Small

...simple acts of service can help us and those we are permitted to influence. Our Heavenly Father places loving individuals on important crossroads to help us so that we are not left alone to grope in the dark. ...Serving others need not come from spectacular events. Often it is the simple daily act that gives comfort, uplifts, encourages, sustains, and brings a smile to others. (Michael J. Teh, “Out of Small Things,” Ensign, Nov 2007, 35–37)

Bridget's birthday is on Saturday- she would have been turning two. I have a hard time with what was supposed to be a celebration of life being a reminder that she is not here. But I want to do something for her. She was just so small, and some may not think that she had much influence. How could something so small be important? Just after she died, a Conference address was given called "Out of Small Things," quoted above.

The words spoken then have been in my mind frequently since that time. I wonder how many of you would be willing to give her a gift. This week, find some small way to show service to someone IN your life. Do something WITH someone who needs you. Find someone in your day-to-day associations WITH each other. Please, no big fanfare! Think of Bridget, how very SMALL she was. Make your acts small, yet profound-just like she was! Then come back and let me know how you gave "Out of Small Things."

If you'd rather keep your service private, that is fine, too. Just DO something. And if you would, please remember Bridget when you do it. This is just meant as way to share how Bridget influenced you and give her a special kind of gift for her birthday. I really do understand if you might want to keep your acts private, so while I'd love to hear about your experience, the main thing is to just do some small thing-- which will have a much greater influence than you might ever know.

Back

It is difficult. My mind goes back over things. My mind tries to find answers to make sense of things. My mind tries to have confidence that we'll somehow be able to get through all those things yet to come. And my mind wonders just what those things are. So much races back and forth through my mind as I struggle to just endure.

Behold, we count them happy which endure. Ye have heard of the patience of Job, and have seen the end of the Lord; that the Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.
~James 5: 11

But I find it so difficult without answers. My heart has been so heavy with grief. I miss my little ones terribly. I've thought especially about Bridget with her birthday coming up, and thinking back to the weeks before her birth and how uncertain things were then. But I just never really expected that she wouldn't be here. And the grief is so heavy, but not knowing why she died. Not knowing why Dominic died. It just leaves too much open. Too many questions, and wondering since we can't bring them back, how do we go forward so that the rest of us can be okay?

"Waiting is worse than knowing. Grief rends the heart cleanly, that it may begin to heal; waiting shreds the spirit."
~Morgan Llywelyn

Two weeks ago we were in the hospital with our youngest getting a feeding tube. After more than a month of being sick, she is finally seeming to kick the illness. We continue to have low heart rates alarms at night, and she is still not back to eating like she did before. She is still getting feedings through the tube at night. We have orders for a few more specialists to follow-up with, and it still seems quite unsettled here.

Two years ago I was going to the hospital for non-stress tests on the baby I was carrying. I wasn't due for more than a month, but the way things looked I wouldn't be carrying the baby much longer. My body just seemed so unsettled. July 18th is the day she was born.

Yesterday's date had me thinking about her crisis event, and how everything was so very unsettled. 07-08-09 ... 09-08-07. Going forward, going back, going forward, going back... The questions came back to my mind. Would she pull through? Was that feeling I'd had earlier in the morning, that very deep impression been to reassure me that she would indeed live, yet would not be whole again? September 15th is the day she died.

It is odd how these reminders come. I can be going forward, and then, unexpectedly, there are those things that make me go back in time. Like I'm there in that moment again. Back and forth. Going forward, going back.

Our city just opened a new fire station that will serve our neighborhood. They had an open house, and the kids seemed interested. I was reluctant to go. I have a hard time still seeing fire trucks and ambulances. The fire truck had driven us to the hospital after Bridget was flown there, as they pointed out, we were "in no shape to drive." I was so grateful for those heroes, but it was just so hard to have the triggers. Like it's been so hard to have the triggers every time I nurse Sarai. And yet, here I am, more than a year out and I've been able to make it this far. It's been a real struggle though. And I argued with myself back and forth, forward and back, about whether it would be okay to take the kids over to the fire station.



