tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32025086644066639182024-03-13T03:13:58.575-06:00annie's in my heartAmy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-7242521843545506112015-08-01T00:03:00.000-06:002015-08-16T19:39:48.979-06:00Willing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ten days ago, we dropped our oldest son off at the
Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, and said goodbye to him for two years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will not see this boy for two whole years!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our only communication with him will be
weekly emails, regular letters, and two annual phone calls (on Mother’s Day and
Christmas). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew it would be hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just didn’t know it would be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>
hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was set apart as a missionary
the night before and didn’t report to the MTC until 2 PM the following
afternoon, so we all got up with him early that morning (missionaries are
required to wake up every day at 6:30 AM) and spent the day together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went to the temple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spent a few hours at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went to lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then it was time to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got in the car and headed towards Provo and
the MTC, (where he will be living for the next two months before moving to
Toronto, Canada to begin his service there).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As we drove into Provo and stopped at a traffic light, I glanced at the
car next to us, and could see that they, too, were taking their son to the
MTC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see the new missionary in the
back seat with his siblings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see
his parents in front, trying, just as we were, to maintain their composure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We then drove up the hill to the Provo Temple,
where there were countless families, doing just what we were doing… spending a
few final moments with a precious son or daughter that was leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking all of this in almost took my breath
away, and at one point, I whispered to Cameron, “It is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amazing</i> to me that so many families are willing to do this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>
is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> hard.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After spending some time on the lawn in front of the Provo
Temple, we climbed back into the car to drive just a couple of blocks and finally drop
him off at the MTC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cameron went the
long way (I don’t know if this was on purpose, but I was glad he did), and we
drove past the temple, down the hill and then turned left onto the street that the
MTC is on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of traffic, we had to
wait a while to turn,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and I watched
as car, after car, after car drove up the street and turned into the MTC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that moment, I could feel that I was watching an army of God being
gathered right before my eyes (and to
think that this happens every Wednesday is just incredible to me!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pulled up to the curb, and in less than
sixty seconds our boy was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We cried all the way home. Every single one of us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, I can’t deny that my heart was full of gratitude that
day as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never served a
full-time mission, but I am so grateful to have raised a son that will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is such a good boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But a really, really good boy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reason that I am willing to let him go, and
the reason that he is willing and wants to go, (and the reason that I believe
SO many families -and young men and women- are willing) is this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Gospel is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It changes lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has changed mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Life is hard (we have certainly learned that first-hand) but God is so very
good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He loves His children and wants
them to be happy, now… and later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And He
has asked us to help Him by sharing what we know (and probably take for granted)
with others that might not know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Annie died five years ago, today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still miss her all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember wondering way back then, if the
missing her would fade over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It hasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t matter if I
am happy, or sad, I am always missing her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is piece of me that is not here and I know that I will never be
complete until I have her back in my arms again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, in the meantime, I know that my Heavenly Father loves
me, and I know that He loves her, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
know that He provided a Savior and prepared a way for us to be together again-a
way for my family and my heart to be whole again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a beautiful plan!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I made Austin a small family album to take on his mission
and made sure to include pictures of him with Annie, because
chances are, he will meet somebody in Canada who is missing a loved one every minute of every day and feeling like
they will never be whole again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What a difference the gospel might make to them... it has certainly made a difference to us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And for that, I am willing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am willing to miss my boy for two years so that another
family can know what we know: that Heavenly Father is real and that we are His
children; that He loves us; that He hears our prayers and He knows our hearts;
that the Savior came to earth and gave His life to atone for the sins of all of us; that He rose from the grave so that we could too; that He paved the way for families to be eternal; that He will someday come again; and that when He does, "every knee shall bend and every tongue shall speak in worship before Him." (The Living Christ) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Missionary work is God's work. One only has to visit the MTC campus on a Wednesday afternoon to feel and to know that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'm so grateful to have a son that is willing, worthy, able, and excited to be a part of it. And, as it turns out, I am more than willing to love, support, pray for, and miss this boy like crazy for the next two years.</span></div>
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Love you, Austin!</div>
Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-69051949986852532242015-04-08T14:01:00.004-06:002015-08-01T00:12:41.282-06:00RescuedJust over two years ago, I met a group of women for dinner. Until that night, most of us were strangers, but the bond that we felt upon meeting, was immediate and undeniable. We connected instantly as we introduced ourselves. We talked about our families. Our lives. Our children at home. <br />
<br />
And our child in heaven. <br />
<br />
The common denominator at our table that night was that each of us had a child in heaven. Each of us was the mother of a son or a daughter who had lost a battle with congenital heart defects. <br />
<br />
As we shared our stories, the details were obviously different, but one thing was the same for all of us. We had all buried a precious child way too soon (one mother had done this just the week previous). Of course, as we talked, many tears were shed at our table in the corner of the restaurant that night.<br />
<br />
In turn, each of us shared our experience with the journey: the shock, the fight, the sweetness, the horror, the loss, the grief, the love, the despair, the hope and the healing. For some, the grief flowed raw and fresh and was still so very painful. For others, it had ebbed into a place of quiet acceptance, of peace, and even gratitude. <br />
<br />
At one point during this conversation, one woman, who was in the thick of her grief, said something that I have never forgotten. <br />
<br />
After sharing the anguish that she felt with the recent loss of her daughter, and with tears coursing down her cheeks, she cried, "I feel like my heart has been ripped from my chest and has been shattered into a million pieces." She then followed with, "And I just don't know how it can ever be ok again."<br />
<br />
Those words pierced my heart that night. In part, because I ached for her aching. Her grief weighed on her like a thousand pounds and any words of comfort that I could think to offer were simply no match for the pain that she was feeling. <br />
<br />
Her words also pierced my heart because I had been in that place before. I too had once felt that unspeakable despair and agony and wondered for myself how it could ever be ok again.<br />
<br />
Towards the end of Annie's life, I told my bishop that I felt like I was hanging from the edge of the deepest, darkest abyss, holding on with just my fingernails. I told him that I felt like I was clawing my way every day to keep from slipping father. I told him that I <em>knew</em> that if and when Annie died, I would fall into the blackness and that I would never be able to climb out. <br />
<br />
I just knew it.<br />
<br />
And I was terrified. <br />
<br />
I could not see how I would ever be ok.<br />
<br />
Within less than two weeks of this conversation with my bishop, Annie died. <br />
<br />
My biggest fear became a reality, and yet, it didn't. Yes, my daughter was gone. And yes, I grieved as any mother would. But the fall into that black hole that I just knew was imminent, never happened. <br />
<br />
I felt it looming right up until the end. Even during our last hours with her I could not keep the fear of that darkness away. I just did not know how to navigate this part of the journey with her come out intact on the other side.<br />
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How would I ever be ok again?<br />
<br />
When Annie finally took her last breath and left this earth behind, a miracle happened in her hospital room. Not the miracle that I had been seeking for the past four months, but a miracle nonetheless. Instead of slipping into the blackness that I <em>knew</em> would swallow me, I literally felt myself being lifted from the edge of that dreaded abyss. Hands that I could not see pulled me to safety that day, and for several weeks, arms that I could not see carried me as I navigated those first most difficult weeks without my sweet Annie. <br />
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I'm not going to say that I wasn't incredibly sad and didn't feel deep heartache at the loss of my daughter because I was, and I did. But, the crushing, suffocating grief that I felt prior to Annie's passing was not part of my experience after she was gone. I no longer felt like I was hanging on by my fingernails. The terrifying blackness simply wasn't there. And somehow I knew that everything would be ok... that I would be ok.<br />
<br />
A miracle.<br />
<br />
No doubt about it.<br />
<br />
Something that I could never have done for myself.<br />
<br />
I was rescued.<br />
<br />
Just a few days ago, on Easter Sunday morning, I listened as Elder Jeffrey R. Holland spoke of another's rescue. The details of his story took me right back to my own experience in August, 2010, and my heart was filled to overflowing with gratitude for the miracle that occurred in my life almost five years ago. <br />
<br />
He told the following story of two brothers:<br />
<br />
<div id="p5" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p5">
<em>Without safety ropes, harnesses, or climbing gear of any kind, two brothers—Jimmy, age 14, and John, age 19 (though those aren’t their real names)—attempted to scale a sheer canyon wall in Snow Canyon State Park in my native southern Utah. Near the top of their laborious climb, they discovered that a protruding ledge denied them their final few feet of ascent. They could not get over it, but neither could they now retreat from it. They were stranded. After careful maneuvering, John found enough footing to boost his younger brother to safety on top of the ledge. But there was no way to lift himself. The more he strained to find finger or foot leverage, the more his muscles began to cramp. Panic started to sweep over him, and he began to fear for his life.</em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div id="p6" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p6">
<em>Unable to hold on much longer, John decided his only option was to try to jump vertically in an effort to grab the top of the overhanging ledge. If successful, he might, by his considerable arm strength, pull himself to safety.</em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div id="p7" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p7">
<em>In his own words, he said:</em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div id="p8" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p8">
<em>“Prior to my jump I told Jimmy to go search for a tree branch strong enough to extend down to me, although I knew there was nothing of the kind on this rocky summit. It was only a desperate ruse. If my jump failed, the least I could do was make certain my little brother did not see me falling to my death.</em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div id="p9" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p9">
