Her room

The nursery. 

I worked so hard getting everything just right. Colors, bedding, matching baskets holding her teeny tiny diapers, and those pink polka dots we lovingly painted. From her adorable crib right down to her freshly washed socks, everything was perfect.

But now I can't go in there.

If I walk past her room and the door happens to be open, I quickly shut it without even glancing inside. I can't do it. 

I can't bear to see all of her folded clothes. I don't want to see the dress she wore, the blanket she was wrapped in. I don't want to sit in the corner rocking chair.  I've had so many dreams with me sitting there, cradling and nursing my baby. 

I've tried to talk myself into it. But I can't.

I spoke to a dear friend about this. She also lost a daughter and has been an amazing support to me. I told her I am frustrated. I told her I want to go in Molly's room. I feel weak that I can't do it. She lovingly said, "Take your time. There is no right way to grieve. Don't rush yourself. You'll go in her room when you're ready."

This small comment made a tremendous impact on me. I know it sounds strange, but it was as if an enormous stress was lifted from me. I don't have to go in Molly's room if I'm not ready. And I'm not.

Thoughts

All I want to do is sleep. Exhausted doesn't even describe how I feel.

My sweet mother in law decides to stay for an extra week after the funeral. I literally don't know what I would do if she wasn't here. The whole week, she insists on doing everything. She cleans, cooks, and takes care of the kids.

I am on survival mode.

After she leaves, I find myself alone in my grief for the first time. We had constantly been surrounded by family and loved one.s But now everyone has gone, the flowers and notes have stopped coming. The rest of the world is back to normal, and why shouldn't they be?

I feel like I am frozen in time. I can't go back and change what has happened. And I can't seem to go forward.

The questions and regrets start flooding my mind. What if the infection was caught sooner? What if we had somehow been more aware of what was happening? I wish I had spent more time with her. I wish I had taken more pictures. Why is this happening to us? Aren't we good parents? These discouraging thoughts keep rolling around in my head.

The sky is getting darker. The rain is coming down in sheets. The clouds are so thick I can't breathe. This storm is raging so violently that I wonder, where is the peace I so desire? Where is my sliver of hope? Then I realize that sometimes when you're in a heavy downpour, you have to rise up above the clouds in order to see the bright light of the sun. It was there all along, I just couldn't see it.

Our Savior is always there. Whether we see it or not, He is there! Sometimes He comes to us, and sometimes it is up to us whether we are going to rise above the storm to get to His light.

The next day

I jerk awake and realize it's the middle of the night. The tears instantly form as reality comes crashing back. I hold the pillow close to stifle my sobs, but instantly push it away to protect my aching breasts. I slowly sit up, trying to not use my stomach muscles. My incision is still so painful.

It's time to pump. The doctor told me not to because pumping will only cause more milk production. But I can't help it. The pain is too much right now. I'll try stopping in a few days.

As I sit there for the next ten minutes, I try to fight back the tears. I know that if I start crying now, I won't stop. And I don't have the energy right now for a cry-fest. I doze on and off as I pump till I'm finally comfortable enough to lie back down.

But now I can't shut my mind off. The images of the day before keep playing in my mind. It's like a horrible movie. I know the ending but it never changes. And I keep watching it over and over.

I must've fallen asleep at some point because the next time I open my eyes, there is light coming through my windows. 

It's Sunday.

I hear movement out in the kitchen but the last thing I want to do is get out of bed. I don't want to go to church. I know I should, but the thought of seeing people right now just about kills me. I don't want to try and act normal when my life is far from it.

Tyler comes through our bedroom door and makes his way to the bed. He sits by me and simply takes me in his arms. Sometimes there are no words. 

We both decide to stay home from church together. I'm grateful to have him by my side. We spend the day in bed, listening to music from the production,  "The Lamb of God," and sharing thoughts and feelings with each other. 

It turns out to be a peaceful day and for that I am grateful. I just want to hold onto this feeling. I want to bottle it up so I can use it when I'm running low.

And I know those days are coming.

Faith

Is faith conditional?

We prayed and prayed for a righteous desire. We are good parents and wanted so badly to have this cherished daughter in our arms. It would've been so easy for our Savior to heal her.

But He didn't.

So is my faith gone? Because I prayed for something and it didn't happen, do I lose all hope and trust in Heavenly Father's plan? Do I think to myself, prayers don't work?

No.

Faith is not conditional. I need my Savior now more than ever. Without Him, I am nothing. Without Him, my Molly would not have the opportunity to be resurrected. I still have faith that she could've been saved, if it were part of the plan.

All I have is my faith. Faith in my Savior. Faith that He will continue to lift me. Faith in my Heavenly Father's plan for me. Faith that we truly will see Molly again, and eventually be all together as a family.

