Some Days are Like These Days

Friday, June 18, 2010

My emotions have been all over the place this summer, jumping from one extreme to the next sometimes. I have found when I am alone that I become the most vulnerable to sadness.

In Arizona with Pawnee's family, things were busy and loud with four kids running around, errands to do, and being occupied with fun outings. We had a great time every day. Yet, still, grief would find me - pouncing on me the instant I was alone upstairs. The hurt pierced more deeply and frequently than it had over the last few weeks in Utah. I figured the cause to be leaving the safety and routine I had constructed since Ty's funeral. Work and friends and exercise... In a matter of days it was gone. It was like my emotions were scrambling for safety, unable to stabilize themselves without my consistent schedule. I also had pictured this summer so very differently...

Dan and I spent most evenings together in his hotel in Phoenix, while I returned during the day to hang out with Pawnee. On a Sunday night, Dan was going to return to the hotel without me. As I listened to music and folded laundry upstairs, I broke down as I watched the beautiful pictures rotate on the digital frame Dan bought me for Mother's Day. As I heard Dan come up the stairs with my two nieces, I wiped the tears away and tried to act natural. Dan wasn't fooled for a second. He always knows. He stopped the girls from their excited jabber about "killing Uncle Dan in Halo" and said, "Girls, can you give your Aunt Ere a hug? She misses her baby right now." Understanding swept across their young faces and they immediately wrapped their arms around me and held me while I sobbed again. Then Dan asked them if they would sleep with me in the queen bed while he was away. Rachel and Maile jumped up and down with excitement and I smiled appreciatively at Dan and hugged him extra tightly. By the time Dan left for the hotel, I was in bed reading a book to my nieces, propped up beside me, with Christian curled up on the floor with his own blankets and pillows. I was grateful not to be alone that night, surrounding by the cutest, most perceptively loving kids I know.

This past Monday was the first day we were back in Las Vegas. We had such a great time on the rafting trip (post and pictures to come!) and I was feeling really good - so good that I excitedly said good-bye to Dan on his first day at work, and opted out of Carrie's invitation to hang out with a friend of hers, so I could do laundry and get settled. I was completely alone in the house, and unprepared for what was to come. It came almost out of nowhere. Within a couple hours, I found myself bawling in bed like it was Day 1 all over again. I felt out of control, broken and helpless as ever. I couldn't understand why it wasn't stopping, why this feeling wasn't going away like it usually does once I let it out. This time, I was sure it would not end.

I eventually found myself sprawled out on the quilt, unwilling to move any part of my body. My eyes just looked at the framed picture of my son, the same picture that rests on his headstone. A numbness I haven't felt since the first couple days after Ty's death paralyzed me. I could not - would not - move. Just shallowly breathed without any real caring, although I could feel warm tears continually sliding down my face so I knew I was still crying.

At some point, thoughts persisted in my mind. I seemed to argue back.

Get up. Get up!
I can't.
Yes you can. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get up and just start moving. Go do your laundry.

I refused.

After some time of this useless battle, the next thoughts were:

Grab your journal. You need to write.

I still resisted. I simply could not muster up the energy to do so. But after some time, I forced myself off the bed...slowly grabbed my journal from the closet, and fell back onto the bed again with pen in hand. Grudgingly, I began to write:

"...I'm trapped in my head. Grief is winning today. It's absorbing all my energy... I hate today. I think I feel purposeless. Dan's at work. I'm alone. I have no motherly duties to enjoy. I have no teenagers to work with anymore. I miss my routine in Utah. Routine is safe and consistent. It keeps me moving - not still enough to think too long, to feel too much..."

Journaling accomplished, the next thought was to read my patriarchal blessing, which just so happened to be in my journal. So I did. There is a paragraph in there about "healing" and how it pertains to me, which reminded me of a heart-felt letter a friend had emailed me the night before. The numbness was still a part of me, but I did not resist the promptings anymore. I re-read the letter, all the way to the end where she suggested three articles from the Ensign, one of which was entitled, "Lessons on Healing" (Elaine Marshall, April 2004).

