we missed our temple date because Wednesday fell on New Years, and we just didn't make it out the weekend after.

This, combined with a rather unpleasant visit to the doctor's office on Friday, sent me into a dreary gulch emotionally that lasted beyond the weekend. Despite a long and cathartic conversation with my amazing midwife, I've struggled to shake this wave of grief. It's a grief renewed by some phrases and images conjured by a doctor who thought I needed to relive the diagnosis of ABS (Amniotic Band Syndrome) and the prognosis of certain death for my baby and potentially a very difficult labor for both of us.

He had communicated with the maternal fetal medicine doctor about her findings via ultrasound, and for some reason thought I needed a rehashing of the situation and his own worst-case scenario fears.

This was unwelcome and unhelpful.

Since November 8, I've gotten used to the phrase, "I don't want to sugarcoat things, so..."

It's not my favorite phrase. Like I've said, I'm the type of person who asks questions and wants to understand the full picture. I appreciate honesty in medical practitioners.

I also value my emotional health and sanity, and I understand that where you train your focus can often build your reality in incredible ways. I wish more medical practitioners understood that the mental and emotional state of a woman about to give birth is intimately married to her outcomes. A woman in panic will not have a peaceful birth. I can only imagine how a woman in grief will fare. As I fight for my emotional well-being in the face of discouraging worst-case scenarios, I could use a little help from the people tasked with supporting my physical well-being.

Mary Poppins famously sang about a spoonful of sugar helping the medicine go down. I appreciated the way Dr. Feltovich struck this balance. She may have had fears and worst-case scenarios going through her head, but she wasn't bent on planting them in my imagination. She didn't sugar-coat things, but she didn't knock the spoonful of sugar from my trembling hands either.

My biggest complaint, and this comes out of my gulch, the one I'm still trying to fight my way out of, is that some obstetrics practitioners take their detachment to an extreme. I am weary of hearing about how they are going to prioritize my physical health at the expense of Abigail's, simply because her expected outcome is poor. I am tired of being told that, since she's going to die anyway, the goal is to get her out without too much damage to me, as if she weren't real or important.

That's my baby you're talking about.

I know that people generally don't know what to say. Heck, I don't know what to say either. That's why you see so few comments from me after other people's beautiful and supportive comments on my facebook posts or here on the blog.

My wish would be that everyone who has something to do with bringing Abigail into this world could be on the same page about something: she's a person. She's our person. We LOVE her. We are grieving her and celebrating her at the same time. The language we use to talk about her is not detached, and we don't want your language to be detached, either. We are all humans dealing with other humans, and Abigail is just as human and just as valuable as I am. We want her birth to be handled with human dignity, and not with fear-based urgency.

I am trying to learn from the many, many mothers and babies who have gone before Abigail and me. One thing I've heard repeated from these mothers is how they wish they had spent less time dreading or fearing or mourning the future outcome of their angels, and more time enjoying the life within them. I feel that the well-intentioned lack of sugar-coating is creating more obstacles than we need to the goal of celebrating and enjoying Abigail's life while she is here.

It is unlikely that I will die during Abigail's birth, but if I die, it was meant to be. Neither of us needs for our final days to be made up of fearful dialogue and depressing thoughts.

I'm watching on social media as my favorite people all make New Year's Resolutions. It's a joyful and optimistic time for most people.

It's a beginning.

Though I know that something difficult and devastating awaits my family in the first few months of 2020, I also want to focus on what I can bring to this new year. The message I feel coming strongly through the veil between heaven and earth is to trust God in everything.

The saying goes that the devil is in the details, but I love to say that God is in the details. I have witnessed many miracles throughout my life, from prayers for the starting or stopping of rain to priesthood blessings to overcome serious illness. I have cheated death a few times, with angelic aid. I have healed from past trauma and sin through the atoning grace of Jesus Christ. All life is a miracle that I witness every day, flowers, mountains, pets, and people.

On facebook, a friend shared this Carrie Ten Boom quote:

NEVER BE AFRAID TO TRUST AN UNKNOWN FUTURE TO A KNOWN GOD.

The future is always unknown. Prognosticators will try to predict it, and we will always have wars and rumors of wars to keep us busy and fearful. But, "...God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power and of love, and of a sound mind" (2 Timothy 1:7).

That doesn't mean that difficult things don't exist. They are here mixed in with the good, like the life-constricting amniotic bands mixed with the life-preserving amniotic fluid in my womb right now. Opposition in all things is what makes this world grow and each human heart beat against the anarchy of the blood. We push up through the soil or out of the chrysalis or egg shell, and are born, over and over again, until we become ready for that final birth, the one called death. And there we are promised to enter into Christ's rest.

As my husband gently reminds me on a regular basis, because I need the reminder, we ARE keeping Abigail. But if we were allowed to keep her here on earth, Abigail would have soon learned to love to dance as much as I do. Like my five-year-old said, she would have gone to ballet with me. This necklace is the one I wear to remind me that she does dance. Club foot or no, she is dancing now in my womb. And soon she will dance with all the heavenly hosts. I do believe that one day we will dance together.

That's hope. It is as real and powerful as fear. Today, I choose hope.

Feel free to hope along with me, and thank you for the prayers and emotional support you have given to me and my family. I will never forget it.