We arrive at the cemetery. The clouds in the sky threaten to release their built up moisture. I almost wish they would. It would be as if the heavens are crying with me.

We park and get out of the car. Again, Tyler takes Molly in both arms, and we slowly walk to the tent the mortuary has set up.

We all sit together and listen to Tyler dedicate her grave. His emotion is raw.

Afterwards, we go through the motions and thank everyone for coming. We take pictures. We give hugs and send people on their way. And I feel numb.

We aren't burying her today. We couldn't get a permit in time because of the holiday. So the burial is going to be on Tuesday. I wish we could lay her to rest today. I don't want to wait.

Suddenly, I want to go home and sleep.

But we all drive back to the church to enjoy a meal that the sweet Relief Society has put together. After eating and visiting with our dear family and friends, I am exhausted.

We pull into our driveway at home. I don't want to go in, but I don't want to stay in the car. I don't want to see my family, but I want them to envelop me in their love. I sit there and ponder these strange feelings of not knowing what to do.

I think of Molly all alone in her "basket" and my milk comes down. The sorrow hits me again with tremendous force and I don't think I can take it.

With every last ounce of energy, I get out of the car and slowly put one swollen foot in front of the other. Entering the house, I'm shocked to feel a sliver of peace enter my heart. I collapse on the couch and spend the rest of the night visiting with my family. They take turns sitting by me, massaging my swollen feet. I look at my sausage toes and realize they must really love me. Even my 22 year old brother lovingly applies lotion on my puffy feet and rubs away the ache.

Now it's time for bed. After praying with Tyler, I set my alarm for my pain meds and slip in between the sheets.

I ponder everything that has just happened. I'm so exhausted, I can't even cry.

I fall asleep that night holding Tyler's hand, thinking about what it means to have unconditional faith.

Be Still My Soul

When I was young, my mom would always say, "You'll never know how much a parent loves their children until you have your own."

This phrase comes back to me as we drive to the funeral home. Although I know she is no longer here, I realize I'm actually excited to see her little body. It's been two days since we said goodbye at the hospital and I'm anxious to hold her again.

We walk into the funeral home and Lucie instantly runs to Molly and scoops her up. She snuggles her for a few minutes while we greet our family members. When it's time to let others have a turn with Molly, Lucie is reluctant to pass her over. I'm so relieved to see how comfortable she is with Molly. I was concerned about Lucie and Brigham because I didn't know what Molly was going to look like, how much color she was going to have, but she looks perfect. 

We take turns holding her before it's time to dress her in the little red dress. When it's my turn, my motherly instincts take over and I find myself wrapping the blanket snugly around her cold frame. I rock her back and forth and kiss her still-soft cheeks. It is so peaceful and I don't want to move to the next step, to dress her for the viewing. Once that step is over, we will place her in her "basket", as the children call it.

So I take my time and we sit as a family and take pictures. The peaceful feeling in the room is tangible.

The funeral director suddenly enters and the spell is broken. It's time to dress her. 

I tenderly set Molly down on her baby blankets. Tyler and I carefully take off her clothing and place her tiny red dress over her head, followed by tights and a headband. I cradle her once again and the heartbreak of what is happening almost overwhelms me. But the spirit bouys me for the hundredth time, and I accomplish something I never thought I could. I place her in her "basket" and kiss both of her cheeks.

There is an inexplicable force that helps me step away from my baby.

We all pile into cars and head to the church building for the viewing and funeral. We arrive and I realize I need to pump before the viewing starts. Nobody talks about their milk after their baby passes, but it's a very painful part of losing my Molly.

My sister comes with me to comfort and talk with me. She knows I'm going to need the support today, and I can feel of her intense love and concern for me. I feel so blessed to have her and my other family members here for me.

The viewing starts and friends come into the room to express their sympathy for us. We go through the motions and greet everyone. They all tell us how beautiful Molly looks, and how sorry they are for what has happened. I feel so much love coming from every person I see. Again I feel so blessed to have so many amazing people in my life.

Finally, it is time to close her casket. The doors are closed and Tyler's Dad gives a beautiful prayer. After he ends, it is time for our final goodbyes. I bend down to my Molly for the last time. The grief I feel is so intense, so real. What little strength I had earlier is crumbling. I look at my baby girl and feel a sorrow I never thought possible. The ache is burrowed so deep in my heart, I fear it will never find it's way out.

Tyler has his hand on my back as I kiss Molly and hold her face to mine. The tears fall freely.

I slowly step away and cling to Tyler. With a quiet click, the lid of the casket is closed. I take a deep breath and silently ask Heavenly Father to give me strength to walk into the chapel.