As I forced myself to read, a renewed source of comfort and energy returned to me. The change in me was almost instantaneous, filling me with a sweet relief. Within minutes, I was completely fine. I was over it. I jumped off the bed and accomplished my remaining goals for the day, unable to believe that depressive state had even come over me. I felt like it had not even happened.

It's interesting to look back on the chain of promptings that lead me to my peace. I had lost it, and in the moment, thought this time I would never find it again. However, filling my mind with spiritual matters is what saved me in the end, once again. I am ever so grateful for friends who follow promptings to share their thoughts with me. I could not do it without you.

How About You?

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Dan and I are not sure why Lewis & Roca feels the need to "wine and dine" us with activities and fun treats. It's not like we have any other law firm options! But I won't lie. It does feel nice to be pampered. We attended a baseball game on Friday night . . . The next day we went to a luncheon at a park. It was difficult to be there. Not only were Dan and I both burned out from the energy it takes to maintain an upbeat appearance all the time, but many people brought their children. I didn't want to be jealous as everyone showed off their kids.

But I was.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked back tears, trying not to draw attention to myself. But anyone watching me closely would have seen how my eyes gravitated to the babies...how I had to look away to prevent the wallowing emotions that threatened to smother me. I didn't want to be weak. But it happened and I thought, "I don't want to bear this anymore!" It felt too difficult again. I thought about how I should be holding Ty proudly in my arms, loving that I could talk to the other moms about "how old is your baby?" and all the motherly conversations that I do not partake in anymore. I wanted to be a multi-tasker again, and struggle to eat my food with a squirming baby in my arms, simply because it meant I was holding my boy. Dan and I watched sorrowfully as the little train drove around the park, with little children beaming as they waved. Ty would have loved the train, we murmured to each other.

Fortunately, as these moments tend to be, these awful feelings were short lived. Within the hour, I was able to smile and chat with those around me, grateful to shake the negativity. There is always a sense of relief when these emotions and thoughts pass - as if I'm able to break through dark, deep waters and breathe fresh air again. I don't know how people survive feeling miserable all the time. It is bleak and confining. I'm so thankful the comfort of the spirit is always there, lingering within reach when I am ready to allow its embrace once again. It certainly takes effort. But it is well worth it.

During testimony meeting today, there was a lapse in speakers. My 9-year-old niece whispered to me, "What now?" I told her we just wait for someone else to get up and share their testimony.
"How about you?" she asked me, her innocent eyes looking into mine as I hesitated with my response.

"Do you really want me to?"

She nodded and said with a serious tone, "You have good reason to."

So I stood up and shared a shortened version of the testimony I have gained through my life experiences, including my testimony of the temple and the personal revelation that awaits anyone who enters with an honest and prayerful heart; my testimony of bearing one another's burdens; of compassion and service and its healing power; of families... especially of families, and how this gospel allows us to be together forever; and the importance of sharing one's testimony, so others can be strengthened in their time of need.

How about you?...You have good reason to.

Yes, I do have good reason. And I hope to always remember.

Remembering Our Boy (& explanation of "Taumafai")

Monday, May 31, 2010

Ty, we really missed you tonight. We thought about all the good times we've shared together...

You were always a mellow baby. Sure, there was lots of waking up at night. But once you were fed, you would fall right back to sleep without fussing. Of course... most of those nights were on our chests! But Mama secretly loved it and was in no rush to force the crib sleeping. Bath time was our favorite. You never cried when we bathed you. You were always calm and happy in the tub, and we know you tried to shoot us with your "golden pistol" on purpose - and Mama will never forget the three "mustard snakes" that suddenly appeared in the water. She pulled you out as fast as she could!

The first twenty-four hours after birth, you slept through every meal. Mama tried and tried to nurse you, but you just kept falling asleep! "Put in some effort!" she would say to you, but she smiled and loved you for being so tuckered from your journey. She was just content to hold you against her body anyway. The best part of nursing was the face you would make a couple months later when you'd pull off from eating. Mama loved the satisfied look on your face with your cute, puckered lips, and your fists held tightly over your head as you stretched. Oh, it made her day!