<em>“Giving him enough time to be out of sight, I said my last prayer—that I wanted my </em><em>family</em><em> to know I loved them and that Jimmy could make it home safely on his own—then I leapt. There was enough adrenaline in my spring that the jump extended my arms above the ledge almost to my elbows. But as I slapped my hands down on the surface, I felt nothing but loose sand on flat stone. I can still remember the gritty sensation of hanging there with nothing to hold on to—no lip, no ridge, nothing to grab or grasp. I felt my fingers begin to recede slowly over the sandy surface. I knew my life was over.</em><br />
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<div id="p10" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p10">
<em>“But then suddenly, like a lightning strike in a summer storm, two hands shot out from somewhere above the edge of the cliff, grabbing my wrists with a strength and determination that belied their size. My faithful little brother had not gone looking for any fictitious tree branch. Guessing exactly what I was planning to do, he had never moved an inch. He had simply waited—silently, almost breathlessly—knowing full well I would be foolish enough to try to make that jump. When I did, he grabbed me, held me, and refused to let me fall. Those strong brotherly arms saved my life that day as I dangled helplessly above what would surely have been certain death.”<sup class="noteMarker" noteref="1"><a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/print/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet?lang=eng&clang=eng#1-12565_000_46holland">1</a></sup></em></div>
<em></em><br />
He then beautifully related this story to the life and soul-saving rescue that happens for each of us as the Savior extends his hands and opens his arms of mercy to save each one of us from impending doom. Speaking of this, he said,<br />
<br />
<div id="p17" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p17">
<em>...today we celebrate the gift of victory over every fall we have ever experienced, every sorrow we have ever known, every discouragement we have ever had, every fear we have ever faced—to say nothing of our resurrection from death and </em><em>forgiveness</em><em> for our sins. </em></div>
<div id="p18" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p18">
<em></em> </div>
<div id="p19" uri="/general-conference/2015/04/where-justice-love-and-mercy-meet.p19">
<em>...Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, suffered, died, and rose from death in order that He could, like lightning in a summer storm, grasp us as we fall, hold us with His might, and through our obedience to His commandments, lift us to eternal life.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
One of my favorite hymns is "God Loved Us, So He Sent His Son". The third verse almost always brings tears to my eyes:<br />
<br />
Oh, love effulgent, love divine!<br />
What debt of gratitude is mine,<br />
That in his offering I have part<br />
And hold a place within His heart.<br />
<br />
His rescue has made all the difference in my life without Annie.<br />
<br />
He is the reason that I am ok.<br />
<br />
Better than ok. <br />
<br />
There was a time when (just like my friend in the restaurant), I didn't know that I would ever be happy again.<br />
<br />
But, I am.<br />
<br />
Because of Him.<br />
<br />
I know that I will see her again, <em>and because I know that</em>, I can be happy in the meantime.<br />
<br />
Because of Him.<br />
<br />
What debt of gratitude is mine for the part of His offering that belongs to me.<br />
<br />
How thankful I am to have experienced His love, His grace, and His rescuing power in my life.<br />
<br />
It really has made all the difference.</div>
Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-55070607485313952942014-08-01T09:34:00.002-06:002014-08-01T22:49:39.118-06:00Raindrops From HeavenThe last month of Annie's life was excruciating.<br />
<br />
For all of us.<br />
<br />
It really was. <br />
<br />
It still makes me shudder when I let myself <i>really</i> remember that time in our lives. I have never felt more alone. I have never been more desperate for comfort; truly, agonizingly, achingly desperate.<br />
<br />
I remember describing that it actually hurt to breathe at times. <br />
<br />
That sounds crazy. <br />
<br />
But, that is how it felt to live through some of those days. That is how it felt for me. <br />
<br />
I can hardly bear to imagine how it felt for Annie. <br />
<br />
I know I have already written some about this, but I want to share an experience today, on her four- year angel day, that has stayed with me all of these years.<br />
<br />
One morning in July of 2010, I stopped by my sister-in-law's house to drop my kids off on the way to the hospital. I remember that I came inside for a few minutes to change Hadley's diaper before I left. And I remember that she (my sister-in-law) was getting her baby out of the tub while I was kneeling on her living room floor with Hadley at my knees. My sister-in-law's own sweet daughter was born just a few weeks after Annie, and as I watched her carry that baby wrapped up snug in a towel my heart just broke in two. I was caught completely off-guard by my reaction to such a small thing, but in that moment, to think of the everyday regular things (like baths and fluffy towels) that Annie was missing out on was more than I could bear. Not once, in Annie's entire life, did she get to take a bath; at least not a bath like that. Until that day at my sister-in-law's home, a real bath had not even been on my radar of things to be sad about. But this particular morning, it completely crushed me.<br />
<br />
I got in my car and I wept as I drove towards the hospital. At first my tears were sad, broken-hearted tears. But, it did not take long before I was crying tears of frustration, bitterness and even anger. I almost never felt anger during Annie's life. But I was angry that day. <br />
<br />
I started a conversation with my Heavenly Father right there in my car. This was a regular occurrence for me during Annie's life, but this time, the conversation was different. This time, I really let Him have it. And by that, I mean that I held absolutely nothing back. I didn't choose my words carefully. I didn't filter my thoughts. I vented. I cried. I begged.<br />
<br />
And, I told Him that I felt abandoned by Him. <br />
<br />
I said the words out loud that I had been feeling for days, but had not dared to vocalize. <br />
<br />
Especially to Him. <br />
<br />
I held nothing back.<br />
<br />
In the midst of this heated (on my part) conversation, a big fat raindrop hit my window. At first, I didn't think it was (or even could possibly be) a raindrop, because in every direction from my vantage point there was nothing but blue sky and sunshine. I literally could not see a cloud in the sky. But then, another, and another, and another hit my windshield and before I knew it, I was turning on the wipers to clear the rain so I could see the road clearly. <br />
<br />
Now this seems like a silly thing, and of course, there is an explanation for the rain (there was a cloud above my car that I simply could not see from my place in the driver's seat). And, I know that I am not the first person to experience a summer rain cloud surrounded by an otherwise beautiful blue sky. <br />
<br />
A small thing really. <br />
<br />
But that day, it was everything to me.<br />
<br />
In my broken-in-every-way state, with tear drops falling freely from my cheeks, I found long-sought comfort in those rain drops falling freely from the sky. Such a simple thing, I know. But, I honestly felt like Heaven was weeping with me that morning. Somehow, I felt like my suffering was acknowledged and for the first time in good while...<br />
<br />
I didn't feel alone in it.<br />
<br />
He was with me.<br />
<br />
I felt Him there. <br />
<br />
He didn't care that I was angry and frustrated with my situation and even with Him. He didn't care about my unbecoming meltdown in the car that day. <br />
<br />
He just cared about me. <br />
<br />
That's it. <br />
<br />
One daughter out of countless daughters. <br />
<br />
He cared about me.<br />
<br />
I've never forgotten it.<br />
<br />
I've had other hard days and times since that unbelievably hard time in my life.<br />
<br />
I've even had more unbecoming meltdowns since that morning in my car.<br />
<br />
But, I have never forgotten that He was with me that day.<br />
<br />
I've never forgotten those raindrops from heaven.<br />
<br />
And I never will.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-70102326327441375202014-03-28T13:57:00.001-06:002014-03-28T14:27:51.121-06:00Tender Mercies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_Bdl7-EJGUsZGpHojZLUO9BTWFJXkZsRqFONx3921uhAMzrszZqnHENNUyC7erBuIRmVo7pChW35fycS84cBhoIJYyFUnUO5AwX-C7c2AmHPyBDzvlvH23661SfkGtLtnx6tJS7llMC8/s1600/HadleyWall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_Bdl7-EJGUsZGpHojZLUO9BTWFJXkZsRqFONx3921uhAMzrszZqnHENNUyC7erBuIRmVo7pChW35fycS84cBhoIJYyFUnUO5AwX-C7c2AmHPyBDzvlvH23661SfkGtLtnx6tJS7llMC8/s1600/HadleyWall.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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This little cutie-pie turned 5 in December. I love this girl and often say to others that she has been SO good for my heart these last few years. When I found out that I was pregnant with Annie, I cried, in part because Hadley was only 6 months old at the time, and I couldn't fathom how I was going to add another baby to the mix <em>and</em> keep my sanity.<br />
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I knew my tears were selfish, but I couldn't deny my feelings (or stop the tears for that matter). At that time, I had no idea about Annie's complicated heart defects and the toll that they would take on her life and mine. And still, consumed in self-pity, I questioned Heavenly Father's timing in sending another little one to our family.<br />
<br />
I just could not see the wisdom in it.</div>
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Fast forward a few months and we found out that not only were we welcoming a daughter, but this baby was going to have a tough time. Her life was not going to be easy. We knew then that even if things went well, she and we would be spending a significant amount of time at the hospital. By this time, I knew that Annie was meant for our family. I no longer questioned Heavenly Father in sending her to us.<br />
<br />
But, I still wondered about the timing. Hadley was too young to understand any of it, and I wished that she was older; that the gap between these two was wider.</div>
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Annie was born and things didn't go as well as we had hoped they would. For the next several months, I spent every single day (except one, when I was sick) in Annie's hospital room. She had to be my number one priority, and while I knew that I was making the right choice, I felt guilty about the impact this might be having on my children at home, especially Hadley who was surely wondering why Mom was leaving her every day.<br />
<br />
Again, I wished that she was older, and assumed that this would all be a bit easier if she were.</div>
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Four months later, Annie died.</div>
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I was home again. </div>
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Just like that, it was over. </div>
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I had my old life back.<br />
<br />
But I was not my old self.<br />
<br />
The new me had a hole in my heart that just would not quit. </div>
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I still have a hole in my heart.<br />
<br />
But I can now see that Heavenly Father's ways are (and always were) so much higher and better than my ways. What I thought was terrible timing on His part, was, in reality, one of the greatest tender mercies He has ever shown me. </div>
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He knew that Annie wasn't staying for long. He knew that she wasn't coming home to us. He knew that her life and her death would introduce me to a soul-crushing grief that my previous self didn't even know was possible. He knew that when she was gone, when she was really gone, my heart and my arms would literally ache to hold and rock and cuddle that precious, priceless, youngest daughter.<br />
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He couldn't let me keep her. He couldn't give me that. But, he could give me another daughter that loved to be held and rocked and cuddled and snuggled tight. And, He could send these two girls close enough together that the big sister hadn't outgrown all of these things when He called the little sister home. </div>
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He could give me that.</div>
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All of my kids have been snuggly-bugs, but Hadley is by far the snuggliest. Even now, at the age of five, she is happy to curl up on my lap or in my bed and just be held. She is not a replacement for Annie. No one ever could be. Hadley is her own beautiful person that lights up our family in so many ways. She is adored and loved by every single one of us. But, I have no doubt that her place in our family was divinely appointed. She was meant to be a barely bigger sister to our precious little Annie. The Lord was in all of it. Every detail. I didn't understand it. But He did. And in His infinite wisdom and love, He granted this blessing to me that I did not ask for or deserve.</div>
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A beautiful tender mercy.</div>
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Almost four years ago, while waiting for Annie to come out of one of her many surgeries, I passed the time hand-stitching this quote by Elder David A. Bednar onto a piece of fabric:</div>
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"The tender mercies of the Lord are real and they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Faithfulness, obedience and humility invite tender mercies into our lives, and it is often the Lord's timing that enables us to recognize and treasure these important blessings. 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."</div>