I decided to face it. I would have the advantage of being prepared in advance. I would not be caught off guard. We drove over. There were two ambulances parked on the side of the road. Two, like two of my children who had died. I saw a yellow firetruck in front of them. The fire truck we rode in had been red. Then I noticed the fire station itself. Parked in front was a red truck, and they had all the fire fighters posed in front of it for a picture. We waited for the photographers to be finished, then went inside. We noticed the hose they had cut for the "hose cutting" ceremony. And then I saw two women wearing life flight uniforms. I went back. Back in time. I was there in the parking lot at IKEA. I saw my little girl on a gurney, and they were putting a big soft blanket on her. "That blanket looks so soft. I didn't think they had blankets like that for helicopters. That is so nice of them to have soft blankets for Bridget. I think they'll take good care of her. I wish I could go with her. I hope she is going to be okay. She's going to be okay! It's okay! It's OKAY!!! It's NOT OKAY!!!!"

Flashback. I was there, but I'm really here. HERE. Back and forth, forward and back. Back and forward. I looked at her again, and this time I stayed in the present. I wasn't sure if she was really the doctor, or if her uniform had just triggered the flashback. I wasn't sure if I should talk to her. She seemed to catch my eye, and I wanted her to know if she had taken care of Bridget that I was so grateful. I asked her how long she'd been working on life flight. She said it's been nearly twenty years. I told her we'd had a baby life flighted, and I wonder if she had been there. I just said she was flown from IKEA. That was all she needed. She quickly said, "YES! Oh, how are you guys doing?" She was genuinely concerned, and stood and gave me a hug. She saw Sarai and commented about us having another one. I asked for her name, though I wasn't sure I'd remember. Chris. Chris was the life flight doctor who cared for Bridget, along with her team.


As we walked away, we went toward the back where the cakes were. Then I saw it. The life flight helicopter. How was I caught off guard again? If there were life flight people there, why not the helicopter. "Give her a kiss, mom!" Bridget, you have to be okay. I wish I could come with you sweetie! Oh, please be okay. PLEASE!!


Back and forth. Forward, and back... back again in the present. Eventually the kids wanted to see the helicopter. I told them that Bridget likely rode in that helicopter, or one like it. I was surprised by the question, "why?" They weren't there when she had her crisis event. I guess no one told them that Bridget had been flown to the hospital in such critical condition. I answered quickly, "remember, when she stopped breathing? She had to go to the hospital and the helicopter came to take her there." They wanted to see the helicopter in person. They wanted to go inside. And I hesitated, but went forward.

It seemed so odd to watch my healthy children playing so happily inside this vehicle where my little ones had once been cared for when they lay unconscious, never to wake up in mortality again. So naive. And I wished, wished I could go back to being so naive.

I have had a lot of terrible dreams again lately. I had been having them still, but not so many in the intensity they've come these past couple of weeks. I've really struggled. I think about Bridget a lot. Her birthday is coming up, and these days are the days of the year she was born that we were so concerned and wondering how things would turn out, but never really expecting that we would have anything but a healthy baby to grow into a child and then adult in the years to come. Sure, there might be a few issues from a premature delivery, but they would likely be very minor. And they seemed to be. Until that day. That Saturday. That Saturday, September 8th. Just like Dominic.

I hate the feeding tube. It reminds me of being back in the hospital with Bridget. The frustrations of the NICU where they insisted that she should not breastfeed and simply because of protocol, they put a tube down her nose when I had insisted that they let her be. I was so angry. So upset that they could disregard my instructions as her mother. They did remove the tube when they could see that she was indeed nursing well. Even the night shift nurse complimented me by telling me in all her years as a nurse she had never seen a baby and mother so naturally, comfortably nursing. Yet there were so many things that went wrong in that NICU. So many things that compounded against my little Bridget. She had been making great progress, going forward to our goal of taking her home. And then she became so weak. So many steps back. They put the feeding tube back in. Put her in the isolette. Told me not to hold her so she could get stronger. So many things there.

