125 Days

Dear Annie:
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 never have learned another way.

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.

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.

March 30, 2010: the day you were born. 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.

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.

April 23, 2010: your first surgery. 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.

April 26, 2010: “Black Monday”. 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.

June 3, 2010: your second major open-heart surgery. 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.

July 4, 2010: your blessing day. 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.

August 1, 2010: the day you died. 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.

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.

Love always,
Mom

Happy Birthday Annie

Dear Annie,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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:

“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.”

I do trust.  And I do believe.  I have every hope of good things to come with you.  Until then, you will always be in my heart.  I love you.

Love,
Mom

Merry Christmas 2010: Our Letter And Card

Dear Loved Ones,
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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Merry Christmas and much love,
Cameron, Amy, Austin, Ashleigh, Hayden, Ellie and Hadley Sabin

Annie's Tree

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.

Below are pictures of Annie's tree and a copy of the bio that was included with her picture.

Annie's Bio for the Festival of Trees

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.

Cameron and Amy Sabin

Never

The 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.

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.

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.

"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:

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.

She continues:

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.

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.

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."

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 never forget those bright blue eyes and her even brighter spirit. I will never forget this beautiful angel daughter that graced my life with hers. Never.

Love You, Annie

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 Castleton 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.

Annie's Obituary

ANNIE GRACE SABIN
March 30, 2010 – August 1, 2010

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.

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.

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.

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.