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I loved this the first time I heard it (years before Annie was born). I love it even more today. </div>
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His tender mercies are real.</div>
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I know that, for sure.</div>
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Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-23190881373469190772013-08-01T16:45:00.000-06:002013-08-26T07:22:47.145-06:00August 1, 2010The phone was ringing and it was way too early for the phone to be ringing. I knew what the caller ID said without even looking at it. I knew it was the hospital. With my heart in my throat, I answered the call. I tried to listen carefully as the doctor on the other end explained what was happening to my daughter's swollen and oh-so-tired body. I tried to hear her telling me details about blood gasses and IV access and kidney failure and on and on and on. I tried to hear her, but my heart was breaking too loudly to hear much of anything. I hung up and knew that it was over.<br />
<br />
Our fight for her life was over.<br />
<br />
For four months we had been waiting for and aching for some resolution, and now we would finally have it. Not the answer that we hoped for, but an answer still.<br />
<br />
Our little baby was not coming home to us.<br />
<br />
She was going home to Him. <br />
<br />
We gathered our other children on our bed to share the news with them. We wept as any family would. Yes, we believe in eternal families. But that doesn't mean that we don't mourn the loss of those we love, and we mourned deeply that morning. I can still see it. I can still feel it. The truth is, I am still mourning her. I think we all are.<br />
<br />
Cameron and I left for the hospital and arranged for the kids to meet us later that morning. We asked the older children if they wanted to be with us when we said goodbye. They said yes. My sister came to be with the little ones.<br />
<br />
When they arrived, we huddled around Annie in that crib that had been a prison and a home to her for so many long months. We cried. We told her how very much we loved her. We told her that we knew it was time for her to go to heaven and that we would be O.K. Somehow, we would be O.K.<br />
<br />
We prepared to do what we never thought we could.<br />
<br />
Together, we removed every line and monitor from her bruised and broken body. Together, we held her close while she took her final breaths and passed away. <br />
<br />
Together, we let her go. <br />
<br />
We held her lifeless body. We dressed her in the blessing dress that would instead now be her burial dress. We took handprints, and footprints and pictures. <br />
<br />
After some time, the mortician came. I could not bring myself to hand her over to him just yet. So, I asked if I could carry her to his car. I think my request was unusual, but he said yes, so I wrapped her snug in a blanket, like I did all my babies when we left the hospital. Only this was nothing like leaving the hospital with my other babies. I was led through back hallways and "employee only" elevators and through a parking garage that I had not known existed, to his waiting car. He asked me to lay her on the front passenger seat. I was taken aback that this was where he wanted me to place her, but I could not think of what a better alternative might be, so I obliged, and placed her in his car and finally in his care. This man was so kind and patient with a grieving mom that was not making it easy for him to do his job the way he probably usually does his job.<br />
<br />
We walked back to her room where we lingered for hours. I think we didn't know how to leave and not come back tomorrow. I think we were afraid to put every earthly piece of her life into a wagon and haul it to our car. What then? Put it in a box on a shelf? What about tomorrow? How were we going to wake up and not call to see how she did through the night? How were we not going to drive to this hospital and walk through these doors in the morning, knowing that she would be here waiting for us? How were we not going to feel her spirit (her spirit that had lived in this room for so long) every day for the rest of our lives? How?<br />
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We did not know how.<br />
<br />
The next several days were a blur. I was amazed to see that life was still going on for the rest of the world. People were shopping and vacationing and enjoying the last of summer. I was even more amazed to find that our lives were still going on. We were living and breathing and making plans. Yes, we were planning a funeral and a future without our baby.<br />
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But, we were living and breathing and planning.<br />
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And, here we are three years later. We are getting really good at living and breathing and planning in her absence, but we have not forgotten her and we never will. We will always miss Annie.<br />
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Sometimes I don't just mourn her, I mourn the person that I used to be. That person didn't really know about loss. That person didn't really know about suffering. That person didn't know what it is to be so broken and so helpless to fix it.<br />
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I'm a different person for sure. <br />
<br />
In my broken state, I have learned something that maybe I could never have learned another way. I have learned <em>how much</em> I really need a Savior. I have learned how much I <em>need</em> and <em>want</em> to be saved from being broken. I need Someone who can heal. I need Someone who can carry. I need Someone who can bind a heart and hold a family together across forever.<br />
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I need Him.<br />
<br />
We all do.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-53258672929159064432013-03-30T23:06:00.002-06:002013-03-31T00:44:32.142-06:00He Is The ReasonAnnie would have been three today.<br />
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She would have played with her cousins at the family party this afternoon.<br />
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She would have hunted for eggs and eaten way too much candy.<br />
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She would have an Easter dress lying out for church tomorrow; one that matched her sisters.<br />
<br />
She would have blown out the candles on her birthday cake and we would all be eating her favorite flavor of ice cream tonight.<br />
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The pink balloons that we sent to heaven last night would, instead, be all over our house.<br />
<br />
She would have snuggled up with our family to watch a movie tonight.<br />
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She would have been three...<br />
<br />
We all miss her so much. A couple of months ago, I found this note that Ellie had drawn/ written: <br />
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As evidenced by this sweet note, Annie is never far from our thoughts and hearts. She is very much a part of our every-day family life and always will be. I love that her birthday is on Easter weekend this year. It feels so perfect to celebrate the life of our daughter today and the life of our Savior tomorrow... to celebrate them together. It is perfect because He is the reason that we can celebrate her. He is the reason that I didn't cry ALL day today. He is the reason that we can move forward with hope and happiness in our lives, knowing that someday, she will be with us again. It is perfect to celebrate them together this weekend, but, in truth, we always celebrate them together. <br />
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Because He lives, she will too. <br />
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He is The Reason.<br />
<br />
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<br />Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-6417577760153543992012-10-08T00:46:00.000-06:002012-10-08T01:09:29.389-06:00Fullness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
This weekend, as we listened to General Conference, several messages touched my heart, but none quite like this one:</div>
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"Remember, as you attended the funeral of your loved one, the feelings in your heart as you drove away from the cemetery, and looked back to see that solitary casket, wondering if your heart would break?...</div>
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"I testify that, because of Him, even our Savior, Jesus Christ, those feelings of sorrow, loneliness and despair will one day be swallowed up in a fullness of joy."</div>
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Elder Shayne M. Bowen</div>
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In my journey with Annie, I have become acquainted with sorrow, loneliness and even, (during her last few weeks with us) despair. There are no words to describe how anxious I am to experience the fullness of joy that will one day be mine when I have this angel back in my arms again, and our family is finally and forever together. </div>
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I'll be missing her till then.</div>
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<br />Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-76936998312652571782012-09-30T19:36:00.000-06:002012-09-30T19:43:40.621-06:00Running for AnnieIn the weeks after Annie died, Cameron and I started running a bit. I don't consider myself to be a runner by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought that it might be good therapy for both of us. Way back then, we talked about the idea of possibly running a 10K and dedicating it to Annie. One night, after a late run, we sat in the dark on the front lawn and set a goal to someday run from our home, to her grave, and back (approximately 7 miles round trip). At the time, my longest run was 2.5 miles and to run seven seemed impossible. Winter came, I stopped running, and those goals faded.<br />
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More than a year passed before I again started to seriously consider running for Annie. I knew that running was not my favorite thing, but I couldn't help but feel that it would be neat to do something hard, something really hard, in honor of my daughter who did unbearably hard things every minute of every day of her life. I know there is no comparison between running a race and living with and dying from heart defects. I really know that. But, it still felt like a good idea, and I couldn't help but think that Annie would be proud of her mom. I committed to run a 10K. Then, with some coaxing from friends, I changed my mind and decided to do a half marathon. 13.1 miles. Unthinkable at the time. But I set the goal, I paid the entry fee for the race, I loaded my ipod with every song that reminded me of Annie (as well as plenty that would motivate me to run faster) and I went to work.<br />
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I started running again.<br />
<br />
I ran 2 miles. Then 3. Then 4. <br />
<br />
One early morning, I left my house and about a mile into my run, I decided that this would be the day that I would run to Annie's grave. Instead of taking my usual route, I changed my course and headed towards the cemetery. It was a beautiful morning. I reached the cemetery just as the sun was coming over the mountains. Realizing that I was finally accomplishing a goal that I had set so long ago, I wiped the tears from my eyes, blew my daughter a kiss and ran home. From that day on, all my long training runs included passing by Annie's grave and blowing her a kiss. I didn't look forward to running every day, but some days it was just what I needed. Often, I could feel Annie close, and the memories of my time with her were part of every single run. <br />
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Race day came early. 3 o'clock in the morning early. Cameron and I got very little sleep that night, but arrived in time to load the busses along with the thousands of others that would be running the race with us. The bus drove us up the canyon to the starting line where we waited in the dark for the race to begin. At 6 am we started running. My only goal for that day was to run the entire time (no walking) and enjoy it as much as possible.<br />
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It was difficult. There were moments when I really wanted it to be over (especially miles 10 and 11) but, I did it! My race time is nothing to brag about, but I did it. The best part, hands down, was the final stretch to the finish line. My whole heart was with Annie and this was a really emotional experience for me. Something I will never forget.<br />
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I don't know if I will run another race, but I'm so glad I ran this one.<br />
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Love you, Annie.<br />
<br />
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Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-51007978742298794102012-05-20T18:47:00.000-06:002012-05-20T18:47:00.828-06:00Annie's HeadstoneAnnie's headstone was finally placed last week on the day before Mother's Day. I was not expecting it until the end of the month and was so happy that they finished it early. It took us so long to finalize our plans for her bench because I wanted it to be perfect. Thanks to our neighbor and friend, who helped us to design it, I couldn't be happier with how it turned out. Thanks to all who made it possible!<br />
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It has been a while since I've posted. Too long. I'm not even sure anyone reads this blog anymore, but I still want to record some of the happenings of our family regarding Annie. It's just nice to have a place where I can put some of my feelings and thoughts down. We celebrated Annie's birthday in March and it was a really sweet occasion. Last year we were out of town on her birthday so we just did a simple celebration with the family members that were with us. This year we were home and able to do more to honor her special day.
