August 1, 2010

The 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.

Our fight for her life was over.

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.

Our little baby was not coming home to us.

She was going home to Him. 

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.

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.

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.

We prepared to do what we never thought we could.

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. 

Together, we let her go. 

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. 

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.

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?

We did not know how.

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.

But, we were living and breathing and planning.

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.

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.

I'm a different person for sure. 

In my broken state, I have learned something that maybe I could never have learned another way.  I have learned how much I really need a Savior.  I have learned how much I need and want 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.

I need Him.

We all do.

He Is The Reason

Annie would have been three today.

She would have played with her cousins at the family party this afternoon.

She would have hunted for eggs and eaten way too much candy.

She would have an Easter dress lying out for church tomorrow; one that matched her sisters.

She would have blown out the candles on her birthday cake and we would all be eating her favorite flavor of ice cream tonight.

The pink balloons that we sent to heaven last night would, instead, be all over our house.

She would have snuggled up with our family to watch a movie tonight.

She would have been three...

We all miss her so much.  A couple of months ago, I found this note that Ellie had drawn/ written:

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. 

Because He lives, she will too. 

He is The Reason.

Fullness

This weekend, as we listened to General Conference, several messages touched my heart, but none quite like this one:

 

 

"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?...

 

  

"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."

Elder Shayne M. Bowen

 

 

 

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. 

 

I'll be missing her till then.

 

 

 

 

Running for Annie

In 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.

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.

I started running again.

I ran 2 miles.  Then 3.  Then 4. 

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. 

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.

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.

I don't know if I will run another race, but I'm so glad I ran this one.

Love you, Annie.

Annie's Headstone

Annie'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!

Happy Second Annie!

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.

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.

To end the evening, we went into the backyard to release balloons. Some wrote messages on their balloons before we sent them to heaven.

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).

The kids loved it. I loved it. I hope Annie loved it.

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, why 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 will see her baby sister again.

(Ellie blowing out the candles on Annie's cupcakes...and yes, she is wearing a dress-up outfit!)

For Every Untold Story

This 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.

FOR EVERY UNTOLD STORY

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.

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.”