You smiled most for Mama, but Dad could make you laugh harder than anyone! He'd attack your chubby neck with his mouth and chomp on you until you'd release the most beautiful sound in the world - your laughter. If Mama could have trapped it in a bottle she would have, so she could sleep with it under her pillow. Then, first thing in the morning and before falling asleep, she'd have unscrewed the cap to begin and end each day with the most precious music of your voice.

We loved to sing the "Pizza Hut" song to you, while moving your arms in funny motions to make you laugh and smile: "A pizza hut, a pizza hut, KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN and a pizza hut!" Your Aunt Nicole joked once, "He's going to grow up and not understand why fast food makes him so excited!"

We took you everywhere with us - out to dinner (especially Red Lobster), the movies, friends' houses, work, law school, a basketball game, salt lake, Las Vegas, New Jersey... not that we didn't like letting people babysit you, because Grandpa Rock and Khun Yai loved to do it. But we treasured the feeling of the three of us being together as a family. We were so proud to have you with us, and are still proud to call you ours.

At the hospital when we held you in our arms for the last time, Mama whispered the word, "Taumafai". Cradding you against us, Dad began to sing the Samoan hymn. Mama chimed in when she knew the words, or hummed when she forgot. But together, we remembered the ultimate meaning of the song - a song that brought much strength and comfort to your father on his mission in New Zealand. A song he sang to your mother on more than one occasion when nothing else could console her tears. And a song that we cling to in our hearts in the midst of our crucible.

Taumafai: to try...to endeavor... When the road gets tough, to keep on persevering. A reliance on Christ and hope for the future... We can do all things.

You are our life, our light, our guiding star.

We love you, Ty.

Taumafai.

Ty's Headstone

Friday, May 28, 2010

 

Ty's headstone is finally in place. Dan and I left on Tuesday to Moab and now we're gone for the summer, so my dad took a picture and emailed it to us. When we saw it, we both were emotional to say the least. My first thought was, "Oh, it's beautiful. It's just how we wanted it." And then I instantly hated it - hated the finality of seeing Ty's beautiful face on that stone. Dan held me and cried with me. After a couple minutes, even when I tried looking at it again, I just couldn't look at it without feeling our mortal grief. Dan took me into another room and let us both cry again.We miss him so much.

Truly though, I'm happy there is a headstone now. With Dan studying for finals, it was a few weeks after the funeral until we could go together and decide what we wanted for Ty. I hated how empty and naked it looked. Surprisingly, it only took Dan and me a few minutes to agree. We both wanted the same things- especially the scripture at the bottom: 1 Samuel 1:26-28. I will always treasure those verses and how much they have meant to me before conception and after death.

Sometimes I still can't believe this happened. I've been thinking more about it with a heavier heart lately. I think it's because we are trying to get pregnant again, and while I want it again more than anything, at times I am bombarded with such fear that I don't know what to do. I have a friend who recently lost her baby at 11 weeks. I was so very sad for her. And I couldn't help feeling so scared for the future. I want to be pregnant. But I know it will only be the beginning of some very real and intense emotions that I will need to face head on in order to be OK. I will be scared through all of my pregnancy, knowing now that anything is possible. It will be the beginning of fearing for this child's life for years to come. No one ever thinks "it" will happen to them. I remember Ty's doctor appointment two days before he died when the doctor warned about SIDS, saying, "It happens to someone in our community every year." His words haunted me the moment we followed after the ambulance towards the hospital.

I keep thinking everything will be OK once I get pregnant - that I will have a true sense of purpose again and won't be "wasting time". In my heart, I know I'm not wasting time. There's lots of good I'm doing and can continue to do with my free time... But it still feels that way, sometimes.

Fear is such an interesting emotion. It can inhibit danger and protect you through instinctual warning... or it can sabotage your life by paralyzing you with negative thoughts. I know I need to invest in some heavy-duty prayer and fasting to prepare myself for what lies ahead. And I know Dan and I can do it with the help we continue to receive from family, friends, and the Lord.