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Our families joined us at our house where we assembled sibling kits for PCMC (Austin's eagle project). We then watched a video that I made of Annie's life. We sang Happy Birthday and ate cupcakes and homemade icecream.
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To end the evening, we went into the backyard to release balloons. Some wrote messages on their balloons before we sent them to heaven.<br />
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Before we let them go, we sang "Families Can Be Together Forever." Each balloon had a little light in it and watching them float into the night sky was beautiful (the pictures really don't do it justice).<br />
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The kids loved it. I loved it. I hope Annie loved it.<br />
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Ellie asked me that day as we were picking up balloons and getting ready for the party, "Mom, when you send a balloon to heaven, how do you know that the right baby gets it?" We had five babies in our ward die in a 2-year period, and I think in Ellie's mind, heaven is filled with babies. This girl is always thinking and wanted to be sure that her little sister was going to get her birthday balloons that night. It reminded me of a tender moment I had with her a few months after Annie passed away. We had been in a store where they sell balloons. I bought Ellie and Hadley each a balloon and tied them to their wrists. Ellie managed to get hers off her wrist and, as I was buckling Hadley into her carseat, she accidentally let it go. This wasn't the first time Ellie had lost a balloon and, judging from past experiece, I knew that she was going to throw a major fit. I could hear the panic rising in her voice as she watched her new balloon float out of reach and just as I braced myself for her wail, she stopped, and said to herself, "It's o.k. I'm sending my balloon to Annie." I had to swallow the lump in my throat as I hugged her tight and together we watched her balloon disappear from sight. Ellie melted my heart that day. Ellie was only three when Annie died. I did not know how much of an impact it would have on her life. I have overheard her say to her friends, "One day, I went for a walk at the hospital, and when I came back, my sister had died. I was so sad." I have listened to her play "house" and tell others that she was the mom and that her baby had died. Just last week, she said to me, "Mom, <em>why</em> did you take Annie back to the hospital after you brought her home?" She was thinking that if we hadn't taken her back, she would still be alive and here with us. Ellie was so young during Annie's life and death, but Ellie is processing and grieving just like the rest of us. I'm so grateful that I can teach her that "Families Can Be Together Forever" is not just a song we sing. It's something we believe and she <em>will</em> see her baby sister again.<br />
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(Ellie blowing out the candles on Annie's cupcakes...and yes, she is wearing a dress-up outfit!)</div>
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<br />Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-41718395778944629722011-11-30T10:56:00.000-07:002011-11-30T10:56:33.293-07:00For Every Untold StoryThis year, our family decided to do another tree for Annie at the Festival of Trees. We miss her always, but somehow, it hurts even more during the holidays. This past Halloween, I followed behind my two little daughters, both dressed in their princess costumes, when my heart was pierced with the thought that there should be one more- I should have three little princesses running ahead of me on the sidewalk. While we cannot keep ourselves from the "if only's," planning and decorating Annie's tree has proven to be therapeutic for our entire family. It feels good to honor and remember Annie in this way and we are always happy to give back to the hospital that invested so much in her. Thank you to all who helped. Thank you for your love... it means the world to us. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em>FOR EVERY UNTOLD STORY</em></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><em>Our sweet Annie Grace was born on March 30, 2010. In spite of her serious heart defects, we had many reasons to hope for her future, and we dreamed of the day that we would bring her home to our family. We held onto that hope as she faced her first open-heart surgery at three-and-a-half weeks of age. We clung to that hope when she endured, yet another, open-heart surgery at just over two-months old. As the days and weeks stretched into months spent in the cardiac intensive care unit at PCMC (every day filled with endless procedures and surgeries), it was our hope that gave us the strength to walk through those hospital doors day after agonizing day. Near the end of Annie’s life, the doctors told us that there was no hope for Annie and that our dream of bringing her home would not be realized. </em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><em>With broken hearts, we said goodbye to our blue-eyed angel on August 1, 2010. In four short months, Annie changed everything for us. While the doctors were right about most things, we are grateful that they were wrong about one thing: we still have hope for Annie… and we still dream of the Heavenly day when she will “come home” to our family. Until then, we will miss her every single day. We will miss first steps and first words. We will miss bedtime kisses and good-morning hugs. We will miss pigtails and ribbons and hair tied-up in bows. We will miss teaching her to drive and watching her fall in love. Until we have our Annie back again, we will deeply miss her “every untold story.”</em></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR66jJGwzPslSrBAc0Z_v23WC1Gm7t63Vxwgan1y4_Li42rfbGUCcp-653srGjD35SHoxkIm1klaKTWdNGprDgAbTeriKHPcTnvUN1VKVKWXZlVSqR-1LNJshMRKNU55MUzegz1RTnapyU/s1600/IMG_1844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR66jJGwzPslSrBAc0Z_v23WC1Gm7t63Vxwgan1y4_Li42rfbGUCcp-653srGjD35SHoxkIm1klaKTWdNGprDgAbTeriKHPcTnvUN1VKVKWXZlVSqR-1LNJshMRKNU55MUzegz1RTnapyU/s400/IMG_1844.JPG" width="267" /></a></div>Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-89687789950473085392011-09-19T00:16:00.000-06:002011-09-19T00:16:29.784-06:00Time OutThis last weekend, I had the opportunity to attend a Time Out For Women conference in Logan, Utah. My good friend and neighbor, Emily Freeman, was one of the featured speakers and she included in her talk a small piece of our journey with Annie. I attended the conference with three of the other mom's that Emily refers to in this clip. I love these women and know that it cannot be an accident that we all ended up in the same ward together. They have been a huge support to me and I am grateful for their love and friendship. Thank you Emily, for a wonderful weekend!<br />
<br />
(Pause the music before watching the video)<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="290" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jyX5i6o0MMw" width="540"></iframe>Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-86456499376821449162011-08-01T00:35:00.008-06:002011-08-22T09:47:22.516-06:00125 DaysDear Annie:<br />
125 Days. That’s how long you shared your life with me. I was given 125 days to know your strong and gentle soul. Not as many as I would have liked, but more than enough to change the course of my life. 125 days of not knowing what would be… every day filled with some combination of hope and dread and fear and faith. 125 days spent aching for you to get better and come home to us. 125 days of heaven so close that some days I could actually feel it. 125 days filled with lessons that I would rather have learned another way… lessons that I know I could <em>never</em> have learned another way. <br />
<br />
As we reach your first angel day, I feel some relief in knowing that for the next few months, there will not be any anniversaries- no dates that bring searing and painful memories to mind when I reflect on where we were a year ago. Before you, anniversaries were always something to be celebrated. Not so, anymore. This is not to say that we don’t cherish every moment that we had with you. We just experienced a lot of moments and milestones that we never wanted for you… your first echocardiogram, your first of countless IVs, your first feeding tube, your first MRI, your first (and only) intubation, your first surgery (followed by your second and your third and your fourth surgeries), your first infection… so many firsts, and then, all too soon, your very last breath.<br />
<br />
While I have not allowed myself to focus too much on specific dates over the last four months, some are so etched in my heart and memory, that they will always be with me. In the years ahead, these dates will be significant to me, even if there is nothing written on my calendar.<br />
<br />
<strong>March 30, 2010: the day you were born.</strong> We were nervous, but surprisingly peaceful as we arrived at the hospital that morning. We even laughed at the funny things that happened to us while we were being checked in. The long months of anticipating your arrival were finally over and we were anxious to meet you and love you and be with you in whatever would come. Nervous? Yes. Ready? We hoped so. Willing? More than. We did not know if you would even take a single breath on your own, and the wish of my heart that day was that you would. I prayed to hear you cry at least once before you were whisked into the NICU and likely placed on a ventilator.<br />
<br />
In the end, you came quickly, as my babies often do, and the conclusion of my labor was somewhat chaotic. In the final moments, the nurses and doctors rushed me to a room that was adjacent to the NICU and where an entire team was waiting for you and all the complications that your anatomy might present. You were born and we held our breath, hoping that you would breathe. I will always remember the moment that you did. Just as you were handed through the window into the arms of the NICU team, you cried and we rejoiced. A sweet and tender mercy.<br />
<br />
<strong>April 23, 2010: your first surgery.</strong> We had so hoped to wait until you were bigger before this day came. We even brought you home in an effort to help you grow stronger. As it turned out, time was not on our side, and at three-and-a-half-weeks of age, you endured your first major open-heart surgery. I will never forget walking down that hall with you. Letting you go into the operating room that day was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I remember clearly standing at the point in the hall where we were to kiss you and say goodbye. I remember signing some last minute forms while the anesthesiologist kept you alive with that green bag hooked to your portable oxygen tank. You looked stressed, I think because you could tell a difference between being hand-bagged and the ventilator. I wanted to be strong, but as we watched you go, I could not stop my tears. I was scared, and prayed that you were not. After many long hours, we were finally reunited with you. Nothing could prepare us for how you would look after surgery –so incredibly bruised and swollen. But, you were still with us, and we counted our blessings that night. <br />
<br />
<strong>April 26, 2010: “Black Monday”.</strong> We came so close to losing you on this day. I have often wondered, now that I know that we would never bring you home again, why you stayed. Why did you hang-on and fight like you did when it would have been so much easier for you to go? Why did you choose to stay in your tiny broken body, when staying meant that you would suffer like you did? Was your extended mission for me? For you? For others that would come to know and love you? My guess is that you stayed for all of us. I do believe that you had some choice in the matter and I am in awe of your courage. I am deeply grateful for the time that your fight gave us and others to really know you. <br />
<br />