And this feeding tube today takes me back. Back to after Bridget had been discharged. We took her in to see the pediatrician for a weight check. It had been a week, and she had not gained any weight at all! She hadn't lost any, but in a full week, Bridget had stayed the same weight. He was concerned, and of course we were as well. He talked about a feeding tube, and I told him I felt confident that I could do that at home as we had done it with our son. But I wondered if we could try oral feeding a little longer, or if we needed to rush to the feeding tube. He thought we could wait a couple more days, alter her feedings and see how she did. When we brought her back in those couple days later, she had indeed gained weight, and the feeding tube idea was left behind.

But the feeding tube came up again. The day before her crisis event. Bridget had seemed so weak. I was so concerned. So worried. The doctor wasn't. I was telling him all the things that seemed to be wrong. I was worried about her "overbite" that seemed to be getting worse. It was like she was so weak she couldn't even keep her jaw up. I asked him if her small jaw could be the reason she was such a weak nurser. He told us the medical term for her small jaw, "micrognathia." He wasn't really worried though. He did agree that it could potentially make eating or breathing more difficult. But he cited her weight gain (though also conceded her weight gain had been minimal) as proof that she was not impaired in this way. I argued that her breathing was concerning me, so shallow at times that I wasn't even sure if she was breathing. He seemed to be so annoyed with how insistent I was at her condition being so concerning, when he was quite certain that there was nothing wrong beyond a mother whose grief over a child who had died during this time of year letting her paranoia get the best of her. He chided about how we could put her in the hospital and do extensive, intrusive testing, but that of course, that would just put a lot of physiological stress on Bridget and wouldn't we want to avoid that? He ordered a swallow study to be done outpatient, though. I asked what they would do if her jaw indeed did cause issues with her breathing. He told me that sometimes they would put a feeding tube down. Not necessarily for feeding, although you could use it for that as well. But that way it would push the tongue forward a little bit to keep the airway a little more open.

I left his office. There was a lot more that went on that day. He seemed annoyed, and yet was courteous in taking the time to try to quell what he thought was my over-sensitivity. And these last couple of weeks, and this time of year. Well, back then he thought it was just the time of year, didn't he? My mind has been so injured so as not to be able to have confidence anymore. I struggle to know-- is everything okay? Or are things going to get worse and worse and worse? Questions with much greater intensity now than the same questions back then. Back and forth. Forward? Or Back?

I don't know what is going to happen in the future. I am plagued with the grief of my two little ones, but so much more. The not knowing that shreds my spirit. The repetitions of such a difficult moment-- what was supposed to be such a very close, intimate moment, the most intimate bond between mother and child. While breastfeeding. The crisis event. Not once. Twice! Same day. Saturday. Both times! Saturday, September 8th. The dates, the day synchronized? Both at the same breast. The intensity of it all seared into my soul, and how significant the numbers suddenly seem. And how I have to fight to press forward, carry on, while all that has happened in the past holds me back, takes me back as if I am there witnessing it all again, wondering if I'll be witnessing it all again, and in my dreams witnessing it all again and seeing so much worse.

I just wish instead of typing these words, recounting these things. I wish for being naive. If I could only be planning her birthday party, and worrying about finding the right gift for her... so many of those little things, too, that I miss. It is the missing her. The missing Dominic that is the grieving. And there is the frightening depths of despair from the horrors of it all that even those who understand the grief seem to not even understand. Wanting to go back. But trying to go forward.

There is so much I want to take back, too. So many things. The "what ifs" that I know you are not supposed to consider, because none of it can change things now. And yet, I wonder if I will ever get Dominic back. Wonder if I'll have Bridget back again. If I have somehow lost favor with God enough that he would curse me in this life so much, that there is no hope for a future. And I have to go back to my teacher Job. Who was tormented, but was loved by God. And I have to keep fighting to carry on. To press forward, so that I can go back.

Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: but I will maintain mine own ways before him. He also shall be my salvation
~Job 13: 15-16

Healing

Maybe it was coincidence. I never really watch television except an occasional program on public television. But while I was with Sarai in the hospital I was struggling and needed a mental distraction. I turned on the television and watched a program called Dr. Phil. He was giving advice to families who had faced trauma and grief from the sudden and unexpected death of a loved one. I didn't catch the whole episode, but enough of it to enjoy some of his insights, though I found some phrases or suggestions like you have to "move on" a little too insensitive. But I could sense he was sincerely trying to encourage healing in these people's lives.

His show ended, and then Oprah came on. I really don't watch these shows, and it was so odd what topics were being discussed. This episode featured a mom who had made the terrible mistake of leaving her baby in the car too long, resulting in the death of the child. I honestly don't remember this specific case, but don't tend to be quick to condemn. So I felt a sense of understanding in watching and listening as she described her experience with grief and how she is working on healing.

There has been so much happen in this last week. My last post was from the hospital. Today I am writing from home. I had a very sick little girl who is still sick, but healing.

I can't describe what it was really like to be there again. We've been in that hospital three times before with her and wondering what was going on and never really getting answers. It is where Bridget and Dominic were with so many tests to try to understand being performed and still we are unsure why they had their crisis events.

They were at least able to find some things this time. And yet, there are still things left open-ended. We already know how doctors want to help but aren't always able to. I held my little girl and just wanted to know -- is she okay? Is she going to get better? Is there something more than the respiratory illness that they have found?

Tests did come back confirming that she had a carnitine deficiency in addition to the respiratory illness. Some may not even have any idea what that means, but I was already somewhat familiar with this condition. It is one that was suggested to me early in my pregnancy with Sarai. It is something that specialists wondered about Dominic and Bridget having. When Sarai was in utero, they told us we'd need to test her for this when she was born. Because if she had this, it was easy to treat with a daily supplement, but left untreated the child would be susceptible to the same cardiorespiratory distress that Dominic and Bridget had had. We had indeed, tested her, but at the time the results did not look concerning. Now, however, she indeed had low carnitine levels.

I wonder about this diagnosis and how long her levels might have been low. The doctor feels comfortable with the theory that it is only a result of her being ill for so long and not eating well. But I am not so sure. The doctor feels that this is related only to the illness and not some underlying metabolic disorder. Yet he also conceded that there is just so much doctors don't know and that there is still a possibility of something else. And where you read of the deficiency causing encephalopathy, I find yet another term that I've heard discussed before.

They decided that a feeding tube was a good idea for Sarai. So they placed one. That sounds really simple, and usually it would be. But for some reason it wasn't so simple. The nurse tried to place it and was unable. Another nurse tried to place it and was unable. They called the charge nurse in, and even she was unable. The doctor said we should take her to radiology in the morning to have it placed. The next morning, the nurse came in and tried to place it. She tried and tried, just as the others had. Sarai was very upset by all of this. The nurse was perplexed and said that in the nine years she had been working, she had never been unable to get a tube down. Another charge nurse came in. She was finally able to get it in, the trick being to leave the stylet inside. Here she is after that first tube was placed, still not feeling well at all.

Later they were suctioning out the secretions from her nose and throat. She really doesn't like that at all. She was very upset, and afterward I was holding her and trying to comfort her. I realized there was milk bubbling out from her nose and mentioned this to the nurse. She came over and we wiped it away, just to have more milk appear. She left to get the charge nurse as milk continued to bubble out of her nose. As the charge nurse came in, the end of the tube suddenly popped out. This was where the milk was coming from. Of course, this meant another attempt at putting down a tube. And with all the difficulty of placing the first one I was concerned about doing it again. However, they used the stylet again and were able to place it in just a matter of minutes. Here she is with the second tube, and starting to feel a little better after having had the carnitine supplement, the continuous feeds, an IV going, and generally starting to fight off the illness that they say started this whole thing.

Unfortunately, Sarai coughed that tube up when they had to bug her again. So yet another tube was placed. And fortunately this time the stylet trick worked again. She was continuing to seem to improve as well. Everyone was so excited when they were finally able to see her awake and even a little intersted in playing. She was even somewhat interested in food, though not quite swallowing much. So she would let it fall down the front of her shirt, which you can see in the next photo of her sporting the third feeding tube.