The Secret "Field Trip"

Friday, May 28, 2010

When I made the May calendar for my RTC boys, I put "field trip" for my last day with them. I heard all sorts of rumors over where I was taking them - none of which were the least bit accurate. They all thought we were going to do something fun and exciting. Most of the boys were pretty good about following my posted instructions of, "Do not ask me. I will not tell you. I will ignore you." Others couldn't help themselves and pestered me over the weeks to come. But I would not budge. And I was so glad the secret didn't get out.

Karl (the other Rec. Therapist who I had been covering for), a handful of mentors and I blindfolded all the boys (about 30 of them) and guided them to the vans. Then we drove silently to the Provo Cemetery. We unloaded them at the west entrance. One by one, we spread them throughout a portion of the cemetery. Before we left them alone, we said, "Count to 60, then remove your blindfold. There is an envelope with your name on it. Open it and follow the instructions."

The letter instructed them to remain quiet in respect for where they were. They were to imagine they had just passed away and to write down their eulogy. Who would remember them? What have they accomplished? Who would attend their funeral?

After twenty minutes we gathered the boys together. Karl facilitated a discussion on life and the changes that can take place over a number of years. We discussed the short life span of most of the pioneers and other people who were buried around us. Some of the boys shared their eulogies, and I was impressed by how many of them took the task seriously. None of them had any idea they were being taken to a cemetery and were quite surprised when they sat up to find tombstones surrounding them. A couple were angry and wanted to leave. Some were nervous and scared, and sad because they did not believe they had accomplished anything in life. Most of them found peace sitting there.

I took the boys for a walk around the cemetery. We stopped at an acquaintance of mine. He was a couple years older than I, and was well liked by his peers. He was very academically smart and had so much potential. However, he became drawn into the wrong type of crowd and made poor choices that continued to pull him down a bad path. Despite these problems, he was so loved by his family who all adored him. His family never stopped believing that he had a good heart and a good spirit.

I was living in Provo when I received the news that this young man (who only lived to reach his early twenties) had died of a drug overdose. His family was devastated. As I spoke to my RTC boys, we talked about how you can choose your actions but not your consequences. I asked them to think about why I put three "Now and Later" candies in their envelope. Of course, they understood that the decisions they make now will impact them later, as well as everyone around them. I told them there were other ways for them to be "dead" to their families - that it didn't have to be a drug overdose. Running away, unresolved conflict... there are plenty of ways that they can become lost to their families.

I had one more place to show them. We walked across the cemetery, closer to the south-east portion. I lead them to a plot of grass in the Angel Garden that was still missing its headstone. But on top of a small rectangle of grass sat a framed 5x7 picture of a little baby, propped next to two pots of yellow flowers. The mood of the group immediately became somber again.

"This is my son," I said to them. Most of the boys had met Ty. But there were some new faces who did not know the story. So I told them about losing my son to SIDS. My voice broke as I said, "I can't help but think of your mothers...and your families." And then, barely able to contain myself, I cried, "They love you. They want to help you. That's why you are here. To get healthy and be with them again. You have such good hearts, and I don't even think you realize it." At this point, I was completely sobbing as I continued, "You have the ability to do so much good. I don't know why, but working with you...serving you... has healed me in a way I can't even describe! To be able to share my life with you, and accept yours into mine... You have a choice. What you do affects other people."

I took a minute to talk about the police officer who came to my home that morning. Officer Chambers - the man I will always remember as one of the few positive things from that awful day. I recently wrote him a thank you note, expressing as sincerely as I could how much I appreciated the way he responded to me. When nothing more could be done and I had time to hold my son in my arms and cry, this officer returned. He embraced me with a strong, comforting hug and with tears in his eyes, told me how sorry he was. I will never forget him because it wasn't "all in a day's work" to him. It was real and it was personal. It was my life, and he showed compassion. In my letter to him, I told him, "People will remember how you respond to them. And I will always remember."