<strong>June 3, 2010: your second major open-heart surgery.</strong> What a quiet morning this was at our house. We awoke with heavy hearts, knowing that within a few short hours we would walk down that dreaded hall with you again. I still remember where we knelt and prayed that morning. I remember knowing that we could not offer more fervent prayers than we did that day for you. We spoke very little on that early-morning drive to the hospital. The world, and even the PICU, felt hushed and reverent to me that day. I was grateful for this, as it helped to calm my very troubled heart. This time around, we waited in your room for the surgery updates. We appreciated the privacy, but your absence was even harder to endure because of where we were. Room #11 had become sacred ground to our family. But, without you there, it was just an empty, hollow room. You are what made that room (and later Room #10) sacred. <br />
<br />
<strong>July 4, 2010: your blessing day.</strong> I had been holding off on this because I wanted to bring you home and bless you there. Somehow I felt that blessing you at the hospital meant that we were giving up our hope for you. However, as your prognosis deteriorated, I knew that we could not wait any longer without risking that we would lose you first. Your blessing day was a sweet and sacred occasion. Instead of the beautiful white dress that we planned to dress you in, we wrapped you in our favorite blanket (the one that hangs on your crib today) and had our first family picture taken with you. We met our families on the third floor balcony and then walked down to your room together. We were quite a sight, as they normally allow 2 visitors per patient at a time, and we had close to 30 people that came to share your blessing day with us. That day, I hoped that you could feel the power and the love that was in your room. It was inspiring to witness so many worthy priesthood hands reaching into the circle that surrounded your tiny crib to bless you that afternoon. This is one moment in your journey that I will always treasure.<br />
<br />
<strong>August 1, 2010: the day you died.</strong> I answered my cell phone very early that morning with my heart in my throat. I knew that the hospital would not be calling with good news. I hung up knowing that this day would likely be your last. We gathered your siblings on our bed and told them that you would probably be going to heaven very soon. We cried together that morning. We cried for our sister, our daughter, and for ourselves. Dad and I left for the hospital alone, with plans for the others to arrive later. We spent a few quiet hours with you. Because it was Sunday, the Sacrament was brought to your room and blessed and offered to us. I will never forget holding my dying baby in my arms that day, so swollen, so broken, and so bruised, while partaking of these sacred emblems –emblems representing the Savior’s own broken, bruised and bleeding body. I was humbled by this powerful reminder that His sacrifice held the promise that you (and we) would, one day, be healed and made whole again. One of our favorite nurse practitioners joined your dad in giving you your last father’s blessing. Tender and tear-filled, your dad made sure you knew that you were loved. Your siblings arrived at the hospital and after lots of hugs and tears and whispered love, we slowly removed each monitor, every line, and finally, the respiratory therapist removed your breathing tube. We passed you between us and held you close as you took your final breaths and peacefully left your worn-out body behind. I love to think that you left us that day and ran, free from every line and tube and cord, straight into the arms of your Savior. I love to think of you being cared for by Heavenly Parents until we, your earthly parents, can be with you again. I love to imagine the family reunion that happened in heaven on August 1, 2010. A happy occasion for heaven, I am sure. <br />
<br />
These are just a few of the 125 days that we lived through with you. I hope you know that in 125 days, you changed everything for me and I pray every day that I will live my life in a way that honors your life and your mission.<br />
<br />
Love<em> always</em>,<br />
MomAmy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-12831209691584607722011-03-30T00:18:00.000-06:002011-03-30T00:18:40.508-06:00Happy Birthday AnnieDear Annie, <br />
<br />
Happy Birthday, sweetheart. Could it really be, that an entire year has passed since you took your first breath and began your life with us? Part of me wonders where the time has gone. And then, another part, feels as though I have been missing you for ages. So many things have happened since we said goodbye: our family has taken a much-needed vacation; we have welcomed fall; frosted Halloween cookies; eaten way too much for Thanksgiving dinner; spent Christmas morning un-wrapping gifts in our new pajamas; celebrated the beginning of another New Year; bundled up for fun in the snow, and snuggled up to stay warm by the fire; and now, your birthday is here, and Spring is upon us at last. All of these...without you. These traditions, seasons, and holidays that have long been a part of our family will never be the same because we will always be missing you, always wondering how it might be different if you were here. <br />
<br />
When you were just over 2 months old and fighting for your life, I made a request on your blog. I asked those that loved you and were praying for you to write you a letter. I planned to put these letters in a book so that someday you could experience what we were experiencing every day of your newborn life. I desperately wanted you to know that your life mattered to so many people, that you were deeply loved, and that your heart, even your very broken heart, touched countless hearts. I wanted you to feel even a piece of the immense love that we were surrounded with at that time in your life. I hoped this book would lift your spirit on the sad days and bring you courage on the hard ones that you would surely face. I did not know then what I know now. I did not know that ten months later, we would celebrate your first birthday without you here. I did not know that you would never read those letters and that, in spite of my original intentions, they would instead be a gift to lift my spirit and give me courage to face the sad, hard days without you. <br />
<br />
I, of course, wrote a letter to you then, but feel to write a new one now- now that I know that you were not meant to stay with us for more than a few short months; now that I know that your fight for this life would end before we realized our dream of bringing you home and watching you grow. <br />
<br />
Annie, the four months I shared with you were an incredible time in my life. Most of your life was a sacred and sweet experience for me. Some of it was extremely painful. To watch a child that you love, suffer like you suffered, has to be one of the most agonizing things a parent can endure. During the last month of your life it became increasingly difficult for me to walk through those hospital doors every day. Most days, before getting out of my car, and in the darkness of the parking garage, I cried, and prayed for courage. I wanted to be near you always, but in those final weeks, your dad and I, for the first time in your life, carried the excruciating weight of making life and death decisions for you on our own shoulders. There was no longer a consensus from the medical team and many had lost hope that you could survive all that you were facing. We had to choose every single day if we would continue the fight for your life or end your suffering and let you go. We prayed mightily to know what should be done and struggled to find the answers that we desperately sought. In the end, you, thankfully, made the decision for us, and we knew we had to let you go.<br />
<br />
What a strange thing grief has turned out to be. I always wondered how families dealt with something as tragic as losing a child. And now, I am learning first hand, that while life does indeed go on, even the smallest thing can take you right back to a time and place when your loved one was here. A certain song, a particular street, even a wristband from an amusement park, or something as small as raindrops on a windshield can have me re-living a piece of my life with you in vivid detail. Last month, I was in a public restroom that reminded me of one at the University of Utah hospital. In an instant, I was flooded with the memory of locking myself in that bathroom, placing my back against the wall, and sliding to the floor in quiet, uncontrollable sobs. I had just been told that our hopes of taking you home soon would probably not be realized. Instead, you would likely be having open-heart surgery in the coming days. The doctor that broke this difficult news to me also informed me that he did not know if you would live. Desperate for a moment of privacy, I escaped to the nearest bathroom and found solace in that unlikely place. While this memory had been forgotten and came unexpectedly, other memories are with me every day, and I choose to visit them, usually because I want to feel you close. Almost every morning, I lay in bed for at least a few minutes and think of our time together. There is something special about these quiet, waking moments and my thoughts are almost always with you. <br />
<br />
Your dad perfectly describes this part of grieving as “unpacking” the memories. It’s almost as if the memories we have of you sit on a shelf while we keep up with the necessities of life and then, either by surprise, or by choice, we pull the box down off the shelf and “unpack” a memory, remembering every tiny detail of a particular moment in our journey with you. I have found that all the memories, even the good ones, carry a piece of pain with them. It just hurts to live without you here.<br />
<br />
Annie, as I said previously, your life touched many lives, mine especially. While I have not relished learning the lessons of suffering, loss and grief, I cherish the lessons I have learned of enduring hope, forged faith, tried patience, willing trust, human kindness, and perfect love. <br />
<br />
You are so loved. You are forever ours, and for that I am most grateful. Elder Holland once spoke the following words that have helped us through some of our darkest days:<br />
<br />
“Some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don’t come until heaven. But for those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ, they come. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.” <br />
<br />
I do trust. And I do believe. I have every hope of good things to come with you. Until then, you will <em>always</em> be in my heart. I love you.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mom<br />
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</div>Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-46946173434462890572010-12-25T12:55:00.005-07:002010-12-27T09:49:21.405-07:00Merry Christmas 2010: Our Letter And Card<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 286px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554711025037652674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8bo8ejQQ8A_YUusE0JGcvlkEs03ng9dZgAwyDski0NP0St_sMGdGzUsxI2O68PqkUKYvCYr83O18rnUoCEV7qkz3i2_hujAogFAYHfs3FsiDS9oWaaFnI9fYSGvlvK6WoQLDmwwOlSaY8/s400/Christmas2010x3.jpg" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUG6xS68sSm1IlNeQAM7VwaB33nJxHM-kU5U2wIXfT5bjnmGGPPqpuTRnPy3Isw-c5optDRCdkQkUr3VHD4QKP5t29745sUD0GEXeA6cg3_BAofKSs2y89B012hnD_O1UifISE3_-C6rL/s1600/AnnieGrace2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554711203673799266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUG6xS68sSm1IlNeQAM7VwaB33nJxHM-kU5U2wIXfT5bjnmGGPPqpuTRnPy3Isw-c5optDRCdkQkUr3VHD4QKP5t29745sUD0GEXeA6cg3_BAofKSs2y89B012hnD_O1UifISE3_-C6rL/s400/AnnieGrace2.jpg" /></a><br />Dear Loved Ones,<br />I have given much thought to what I might share in our family Christmas card this year. In the past, this letter has included fun tid-bits about each child and a general picture of how our year went. I can’t think of any tid-bits to share this year. Not because there aren’t any, and not because we haven’t laughed at plenty of funny things that our kids have said or done, but because 2010 has been a remarkable year for our family. This year will always be defined by the life and death of our youngest daughter, Annie. Many of you have followed the details of our journey with Annie on her blog. Those that haven’t and would like to know more can find her story at anniesinmyheart.blogspot.com.<br /><br />Last month I was asked to speak to a group of women and was given the topic, "Angels Among Us." I was grateful for the opportunity that this gave me to express gratitude for the angels that have blessed our lives this year. It is this same topic that is on my mind as I write this letter.