Sure, the doctors and we are all glad that Sarai has made good improvements. It was so upsetting to see her so sick and not seeming to get better those first couple of days. And while I am so glad to be home and so hopeful that she is healing, I still feel quite nervous. There are still thinks that have the doctor perplexed, just like the last three times she had been there. Like the strange breathing episodes she would suddenly have that looked bizarre and yet her vitals would stay in a good range through:



So many unknowns, and yet I hope she really is healing. It is so scary, though. I felt like I was working on healing after Dominic died, and then suddenly the wounds of grief were ripped apart with Bridget's death. To say it hurt so much is an understatement. Last night as the alarm kept going off with low heart rate, I tried to imagine it was just the feeding tube pump alarming. It is hard to think she is okay when there is still so much healing left for both her, and healing left for my mind to do.

It was nice to spend the day at home together again yesterday. I try to stay focused to enjoy the sunshine in spite of the shadows. We are so grateful for each moment. I think she is just absolutely beautiful, even with the tube.

Troubled

The troubles of my heart are enlarged: O bring thou me out of my distresses.
Ps. 25: 17

I wrote of being sick and having my husband and little ones sick. All of May we dealt with illnesses. And now June has also been filled so far. I had been grateful that the baby hadn't become ill. And then at the beginning of the month she started having a yucky nose and really red eyes. She was acting miserable and tired. We took her to her pediatrician and he thought it was merely allergies. By the end of the week she was still not doing better and was tugging at her ears. It was the weekend so I took her into urgent care. They examined her and decided it must just be teething with maybe a little eye infection which was beginning to clear up with drops. That night she started having fevers. Three days later when she was still not better, I took her into the family practice. He said both of her ears were red and started her on an antibiotic. Every time I gave it to her, she would throw up. She started getting so much more sick. I called the doctor again and explained that the antibiotic seemed to be causing more trouble. He had us wait until morning to make sure and when I called back to confirm that she was still doing poorly, they switched to a new antibiotic with only a three day course.

Her fevers continued. She did not seem better at all. Her heart monitor kept alarming more and more with high heart rate. Finally, we spent the night with the monitor pretty much constantly alarming. Her temperature was only getting higher. She was not eating anymore. Could hardly breathe as her nose was so congested. We decided to take her to the emergency room, as urgent care wouldn't open for three more hours and couldn't do IV fluids if she needed them.

We got to the hospital where she was born and were quickly brought back to a room. Her heart was still racing. The doctor came in and did an exam, then told us she looked very ill and he wanted to transfer her to the Children's hospital. We reluctantly agreed. I really didn't want to go there. Where we were last fall and they couldn't find answers. Where we were with Bridget and Dominic when they died.

But here we are, going on three days later. And she still has fevers and is not eating and is just so miserable. They were able to identify that she has a viral respiratory infection, which led to the ear infections which is all causing the fevers. But she had a complete course of oral antibiotics before we got here and then has had three days of IV antibiotcs. And the viral infection usually runs its course in 7-10 days, with 2-3 days of a fever. She is going on three weeks of this and 10 days of fever.

Because of the suspected metabolic disorder in the family, they ran extra tests. One came back showing a possible deficiency that was thought to be one Dominic and Bridget may have had. We had already talked with the specialists about this while I was pregnant with her and how we would need to test her after she was born. They had tested her before, but had not thought it was a problem then. So now they are working with the specialists to sort things out. I was told they'll have all the information in the morning.

They've decided to put her on a feeding tube, but after several attempts couldn't get it down - her passages just too tight. They will do it in the morning using radiology to guide it down. They also have more tests to do in the morning. And in the meantime it's IV fluids and tylenol combined with motrin to keep her fever down.