As these boys listened to me, tears continued to fall down my cheeks as I shared everything in my heart to them. I emphasized over and over, "People will remember how you treat them. What you do affects other people. And they will remember."

I closed by thanking them for the privilege to work with them and asked them to remember their families.

One by one, almost all of them stood by, waiting for their turn to embrace me. They thanked me and said they will miss me. I will never forget these boys, and maybe they'll remember this day. I hope I made a difference in even just one of them.

I will remember one other thing about this day: How devastated I was to wake up and see snow on the mountains, and a bleary, grey sky completely covered in clouds, releasing icy rain. "This is going to ruin my group", I thought, my heart falling when I read the forecast of 90% rain all day, with thunderstorms at 3pm: exactly when I would be at the cemetery with my boys. I didn't want the therapeutic group to be cold and depressing.

So I got down on my knees. And I prayed with all my heart that God might grant me just two hours of sunshine - or even just no rain, so my group would have the desired affect. I was worried all day, even though I was trying to have faith. Dan kept saying, "I feel like it's going to be OK." I agreed. But as I driving up to work, the rain was steadily falling and it the air was so chilly. But I could see some blue skies up ahead, and a little bit of sunshine.

An hour later, as we pulled into the cemetery, the sun broke through the clouds, engulfing the entire cemetery in light. The green grass quickly dried in the heat of the sun. Birds were chirping through the trees. And the cemetery looked as beautiful and peaceful as I hoped. It was even warm enough that we were stripping our layers as the boys comfortably shared their eulogies with each other.

It began to darken again as we walked over to Ty's resting place. When I began to cry, the clouds released lightly drizzling rain. My heart was pounding, like it does in church when you know you have to bear your testimony. And I knew I was not alone there. That besides myself and the boys, a special little someone was perhaps holding my hand through it all.

Lessons Taught and Lessons Learned

Friday, May 21, 2010

This has been such a crazy, busy week. It was my last week working with my RTC boys, so I wanted to do something they would really enjoy. We made ice-cream using one of those old-fashion, hand-cranked churners. There was a lot of preparation I needed to do each day and sometimes it was hectic squeezing it in around other things I wanted or needed to do for my other job, but I'm really glad we did it. As sat in a circle and enjoyed our delicious vanilla ice-cream with brownies and toppings, I talked to them about the value of hard work and the things we take for granted in life. It is one of my favorite "object lesson" activities. We talked about how much easier and faster it is to spend a few dollars on a tub of ice-cream, so why bother with the extra time and energy on home-made? Each of the three groups had positive responses about how much better it tasted and how rewarding it felt. So we related that to their personal lives, including listing some things they take for granted.

For my example, I told them about a few years ago when I was a fully committed rugby player for BYU - how that was a huge part of my world, and what I believed at the time was my identity. I had a very hard time letting go when I graduated. When Dan and I had talked about having babies soon, it was just an idea at the time, and a selfish part of me was scared and resistant because I knew I would have to give up some things, including being able to jump in random rugby games whenever I wanted, among other things. Sometimes I wasn't sure how I felt about motherhood.

Then in October 2007, Dan and I both felt ready to become parents, or at least begin the process. It was a long 13 months before I became pregnant. I always tell the boys when we talk about challenges and trials, "Looking back on trials, sometimes it is not the length of the trial that is hard, but in the moment, not understanding or knowing when that trial will be finished." During those months, I gained a true desire of motherhood, and I wanted it more than anything. My selfishing thinking was destroyed and replaced with an immense love that only grew as I held my son in my arms. Since Ty passed away, I have looked back at the four months. Never have I wondered if I loved him enough or appreciated him enough. During sleepless nights, my patience survived. When I had mastitis, I cried but remembered, "I wanted this more than anything", and it helped me toughen up and appreciate the love and smiles he offered in return. There were days that were harder than others, of course. But I can honestly look back and say I did not take my son for granted.

As I shared this with the boys, I also realized the reason for this is because my previous challenge had prepared me for it. I learned to value motherhood, and I discovered how much I wanted it, so that when I had it I appreciated every minute with him. How grateful I am now for that trial.