<br /><br />There is a scripture found in the Doctrine and Covenants that I have loved for as long as I can remember. It is the 88th verse of the 84th section and it reads, "And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up."<br /><br />15 years ago, I spoke at my brother’s missionary farewell. I shared this scripture and bore testimony that I knew that angels would accompany him on his two-year mission to Argentina. I knew that when he found himself in a foreign land among strangers and far from home and family, unseen angels would be with him and, as promised in this verse of scripture, they would encircle round about him and bear him up. I knew that angels would protect him; they would comfort him; they would guide his feet and bless his journey.<br /><br />Just over four months ago, I shared this same scripture at my daughter’s funeral. My testimony of unseen angels was stronger than ever after spending four months in a hospital that had become sacred ground to me. Never has the veil been as thin for me as it was during the many weeks that I spent within the halls and walls of Primary Children’s Hospital. I know that there were many unseen angels encircling me and my family and that they were sent to bear us up in our time of need.<br /><br />However, when I shared this scripture and mentioned angels at Annie’s funeral, I was not referring to these unseen angels. Instead, I was speaking of the many people that had become angels in our lives through their love and Christ-like service to our family.<br /><br />Before Annie was born, Cameron and I, knowing of her heart defects, tried to prepare for every scenario we could imagine. Upon her arrival, we were quickly humbled as we realized that our preparation was no match for what we faced. There was no way we could do it all. We could not even come close to taking care of the needs of our family at home while investing the time and energy necessary at the hospital with Annie. There was simply not enough of either one of us to go around. We quickly set priorities, letting things like yard work and housework fall to the bottom of the list. Even then, we needed to feed and care for five children at home. They still needed rides to school and clean clothes to wear. Groceries still had to be bought and food still needed to be placed on the table. While all these things needed to happen, we were consumed with anxiety and grief for the suffering of our youngest daughter – sometimes so much so, that it was hard to function in any capacity outside of her hospital room. It was too much for any family to carry alone and we needed help – lots and lots of help.<br /><br />Our need was great, and just as promised in the scripture that I shared previously, Heavenly Father sent angels to encircle our family and bear us up. He sent angels to feed our children, to wash our clothes and tend our little ones. He sent angels to drive kids to school and angels to visit us at the hospital. He even sent angels to weed our yard, mow our lawn and mop our floors. Angels left cards and notes and treats on our doorstep. They filled our mailbox and our inbox with words of love and encouragement. Angels brought groceries and planted flowers. They spent lots of time making sure that our five children at home felt loved and not forgotten. When Annie died, He sent angels to help us plan her funeral and honor her life. Angels came and went, often anonymously and without recognition for their good deeds. Words will never be able to adequately express our deep gratitude to these many angels. Whenever we talk about Annie’s life and the service that we received from so many, Cameron and I both describe the feeling that we had for four months was that of being carried – carried by angels in our ward and in our family, angels that worked at the hospital and angels that we also know as friends.<br /><br />The scars from this experience are still fresh. We know that we will never be the same. Our hearts have never ached like they sometimes do now that Annie is gone. But our hearts have also never been filled with gratitude like they are now. We have a new appreciation for the many things with which we have been blessed, and angels are at the top of our list. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland said that "heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind." We have felt heaven close. We have felt God’s love for us and know just of what Elder Holland speaks. We are deeply grateful that God, knowing that we would suffer such loss, took great care to place us among so many angels that could and would help us lift what seemed an impossible burden. Thank you for being our angels.<br /><br />Merry Christmas and much love,<br />Cameron, Amy, Austin, Ashleigh, Hayden, Ellie and Hadley Sabin<br /><br /><br /><div></div>Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-69071639151623405672010-12-07T18:55:00.014-07:002014-07-09T23:18:12.348-06:00Annie's Tree<div style="text-align: center;">
Through the incredible generosity of others, we were able to honor Annie with a tree at the Festival of Trees this year. Cameron's co-workers at Stoel Rives offered to sponsor the tree, and our families helped to supply the gifts beneath it. Thank you to all who made this happen! Cameron and I were both surprised at how therapeutic this was for us. We miss her so much and can't help but imagine what our holiday season might be like if she were here. Her stocking hangs on the mantle with those of our other children, reminding us every day of our sixth child that will never race up the stairs on Christmas morning to see what Santa brought for her. It lifted our hearts to decorate this beautiful tree, and pile all these beautiful gifts around it- gifts that she might have received if she were here. Again, we feel such deep gratitude to the people that have rallied around our family this year. Your love has made such a difference in our lives. We can't say thank you enough.</div>
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Below are pictures of Annie's tree and a copy of the bio that was included with her picture.</div>
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Annie's Bio for the Festival of Trees</div>
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On December 30, 2009, three months before she was born, we learned that our Annie had heart defects. Her official diagnosis was tetralogy of fallot with absent pulmonary valve. For the next several months, we waited anxiously for her birth, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. On March 30, 2010, Annie Grace Sabin was born, and we immediately fell in love with her. She surprised us all when she did not have to be placed on a ventilator at birth, and for three beautiful weeks, we were able to hold her in our arms and close to our hearts. While she fought for every breath during this time, we cherished every minute we had with her. However, as she struggled more and more to breathe, it was decided that she needed to have open-heart surgery, and, on April 23, we watched our tiny infant daughter go into the operating room for the first time. This photograph was taken the day before she was placed on a ventilator and two days before her first surgery. Never again, until the day she died, would we see her without the ventilator tube taped to her mouth. What we hoped would be fixed with a single surgery, turned into something much more complicated. Over the course of her four-month life, Annie endured four major surgeries (two requiring bypass) and multiple minor surgeries. She was taken to the brink of death several times and continually amazed us with her will to live. She fought valiantly to be here with us. Her fight allowed us precious time to memorize tender details: her beautiful blue eyes, her long slender fingers, and the dimple in the middle of her top lip. More importantly, these months gave us a chance to really know her gentle, patient spirit. Every day with Annie was a gift. She taught us so much in her short life. Annie died on August 1, 2010. Again in our arms and close to our hearts, she took her last breath and passed away peacefully. We miss her. We love her. We will never be the same.</div>
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Cameron and Amy Sabin </div>
Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-82838801098522805452010-08-29T23:26:00.022-06:002010-08-30T11:13:34.081-06:00NeverThe past month has been a bit of a whirlwind as we have said goodbye to our sweet daughter and worked to catch up on the "normal" lives we left behind when she was born. In general, we are doing as well as one could hope. Mostly, we are at peace, but it does feel like there will always be a hole in our hearts; a piece that we will never get back, at least not in this life. I suspect that the hole will become a part of our new normal without Annie, but, that in time, the pain will subside and it won't always hurt like it does now.<br /><br />A few nights ago, I was looking through some of my old blog entries and realized that I didn't really finish the story of Annie's life very well. For those that have only followed her life through this blog, the end probably seemed abrupt. In some ways, it was, as we held onto our hope that she would turn a corner and get better until her very last day with us. The last month of Annie's life was filled with suffering for all of us. It was by far, the most painful thing I have ever endured, and I pray that I will never be called to pass through this kind of suffering again. However, there were so many sweet moments along the way and it is not hard to see that Annie's life was a remarkable gift to me and many others. I am deeply grateful for the four months I was given to know Annie and for the sweet that was mixed in with the bitter all along the way.<br /><br />For those that did not attend Annie's funeral, I just want to share an excerpt from my talk as I feel it completes the story of her journey with us on this earth and gives you some idea of how we are coping with her death.<br /><br />"Last winter, I read an article written by Elaine S. Dalton in which she related the true story of a young girl named Agnes. Agnes was a pioneer, and at nine years of age, she crossed the plains with the Willie Handcart Company in 1856. Agnes later recounted her own journey as follows:<br /><br /><em>Although only tender years of age, I can yet close my eyes and see everything in panoramic precision before me – the ceaseless walking, walking, ever to remain in my memory. Many times I would become so tired and, childlike, would hang on the cart, only to be gently pushed away. Then I would throw myself by the side of the road and cry. Then realizing they were all passing me by, I would jump to my feet and make an extra run to catch up.<br /></em><br />She continues:<br /><br /><em>Just before we crossed the mountains, relief wagons reached us, and it certainly was a relief. The infirm and aged were allowed to ride, all able-bodied continuing to walk. When the wagons started out, a number of us children decided to see how long we could keep up with the wagons, in hopes of being asked to ride. At least that is what my hope was. One by one they all fell out, until I was the last one remaining, so determined was I that I should get a ride. After what seemed the longest run I ever made before or since, the driver…called to me, “Say, sissy would you like a ride?” I answered in my very best manner, “Yes sir.” At this he reached over, taking my hand, clucking to his horses to make me run with legs that seemed to me could run no farther. On we went, for what to me seemed miles. What went through my head at that time was that he was the meanest man that ever lived…Just at what seemed the breaking point, he stopped. Taking a blanket, he wrapped me up and lay me in the bottom of the wagon, warm and comfortable. Here I had time to change my mind, as I surely did, knowing full well by doing this he saved me from freezing when taken into the wagon.