Tyler carries Molly to the front of the chapel and lovingly places her next to the beautiful flowers.

The funeral begins and I feel a small degree of peace as we finish the opening song.

Tyler and I bear our testimonies. It is a surreal experience, to say the least. Tyler talks about his precious daughter in such a loving way and I feel my intense love for him. I've never seen him this emotional as he talks about all the experiences he longs to share with his baby girl. He will never take her swimming, teach her to jump rope, build forts with her on rainy days, or take her camping. But he is equally emotional when he talks about being so blessed to be her Daddy, and being excited to have those opportunities with her later.

After we both finish, it is time for us to sing, "Families Can Be Together Forever". As hard as I knew it was going to be, I wanted to do this for Molly. Lucie starts us out and her pure voice pierces the quiet air. The spirit fills the room and I feel my Molly standing close, singing right along with us. My heart swells as we stand there together as a family, singing about being together forever.

There is not a dry eye.

My Dad speaks next. His words are so comforting and I am suddenly struck with an intense love for him. I feel so blessed in this moment to be his little girl.

The closing song is "Be Still My Soul", my favorite hymn. The words speak to every part of my soul.

Be still, my soul: The Lord is on thy side;

With patience bear thy cross of grief or pain.

Leave to thy God to order and provide;

In every change he faithful will remain.

Be still, my soul: Thy best, thy heavenly Friend

Thru thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake

To guide the future as he has the past.

Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;

All now mysterious shall be bright at last.

Be still, my soul: The waves and winds still know

His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: The hour is hastening on

When we shall be forever with the Lord,

When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,

Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.

Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past,

All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

No matter what we go through in this life, He will be there beside us, guiding us to a joyful end. He will guide the future, and nothing brings me more comfort than this knowledge. 

As we walk out of the church, Tyler carrying our baby girl, I expect to be falling apart. Instead, I feel a strength that is not my own. I feel my Savior's abiding and unconditional love for me and my family. 

And as we drive to the cemetery, the last verse of the closing song plays in my mind. "Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past, all safe and blessed we shall meet at last."

little red dress

After we leave the hospital, we drive over to a restaurant and meet my family for dinner. We're all starving and it's Thanksgiving. The meals are eaten slowly and we try to act normal. But I just said goodbye to my sweet Molly, and I want to go hide in a hole.

The next day, we start making plans for her funeral. 

Her funeral. My daughter is going to have a funeral. We are burying our child. This isn't happening.

But it is happening and we don't have a choice. We have to prepare. 

So assignments are made, flowers are arranged, and her plot is ordered. And all the while I feel like I'm in a horrible nightmare and no matter how hard I try, I can't wake up. 

Friday evening we go to the mall to find a dress for Molly. This is going to be a surreal experience. It's black Friday so all the stores are packed with happy buyers trying to find that "steal of a deal". I want to stop all of them and scream, "Don't you know what happened? How can you all be acting normal when my whole world is shattered?"

We walk slowly from store to store trying to find the right dress. My c-section incision still aches, so we take our time. As we enter Macy's, a husband and wife bustle around us, bags in arms. The woman suddenly mutters under her breath, "Seriously? Can you walk any slower?" I am startled and totally hurt. The woman scurries off but I turn to the husband and say, "I'm so sorry, I just had a c-section." I didn't add the fact that I was shopping for my daughter's funeral. He was shocked that I was so polite and felt horrible for his wife's comment. He apologized a few times, then went to find his wife.

This got me thinking. How many times are we impatient with people, and have absolutely no idea what they are dealing with? How many times has someone cut us off on the freeway and we immediately think, what a jerk. If anything, this experience makes me want to be more patient with people, and try not to judge so quickly. If I'm not patient with other people, how can I expect this woman to be patient and kind to me?

We eventually find the perfect dress. It's a deep red with roses all over the skirt, and I love it.

But I'm completely exhausted now and I want to go to sleep. I want to fall into a deep sleep so I can forget for a moment what is happening.

We grab something to eat then go home.

Tomorrow we will bury my sweet baby Molly. My heart is heavy and I feel like I'm in a daze as I get ready for bed. I think of her empty crib upstairs, her rocking chair nestled in the corner. My milk suddenly comes down and I long to nurse her. The emptiness and ache I feel is indescribable.

Before I sleep, I kneel down to pray. I ask for comfort, for strength beyond my own. I ask him to bless us as we go through the funeral, that we will be filled with the spirit, and that we'll be able to feel of Molly's presence.  I thank my Heavenly Father for the strength he has already given me. Without him, I literally would not have been able to make it through the last two days.

I can't remember falling asleep, but I guess I slept a little because I'm suddenly waking up.

And then it hits me like a ton of bricks.

Today's the day.