All of it has my heart and mind so troubled. The news reports of a child life flighted here yesterday but who has now died. A code blue was just called. I know too well what it is like to be in that crisis. And in some ways, it makes my mind feel it is also a part of this crisis. But I tell myself I am holding my little one, who is gratefully healthy enough to be sick. Which is a positive way of saying she isn't dead. Or even dying. But then that last sentence was what they thought with Dominic and Bridget before things changed so quickly. And when you see how sick Sarai is, you know you are already closer to there than Dominic and Bridget had seemed to be.

I struggle and try to cope through all of this. I just feel so troubled. I'm worried and so I am glad for the medical help, but I'd so much like to be home in my own bed with all of my children well. And I mean all of my children. But I know it cannot be. And now there are even more of those unanswered questions to trouble my mind.

Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.

Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
John 14: 1, 27

Celebrate

One year ago today. Here's Sarai's first picture outside the womb.

She wasn't due until the last week of July, but she came early weighing 4lb. 2oz. She could have come a week earlier when I had placental abruption and pre-term labor. We were lucky to get the two doses of steroid shots and hold things off until she was a little more ready.

I was actually able to hold her shortly after her arrival. She breathed room air from the beginning and mostly stayed at the hospital for feeding and growing.


I had a little trouble with bleeding after delivery, so her daddy followed her down to the NICU where they could watch her closely. We got things under control and I was able to join them not too long after. With Dominic and Bridget's cause(s) of death still unknown, and the concern that there is a potential underlying genetic issue, combined with her prematurity we were very cautious.
It had been less than nine months since I had held my baby Bridget in my arms. Just over nine months since the last time I had nursed her. And that last time is when everything went bad. Since Dominic also had his crisis event with nursing, I was very overwhelmed with finding a way to be true to my philosophical conviction that breastfeeding is best, and my psychological association of the two crisis events.

There was so much about it all, about another premature baby girl so soon after Bridget was born premature. So soon after Bridget's death. Being in the hospital again for a week before Sarai's arrival with all the uncertainty and the risks, and not being naive enough to think those risks only happen to other people. There has just been so many things mixed into it all, and yet here we are. A year later. And we have so much to celebrate!

Sarai has been so sweet. She's been through a lot. Scared us a lot. We've been able to share so much together in this year. There are just things that people take for granted. First birthdays aren't one of those here.

Nursing isn't either. Today I am celebrating that I was able to breastfeed the entire year. Sometimes I had to pump and use bottles-- I pumped on every single day for the first eleven months, and in the early months was pumping every three hours or more around the clock-- but I feel it a real achievement that we made it a full year. It isn't an easy accomplishment even without the psychological trauma I endured. It isn't an easy accomplishment even if you don't consider her prematurity, or her episodes that made her unable to nurse effectively on some days or during some feedings. But we did it!

I feel it was a gift for Sarai to do that for her. To those who don't share my philosophical convictions, I'm not sharing this to discount your preferences. It is just a real gift for us. The even greater gift, though was given to us by Sarai and by the powers of the Universe. That gave us the chance to share this whole year together. We hope for decades more. It is, afterall, her middle name: Hope.

Face

I recently learned about a little girl who is struggling with her health. There are so many children out there right now with health complications. What makes this little girl stand out to me is that they don't know why. They don't have a name for what is causing her difficulties. They don't have a diagnosis. And her family desperately wants answers. That is a feeling I face every day.

So underneath the pictures of Dominic and Bridget, I've added the face of Maggie Agnew. I don't know that it can make any difference for them. But if you have some way of reaching out to them, some way of giving them the hope that I can't have for Dominic and Bridget, please give them your encouragement.

This life is so full of challenges. Each of us suffer and struggle in such unique ways. Sometimes we can connect in ways because our experiences are familiar, but none are ever the same. We face such different trials and we each have to find our own way through. Find a way to cope.

Recently, I thought I would sign up on Facebook. I thought perhaps it would be a tool to connect to people who had been in my life before, but after Bridget's death seemed so distant. I thought maybe it was something about me not keeping up with the times or not being accessible that made people disappear. Maybe this would be a way to reconnect.