<br /><br /></em>My journey with Annie has been very different from Agnes’ journey across the plains, but it is not hard for me to relate to her story. In the beginning of her journey, even walking was difficult. She described throwing herself by the side of the road and crying, only to get up and keep going. I am sure she wished, at times, that she did not have to make the journey. At the start of my journey with Annie, I too cried and wished that I would not be required to make this journey. I cried about simply being pregnant, and cried even more when we learned about Annie’s heart. Like Agnes, I knew I had no choice but to get up and keep going. I know we both grew stronger as the journey progressed; muscles that had previously been dormant were stretched and exercised daily. Growth was happening every single day. And yet, the trail grew increasingly difficult for both of us. I would guess that she, like I, had days so dark that she wondered if she would ever see the sun again. The journey for each of us became almost unbearable. Agnes described running along the side of the wagon, holding to the driver’s hand, desperate for relief. She said that she felt she could run no farther and yet, he required her to run for what seemed like miles. There were so many days with Annie where I felt sure I could run no farther. Many times, I told my Heavenly Father in prayer that I could not endure even one more day and yet the days stretched on and on. Towards the end I felt my hand continually outstretched, seeking God’s. I knew that He was with me, but I could not always feel Him there. I was desperate for relief and ached for the Comforter to be with me. Agnes questioned the motives of the wagon driver and there were days when I wondered what a loving Heavenly Father was seeking to accomplish by allowing such extreme suffering. Agnes said that in the end, the wagon driver stopped, scooped her up, wrapped her in a blanket and laid her in the bottom of the wagon where she could rest. It was then that she knew that what she thought was cruelty on his part was actually mercy- an act that saved her very life. In the last moments of Annie’s life and after she had passed, I too felt as though I was lifted from my suffering, wrapped in the comfort of the Holy Ghost and carried in the arms of my Savior. At last, I could see that all was well, and in every way: physically, emotionally and spiritually, I finally found rest in Him. I was able to trust that these experiences, even the great suffering that we endured, will be for our eternal good.<br /><br />I have been blessed to know that Annie accomplished all that she needed to on this earth. I feel deep gratitude to have the honor of being her mother. I know that she will stand as a beacon to our family, guiding us home to her. I count the time I had with her as one of the greatest blessings I will ever receive. She taught me more in her short life than I could have learned in a lifetime otherwise. I learned that a hospital can be sacred in many of the same ways that the temple is sacred; I learned the goodness of humanity- that the world is full of really good people, people that care about the suffering of others and are moved to help lift another’s burden; I learned what it feels like to have the Savior so close that His presence is almost palpable; I learned, as David A. Bednar once said, that 'the tender mercies of the Lord are real and they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence;' I learned that a loving Heavenly Father does not leave us alone in our trials and if we can’t feel Him we just need to hold on- in time, He will lift us from our suffering and we will feel the sun again; I learned a new appreciation for the gift our Savior gave to each of us when He was resurrected and made sure the promise that not only will Annie live again, but with a perfect heart- a beautiful gift that I will never take for granted."<br /><br />I know that Annie is in a better place. I look forward with great anticipation to the day when I will be with her again. Until then, I hope the hole in my own heart will serve as a constant reminder to me of ALL that she taught me along the way- a reminder of how her life impacted mine for the better. I know that my heart will<em> </em>never forget those bright blue eyes and her even brighter spirit. I will <em>never</em> forget this beautiful angel daughter that graced my life with hers. <em>Never</em>.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-36749631519096306312010-08-13T23:40:00.004-06:002010-08-14T00:30:57.011-06:00Love You, Annie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXvlVz6w3modCa5Sh7l5WdUb5cihirXq7CBvJ5O15m6Rl6HJk-GdFsUQSrpDz99TFw1PdeXdepdx5PjQBj_vDevDscWk1BeJpWg5L7lgoYERgpxWh74xKWUOnpd2lJvSSe1EOkwzHvzUf/s1600/Annies+memorial+8-9-10+(24).JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505149242164487474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXvlVz6w3modCa5Sh7l5WdUb5cihirXq7CBvJ5O15m6Rl6HJk-GdFsUQSrpDz99TFw1PdeXdepdx5PjQBj_vDevDscWk1BeJpWg5L7lgoYERgpxWh74xKWUOnpd2lJvSSe1EOkwzHvzUf/s320/Annies+memorial+8-9-10+(24).JPG" /></a><br /><div>Annie's memorial service was beautiful. I can't say thank you enough to all those who helped make it a wonderful day. Thank you to my ward members, friends and family for taking care of all the details. The table displays, the flowers, the balloons, the pictures and video, the programs, the luncheon: they were all perfect. Thank you to Hilary Weeks and Tyler <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Castleton</span> for playing and singing the song "You Give," that has been on this blog for so many months. This song has carried me through more dark days than I count. Thank you to all of Annie's cousins for singing "The Family Is Of God"- you sounded beautiful! Thank you to my dad for offering the family prayer and to Cameron's dad and Bishop Brandt for speaking- you each brought the Spirit to Annie's day. And finally, thank you to all those that came to show their love and support to our family on Monday. Again, we were overwhelmed by the love of so many. It really was a sweet day: a beautiful tribute to a beautiful girl. We miss her so much it hurts, but have been surprised at how generally peaceful we have felt. We are so grateful that Annie is not suffering anymore. We feel joy in our knowledge of the plan of salvation- that we really do know that Annie is not gone from us forever. This little angel will always be a part of our family. A piece of my heart will forever be hers. I remember saying in the beginning that I knew I would never be the same after knowing and loving Annie. I can say today that this is the case. Among other things, because of her, I will love a little deeper, cry a little easier and cherish the details of every day a little more. I will always count my time with Annie as one of my life's greatest blessings. I love you, baby girl.</div>Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-21786821410050858162010-08-04T00:57:00.006-06:002010-08-04T01:08:24.122-06:00Annie's Obituary<div align="center"></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">ANNIE GRACE SABIN<br />March 30, 2010 – August 1, 2010<br /></div><div align="left"><br />Our sweet Annie Grace passed away peacefully on August 1, 2010 at Primary Children’s Medical Center from complications associated with congenital heart defects. Her bright eyes, patient spirit and seemingly endless will carried her and us through many dark days. Annie fought courageously and relentlessly to overcome her physical challenges, which at times seemed insurmountable. Though her life here was short, she touched many. We know she continues to live on elsewhere and to carry on that work there. We are heartbroken by our loss, but trust in a loving Heavenly Father to care for Annie until we can be with her again. </div><div align="left"><br />Annie is survived by her parents, Amy and Cameron; her brothers and sisters, Austin (13), Ashleigh (10), Hayden (7), Ellie (3), and Hadley (1); and her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. </div><div align="left"><br />We give special thanks to family, friends, and loving ward members who walked this road with us and, at times, carried us. We could never have made it through without you! We also express love and appreciation to the wonderful doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, and others at Primary Children’s Medical Center who loved and cared for Annie and our family. We are much better people for having known and loved you. We hope that Annie’s life will be seen for the miracle that it was – that we were allowed four precious months to know and love her, and to witness her impact on so many. </div><div align="left"><br />Funeral services for Annie will be held at 11:00 a.m. on August 9, 2010 at the Lehi North Stake Center, 3200 N. 600 E., Lehi, Utah. A viewing will be held prior to the funeral services from 9:30 to 10:30 a.m. Interment will be at the Lehi Cemetery. Funeral services will be provided by Warenski Funeral Home. </div>Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-1289971528998342052010-08-01T21:00:00.004-06:002010-08-01T21:14:49.891-06:00Sweet Annie GraceOur sweet Annie Grace passed away today. Never has a little girl been more loved than this one. Our hearts are broken, but hers is no longer. We feel peace in knowing that she is free from the pain and suffering that has always accompanied her in this life and look forward with great anticipation to being with her in the next. We are not able to say thank you enough to all that have carried us through this journey. We could never have endured this impossible burden without the countless angels that have served and blessed our family over the past several months. We love you. Thank you for loving us.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com75tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-64173718703888864202010-07-28T13:52:00.003-06:002010-07-28T15:17:37.488-06:00A Fine MessI know that this post is way overdue. Annie is not doing well and it is has been hard to do anything but be with her right now. Although Annie came through Friday's surgery well enough, within 24 hours, she was struggling again. The fluid that we were hoping would decrease after surgery has come back with a vengeance, and she is again putting out more than a liter a day. In addition, Annie responded to this surgery as she has to surgeries in the past: with lots of swelling. The swelling makes it <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">difficult</span> for her lungs to expand and for the ventilator to give her the size of breath she needs to be well oxygenated. If she gets upset, this only makes the problem worse as she bears down in anger and fights against the ventilator, leading to a very scary cycle that is difficult to break. These issues began Sunday night, and when I arrived on Monday morning, it was clear that Annie was in really bad shape. The doctor wanted to meet with us and discuss where we should go from here. He told us that, as far as they are concerned, there is no hope that Annie can recover. I asked why, in spite of her terrible condition, had her kidneys and blood pressure suddenly improved. He had no answer for this, but told me that it did not matter as the chest tube output had not decreased with the surgery. He encouraged us to think about removing the support that we are giving Annie and letting her pass. He explained that, ethically speaking, there is no difference between putting a breathing tube in and taking one out. That while she is alive, it is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">because</span> of the artificial support that she is being given and therefore, we might find peace in knowing that her death would be a "natural" one. Maybe that sounds good when you read it in a medical journal, but no journal article can account for what it is to be the mother of a bright-blue-eyed four month old daughter that is SO there. Granted, she makes no sound, but she is still there. She maintains eye contact for long periods of time and listens closely when I talk to her. She has a personality that is patient and mild. She has a spirit that lives in this body and who am I to decide when her mission is done? Her quality of life is not what I would want for any baby, but this is her life and she has known very little otherwise. Interesting, how her life is not viewed as inhumane until the doctors have nothing else to offer her. Of course, we don't want her to suffer; we love her more than anyone else possibly could. We did tell the doctor that if the struggle on the ventilator should continue, we were not willing to stand by and watch her starve for air for days on end; that if that were the case, we would view withdrawal of support as a merciful decision on her behalf. However, we have seen Annie swell many times in the past and watched her recover again and again. The doctor told us that he fully expected her swelling and breathing issues to worsen and never get better. Thankfully, he was wrong, and the swelling has decreased and she is again being ventilated successfully. <br /><br />And, there you have it: what a fine mess we are in. We told the doctor yesterday, that as long as we can keep Annie comfortable, we would like to give her time and see if she will make the decision on her own. Neither one of us feels comfortable making this choice for her right now and are praying mightily that we will not ever have to. The truth is that we still have hope for Annie; we hope every day that things are going to get better and she will begin an upward climb. I don't think we will be done hoping until she is gone. At the same time, we fully understand that, medically speaking, her condition is hopeless. Finding peace between hope and hopelessness is quite a challenge. A fine mess indeed.