I love these boys. They have been such a healing tool for my heart and soul as I have shared my life with them and accepted them into mine. I try and teach them what I can... but in the end, they seem to teach me.

I will miss them so very much when I leave this summer. Monday is my last day with them. I have something planned that I hope and pray will be impactful for them.

A Calm, Happy Day (Mother's Day)

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

As Mother's Day approached, I was unsure how I might feel. I was a little nervous, even though ultimately I knew I'd be OK. Since the writer's conference, I've been feeling very calm and happy for the most part. There have still been a few tears here and there, especially at the Walk of Remembrance or other times. But I've found my tears changing. They are not accompanied by the heart-wrenching sobs. I do not curl up on the floor and unbearably hurt. Instead, the tears fall... reminding me that I am sad. But the guilt is gone. I know Dan feels the same way. I haven't heard his wailing tears for a while - the ones that are so piercing and painful to listen to. He still carries around some of the sadness, some days more than others. I can see it in his face. . . Sometimes we just miss our son. That's not going to change. And that's OK. 

 

Dan was in Nevada helping his brother move scrap steel, so unfortunately, he was not able to be with me on Mother's Day. But he left a card and a couple gifts for me. One was a digital frame, which now sits in the living room cycling through the best pictures of Ty. I love it. The second gift was an ice-cream maker. I might need to bring this with me to Vegas!

Sunday morning, I was awakened by a knock on the door. I squinted blindly, hearing Thomas say something about coming in for a second (The Shipleys were visiting for Adelyn's baby blessing). I mumbled consent, noticed the darkness outside my window and prepared to fall back asleep, when the lights flipped on. Then I heard Thomas and his kids singing, "Happy Mother's Day to you.." When they first started the song, I was so confused in my tired-state that I wondered, "Is it my birthday?" Then I noticed the beautiful gourmet breakfast presented on a tray. I sat up in bed, mostly awake and in awe of the colorful meal before me. The plate was filled with cheesy, scrambled eggs that were sprinkled with bell peppers; a blueberry muffin; thick, peppered bacon; English muffin with butter and honey; an assortment of fruit; two slices of avocado, and a tall glass of orange juice. For presentation points, the tray was decorated with flower petals, borrowed from the giant vase of flowers on the dresser! Just when I thought my morning was perfect, my mom and Pawnee were ushered into my room to snuggle up next to me while enjoying their very own gourmet breakfast trays. It was so special. I'm very grateful to Thomas and my nieces and nephew, ALL of whom woke up at 5:45am to offer us breakfast in bed at 6:30 in the morning.

 

 

So, Mother's Day was off to a great start. After a delicious brunch and finally watching Avatar, I headed home with my mom and dad to Provo. I was looking forward to spending some time at the cemetery. I packed up my laptop for music and some readings I've been given regarding babies who pass away. When I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to see my friend, Jamie, sitting in the Angel Garden. She had brought Ty the carnation she received at church. We chatted for a little while before she was needed at home. Then I sat for another hour, enjoying seeing all the people visiting loved ones, while comforting music played beside me.

 

Back at home, I was visited by our good friends, Elias and Kelley, both of whom have also played key roles in supporting us through these past couple months. They are amazing people who always seem to follow the inspiration they receive to help others, like ourselves. Plus, Kelley is a superb chef and left a full tray of cheesecake bites! Mmm... Doug Fidler, Jen's brother-in-law, also stopped by for a visit, which I thought was so kind. And with a few phone-calls, my entire day and evening was non-stop goodness.

I do miss Ty. My heart is so full of love and gratitude when I think of him, and thank him for having the greatest impact on my life. I am so happy to be his mother forever. And I can't wait to meet his little siblings, who I'm sure are receiving some pep-talks from their older brother - an older brother whom I know will promise to visit his brothers and sisters so they will know Ty in their earthly life. Dan and I are anxious to meet them.

 

Thank you to my own mother for teaching me how to love. For teaching me about sacrifice. And for teaching me the foundations of a testimony, for which I would not be able to survive without.