I've been so disappointed. I scrolled down through the past on the walls of people who claimed to have cared. Who said they loved me. I see things posted while we were at the hospital with Bridget, watching her die. And the things they wrote then and how difficult my life was, and yet how carelessly their life went on. They put on one face of sadness for me, but then another face to the rest of the world. I see family members who told me that they didn't have a facebook account, who have actually been on for a couple of years. I see people taking my story for their drama, and at the same time abandoning our family completely.

No one can understand what we have faced in our lives. No one knows what we are facing now. I look into the faces of my children every single day and I wonder if it will be the last day I have to spend with them. I watch my baby in her episodes and wonder if it is still okay, like it has been through these months, or if there is death waiting to show his face again.

It is so difficult to face these things without answers. Without a name. Without knowing why Bridget and Dominic died, we are left to imagine all kinds of causes, and others have room to speculate. Grief itself is enough to weigh the heart. Twice I have had to look one last time at the face of my little one before closing the casket, and must wait to see them again in the eternities. Yet the weight of the grief is only part of what we face in these experiences. And no one understands these complexities. Not even I can understand it.

So much to take in. To process. And we carry on to face another day. Each day a gift.

Birthdays

Two years ago I was carrying Bridget in utero. We went to the grand opening of the IKEA store and browsed. We stopped in the eatery and had some meatballs after standing in line for the longest time. We'd been warned that grand openings were big for IKEA. We left the store without buying anything for ourselves. But we stood at the checkouts to buy a gift card to give my friend for her birthday. We signed up for a catalog (as they had already run out) and were on our way.

I stopped by at my friend's house to give her the gift card. A big banner was on her house. Isaac was going to be a big brother -- twice. Two babies and two birthdays. Born only twelve hours apart, but that's another story. My friend wasn't able to carry children in utero, and so she had been blessed with two new children through the miracle of adoption.

Adoption isn't always a guarantee. My friend had already learned that the hard way. She was supposed to have a little girl, but then the birth mom changed her mind. She lost a baby in a way. A different way. I remember hoping that these two little ones would stay. I sat in her home with her, excited that Bridget was going to have these playmates. Wondering if I shouldn't get too attached to the idea, because what if the adoption wasn't able to be finalized.

Only a couple of months later, there I was in IKEA again, only the second time we'd been there. We left the store without buying anything. We left there, Bridget in the care of the paramedics, and I wasn't sure any of it was even real. I had carried Bridget in, but I couldn't carry her out. I kissed her before they took her in the helicopter. They told me I could say goodbye, but I remembered thinking that it wasn't going to be goodbye. I would see her in a little while, and everything was going to be okay. IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY!

It isn't okay. IT ISN'T OKAY!

Back and forth and back and forth and circling in my mind to try to sense if it was real or not real or what to make of it all.

Today is my friend's birthday. After Bridget died, her oldest son was having his birthday and invited my daughter to his party. I drove her there and felt so sad. So so sad. It was so hard. And my friend had other friends who still had babies and they were there feeding them and my Bridget wasn't there. I was so sad. And her two babies were there and my Bridget wasn't there. I was so so sad. At one point, my friend was trying to serve cake and manage a group of small children, and one of her babies was upset. Another mom was holding him, but for some reason -- and I really don't know why -- she gave him to me. It was the first time I held a baby since Bridget had died. And I was horrified. Terrified. I was just so overcome with sheer fright and it was like I was in IKEA again and I didn't know what to do because I wasn't sure if he was going to stop breathing and I panicked. I don't know how long it was, but someone else sensed I was uncomfortable (politely). And she took him out of my arms, and I was so glad. I didn't want to hold another baby again.

Tomorrow is my son's birthday. Last week, another son's birthday. Our family celebrates its birthday in the first week of May. All these come so quickly after Dominic's birthday. And this year, we are planning a first birthday party. Only two weeks from now. I wasn't ready to hold another baby again. But after the birthday party ordeal, my own infant was only the second time I'd held a baby in my arms since Bridget died. I haven't held any other babies, and I really don't want to.