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-37712901946649056412010-07-23T23:07:00.003-06:002010-07-23T23:38:52.724-06:00Hoping For Good NewsAnnie came through today's surgery just fine. She was in the operating room for nearly three hours, after which, Dr. Burch let us know how he felt the procedure went. He said that while about 65% of people have one major thoracic duct, the remaining 35% have a variation in this area of the lymphatic system. Not surprisingly, Annie fell in the group with a variation. He said that where a single thoracic duct would typically be found, he was able to instead see two large ducts and several smaller ones in the surrounding tissue. He ligated and placed staples in all the ones that he could see. He then used a glue to cover the area and hopefully seal any leaks that he had missed. He told us that while he had intended to do a pleuradesis (scraping of the chest wall that they did during her last major surgery), he found that the lung had already formed scar tissue and was adhered to the chest wall. Therefore, the pleuradesis was not necessary, except for in the small area that he had been working. We were so glad to hear this, as we believe that this is what Annie responded so poorly to last time. Following today's surgery, Annie has done quite well. She is swollen, but not drastically more so than she was this morning. Her pain has seemed to be well controlled and tonight she is resting comfortably. Over the course of the next few days, we will see if this surgery has been successful in decreasing her chest tube drainage. We are, as always, hoping for some good news in the coming days. Thank you for all the prayers that have been said on behalf of Annie and her doctors today. We appreciate each and every one.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-7671362321301506202010-07-21T19:23:00.017-06:002010-07-22T22:17:34.672-06:00Holding FastMonday morning, as I was reading articles online (I do this all the time right now), I decided to look up <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">chylothorax</span> (a condition that we believe Annie has and could be causing much, if not all, of the drainage from her chest). I had already read these articles, weeks before, but began to review them again. As I read about the treatment options for this condition, I realized that we have tried all but one: a thoracic duct ligation. We were planning to do this during her last surgery, but the night before she went into the OR, Dr. Burch let me know that he didn't think it was necessary and that he wanted to avoid having to operate on her right side, which he would have to do in order to ligate the duct. He proceeded with the surgery on her left side, and not only did she respond very poorly to the operation, it did nothing to decrease the drainage. After reading about the procedure on Monday, I started asking some of the doctors why a ligation was not an option at this point in time. After talking with several doctors, I realized that while I was not alone in thinking that this might be successful, Dr. Burch was opposed to doing the procedure. Hoping to understand his views better and to possibly convince him to try once more to resolve all the drainage from Annie's chest, Cameron and I requested to meet with him. Tuesday afternoon, we sat down with him and discussed the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">possibility</span> of doing this minor surgery (of course, we know that no surgery for Annie is minor at this point). He let us know that he does not feel optimistic that a thoracic duct ligation will put an end to all the fluid and is concerned about how Annie will respond to any procedure, as she is obviously very fragile right now. He told us that he does not have hope that Annie will survive, regardless of what we do. However, he said he was willing to do the procedure, if that is what we wanted. Next, we met with the head of cardiology and he let us know that they had received word from Stanford. Interestingly enough, the only recommendation that they made was to do a thoracic duct ligation. After meeting with both of these doctors, Cameron and I decided to ask Dr. Burch to do the ligation. We are, of course, very worried about how Annie will respond to another surgery, but do not believe that we will feel peace in her passing if we don't turn over this one last stone. Dr. Burch is planning to do the surgery sometime on Friday.<br /><br />What a long and difficult struggle this has turned out to be. When Annie was born, I could never have predicted that we would be here, almost four months later, <em>still</em> holding our breath in anticipation of what will be. In one moment, our hearts are filled with hope, and in the next, they are heavy with despair. Some days, I feel complete trust in the Lord to carry out what I know is His perfect plan, and others, I feel nothing but panic at my inability to control any of this. More than once, we have been taken to the brink of death with Annie, sure that she cannot survive much longer, and yet, she lives on. So much contradiction. So much back and forth. So little ability to keep the peace that comes and goes. Last week, I joked with one of the Nurse Practitioners that when our days in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">CICU</span> are behind us, I might need to be treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He quickly <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">responded</span>, in all seriousness, that this may indeed be necessary. This same NP spent almost an hour with me today, talking about the toll that all of this is taking on my life and offering excellent advice on how to cope with the immense stress and pressure that I am under every day. He was recently an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">LDS</span> bishop and, because we share the same beliefs, we were able to talk about the spiritual elements of this journey as well. During the conversation, he referred to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jospeh</span> Smith's experience in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Liberty</span> Jail. He pointed out that even though Joseph had already seen God the Father once, and Jesus Christ on more than one previous occasion, at this dark time in his life he questioned where They were. He wondered how They could stand by and watch his suffering without intervening. The Lord responded to his cry and promised peace and future blessings to Joseph if he would endure the trial well. I was so grateful that he talked about this, because every single day this week, I have read and re-read these exact verses of scripture and have felt some of what Joseph felt then. In spite of previous experience that has taught me otherwise, I have sometimes felt alone in this. At times, I have <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">pled</span> for peace and felt none. And yet, like Joseph, I have also felt His promise of future peace and blessings, no matter how Annie's fight for this life ends. I am holding fast to that promise and doing my best to endure this well.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-39803438554964129362010-07-16T12:28:00.005-06:002010-07-16T15:14:48.313-06:00UpdateNot much has changed since my last post, but I figured I was due for an update. Annie is a little less swollen and much more comfortable than she was last weekend. I am so grateful for this as we all struggle the most when she is miserable. She is still draining too much fluid, and while there are many theories as to why, the bottom line is that nobody really knows. She was again discussed in the conference on Wednesday and the results of that meeting are as follows: The surgeons here do not feel that there is anything more that they can do for Annie. Some people in the meeting thought that maybe we should send her work-up to a different hospital in the country so that another team could weigh in on her condition. We felt good about this, and today, her file is being sent to Stanford. We will hopefully hear back from them next week. While I am so grateful that we are able to pursue other opinions, the thought of actually taking Annie to California scares me. If it comes to this, it would be a very difficult challenge for our large family, but I trust that with our Heavenly Father's help, we will be guided in any decisions that might need to be made. The doctors here want to try a couple of different medications, each one a bit of a shot in the dark, but certainly worth a try. The team also discussed our decision to "stay the course" when some feel that this is hopeless. It sounds like many opinions were expressed, but the prevailing sentiment was that while they are obligated to be honest with us regarding Annie's condition, it is not their job to decide when it is truly hopeless. The team of doctors on this week has been wonderful in this regard. I am so thankful for this, as the hardest days are those when I feel pressured to make a decision that I am not comfortable with or feel unsupported in the decisions that we do make. We have been introduced to the palliative care team here and they have been such a blessing in helping us to communicate with the ICU doctors about our wishes regarding Annie's care. Really, this hospital and its' staff have been amazing- such good people that all want what is best for Annie. We are blessed to be in their care. We are also blessed to be in the care of so many who have offered love, support and prayers to our family. Thank you for this as I know that it is where I get the strength to do this every day.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202508664406663918.post-40043165760073726342010-07-13T15:05:00.004-06:002010-07-13T15:56:19.424-06:00Tough SpotFor some reason, it is so hard to update this blog right now. I think it is because we are struggling to figure out which direction Annie is going. We still have hope that Annie is going to pull through this, but she has not made any great strides in that direction. The good news is that her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">SVC</span> appears to be open and free from clots right now. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">The</span> doctors ended the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">tPA</span> yesterday morning and she seemed to tolerate it well enough. The bad news is that she is extremely swollen and is still putting way too much out of her chest tubes (about half of what she was, but still too much). I have decided that needing a miracle is a tough spot to be in. I keep thinking of all the stories in the scriptures when miracles were granted and feel a certain degree of sympathy for those that had to exhibit faith in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. We certainly don't feel like we deserve or have earned a miracle in any way, but have not given up hope that one might still be granted. The last couple of weeks have been, by far, the most painful of this entire experience as it has become increasingly difficult to feel peace. I am so grateful for the moments when I have felt peace and pray that peace will be with me in the days and weeks ahead.Amy Sabinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617138995661777971noreply@blogger.com10