When Bridget was dying, I talked with her about how I had already been planning her first birthday party. It was going to be a big event. I told everyone to put it on their calendars. I was taking so many pictures of her. When she was dying, I promised her I would still have that birthday party. And I broke my promise to her. Her little sister was born prematurely and was having episodes just like Bridget had had. I was horrified. Terrified. I was just so overcome with sheer fright and it was so much like being in IKEA again and I didn't know what to do because I wasn't sure if she was going to stop breathing and I panicked. I was just trying to hold on the best that I could, and I didn't have the capacity to have a birthday party for Bridget. We managed to get cupcakes from Costco and eat them on our back steps and take balloons to her at the cemetery. And even though my mom was here from out of town, she didn't come here or go there to the cemetery. And I wondered if Bridget was angry at me, and she knew I was that kind of mother to not even celebrate her first birthday, and that's why she left in the first place.

I've been thinking so much about how in only a month and a half, Bridget should be turning two years old. And today, when I was thinking of my friend's birthday. And this month as I've been putting together the slideshow for our youngest's first birthday in a couple of weeks. And all these birthdays in between. I have been thinking so much of Bridget and how much I miss her and how I wish she were here to play with those friends she was supposed to grow up with.

I walked some balloons and a small gift over to my friend tonight. As I got closer to her home, a few tears fell down my cheek. I didn't want to go there. She still has her two little ones. I don't have my Bridget. Did going to IKEA that first time while I was pregnant with Bridget make her stop breathing the next time we went there? I had bought that gift card for her then, and then ... I need to keep walking. I need to keep going. I am so happy for her special day. Happy she still has her little ones. It's all so irrational... So many things going through my mind. And as I walked, I was carrying my infant in my arms. And it seemed so abstract. Too strange.

I got back home, and sat down on the lawn. I was taking pictures of my little girl when another neighbor walked by. Allyson, her husband, and her little Brigham. And I had that feeling again, the one I wrote about before:

I sometimes find your friendship difficult now. We were supposed to both have our children grow up together. You still have your Brigham, and I don't have my Bridget. Perhaps it sounds so cruel to think that it is hard for me to see him sometimes. It would be harder, though, for me if you didn't have him in your life. So it is bittersweet. I love that he is still growing and learning and in your life, but I just miss that we aren't sharing that experience anymore.

And it was so hard for me, and yet I was so glad to see him. And as he walked over to me, he was holding up two fingers. Turning two in a couple of weeks... and Bridget. Bridget died. When she was still thinking of names for him, she mentioned the name Brigham. A part of me wished she wouldn't name him that. It sounded so much like Bridget to me. Spelled so much like it. I didn't want their names to be so similar. It was kind of an irrational thought, I guess. Just wanted to keep her name more of her name. And sometimes now that part makes it harder to see him. Say his name. It reminds me that much more of Bridget.

Today is Trevin's birthday. He was born 16 years ago. I never had the chance to meet him. He died when he was 18 months old. I met his mom just before Dominic stopped breathing. I knew of her, but hadn't really gotten to know her. When he was in the hospital dying, and we had to ask all those questions but didn't want to ask them -- questions about funerals and burials-- she told me that she had buried her oldest son. And immediately I was able to ask. There was a connection in that experience that was instant. Over the years I've gotten to know her better. She was one of the friends who came to the hospital with our children when those in my own congregation would not. And she came to the hospital last August when we were there with our youngest, wondering if she was going to succumb to the same yet-to-be-discovered underlying condition that had taken Dominic and Bridget. She came with cheesecake and with two men who had the power to give priesthood blessings when no one from my own congregation would.

I am truly so grateful for all of the birthdays. They are the mark of entry into our family. Even our big world family. And yet, though there is a time to be born, there is also a time to die. And it is that part that is so heavy. When their time to die robs them of even being here to celebrate a single birthday with us. And as I prepare for our family's next "first birthday" celebration, I am so very grateful to be at the point that we will be able to share this occassion with her. And yet, I think back to the last time we were supposed to have a first birthday. And my broken promise. And my broken heart.