I went to church on Sunday. I took my daughter, and on the way home, she asked why we didn't go to church anymore. I gave her the quick answer about how my mind is still a little sick from when Bridget died.
My heart so very sick. She seemed to understand, but I didn't.
I don't understand!
The first time I left the hospital after Bridget was born, I left to go with our family to a church activity. I just didn't want to leave Bridget, but I also was feeling so much frustration and thought maybe getting away from the hospital stress to spend time with our other children could help.
When we registered at the hospital, I had made sure to request that no information be shared with anyone at all who might call or visit. The orders were that the hospital would respond that there was no such patient if any inquiries came in. But the day before we were discharged, some people from my church had figured out we could be at the NICU and called. The nurses in the NICU evidently hadn't noticed the privacy orders, and gave me the phone. Now the speculation could be confirmed, and the
gossip (in guise of concern) could be spread.
When we were home, I had a hard time overcoming the feelings that the time in the NICU had robbed us of time as a family. I felt it had robbed me of confidence in myself, in my role as a mom. I wasn't sure if she had been so sick that she really had needed that care in the first place, and then I wasn't sure if she was really well enough to be home. I tried to make up for the lost time, and tried to find my footings again. I felt even more unsure when breastfeeding seemed so very difficult. Bridget was such a weak nurser, and even breastfeeding with Dominic seemed to be easier. I focused on caring for Bridget and didn't leave her at all. Except for that week I went to church to teach my lesson in Relief Society.
Finally, we took her to church. The first Saturday in September, we took Bridget to the church for the first time. Her older sister would be baptized. Following that, Bridget would be blessed.
I had been so worried about her that morning. She was nursing, but still seemed so weak. And more and more she was having episodes where she was so lethargic. I was very concerned, but whenever I'd ask the nurses or pediatrician about it, I was just told that premature newborns are more sleepy. Premature babies have a harder time with nursing. I would try to remind myself that just because it reminded me of Dominic's lethargic episodes it didn't mean there was a problem. He had had botulism, and Bridget was actually growing pretty well and didn't seem to have other symptoms of botulism. But in the church that day, as I was changing her into her blessing dress, I panicked a little. She seemed too floppy. Too sleepy. And we took her home and fed her and talked about how worried I was while trying to convince myself there was nothing to worry about.
The next morning, we took her to church again. We sat in Sacrament meeting, and I held her in my arms as I bore testimony of Christ and His priesthood and the reality of eternal families. I held her in my arms, just like I had held Dominic in my arms
exactly six years before, as I bore testimony then. After the meeting, I was just too concerned about Bridget. I felt she needed to nurse again, but the nipple shield I had been using with her to make it easier for her was at home. So we went home and fed her and talked about how worried I was while trying to convince myself there was nothing to worry about.
Later that afternoon, we headed up to Temple Square. Here is how she looked just before we left:
I'd always get so worried about her, just to have her seem to be a pretty normal newborn. And I would try to reassure myself she was fine in these moments, the way I had tried to reassure myself Dominic was okay, too.
It seemed to be a nice, warm day. We walked around the Temple grounds while we waited for other family to join us. My mom had come into town for the blessing and baptism, and so had my sister. They would be coming, as well as family who lived in town. But, as usual, we were the first to arrive and would wait for awhile until the rest showed up.
I started to worry more about Bridget. It wasn't a really hot day, but it was warm. And she always seemed to wilt in the heat. We headed inside the Visitor's center to cool down a little while we waited. I didn't realize how very sick she looked then. I think it was because I was trying so hard to convince myself she was okay, because all the "professionals" kept telling me she was okay. But in hindsight, these pictures haunt me. And I wonder why I hadn't rushed her to the hospital and begged them to look.
Look! LOOK!
She was so weak. So lethargic. So floppy. I see her arm and think her heart must have been struggling with circulation. Soon after we took that photo, our family joined us. I was distracted again. The Church has a statue of the Christus, and we went to the presentation there. Then we went into a new exhibit on the family. I held my little infant daughter in my arms as we watched a movie about a couple and their infant daughter, pondering what the most important things would be to teach her: that she is loved, and she is a daughter of God.
We moved on to a presentation in the tabernacle. On our way, I remembered a cute little lady commenting on how little Bridget was, and how she seemed dressed to match me. At the tabernacle, there were pews, just like when we had taken her to church earlier in the morning.
I was starting to think she was sleeping too much again. I needed to feed her, so we headed over to the museum where there was a hands-on exhibit for the kids. They could play while I took Bridget to feed her. I was so worried, though. I kept trying to wake her, and she wouldn't even latch on. I took off her shoes and socks and tickled her feet. I kept trying. She wasn't waking up. I went back to where my family was, and my sisters tried to help me wake her up. She finally stirred and she did latch on. But it seemed she was just so weak. I was worried but trying to convince myself there was nothing to worry about.
On the way home, we passed an ambulance. I had a hard time seeing ambulances since Dominic died, but I usually didn't get so upset that I would cry. But for some reason, the tears came. I was very overwhelmed. I wasn't sure if it was because the ambulance had its lights and sirens on, and that it was near the freeway. I wasn't sure if it was because the days were aligned
just like they had been six years before. I wasn't sure if it was because Dominic's anniversary was coming up, and I missed him so much, and the ambulance brought it all back. But I was certainly responding in a much more heightened way to seeing that ambulance than I had in many years.
The next week, we were looking forward to taking Bridget to church. One of our neighbors would be blessing their newborn son, and her uncle, Elder L. Tom Perry, would be attending. I was looking forward to having the opportunity to have Bridget meet an apostle. Instead, on that Sunday, September 9th, we were in the hospital watching Bridget die. We were still hoping for a miracle. We left her bedside to attend the Sacrament meeting in the hospital. I cried. I cried a lot. I remember one of the speakers talking about how he'd spent a lot of time in that hospital as a child, and trying to give the parents hope that those struggling times had made him who he was. And I remember thinking that I wish I knew that Bridget would be here in future years to bear her own testimony of the struggles she'd overcome. And knowing that Dominic would never have that chance. And realizing that I knew too well that not every hospitalization meant healing, and that Bridget might not ever have that chance.
Bridget never did meet an apostle, though she was put on the prayer roll of the
First Presidency. Our Bishop and his counselor came to the hospital. At church they had changed the Relief Society presidency. I sometimes question God, or question the reality of revelation, when I think about the timing of that change. I told the Bishop and his counselor how I had been looking forward to the chance for Bridget to be there this week, and was sorry we weren't there instead of in this hospital. The response was, "yeah, you should have been there. It was a really special meeting. Elder Perry called one of the kids up and..." I really didn't listen. I couldn't
bear it.
We were
supposed to have been at church. Instead, we were in the hospital with Bridget. The same one, the same floor, the same PICU that Dominic had been the same time six years before. I had just finished pointing out that I would have rather been there than in this hospital, and then you go on to tell me why it would have been better? As if I hadn't already recognized that without the details? And I felt like these men had no compassion. And when the bishop came back two days later, and hadn't even thought to turn off his cell phone, and answered it and felt it more important to talk to a candidate about politics at the bedside of my dying child instead of politely taking the call out in the hall or telling the caller he'd call back later, I knew the compassion was lacking.
My mom had flown out to help with our kids while we were at the hospital with Bridget. She had a flare up in her knee and suddenly was unable to drive. We were too aware that Bridget was not going to have the miracle of healing, and that she would be dying soon. With my mom unable to drive, how would we get our children to the hospital to see their little sister before she died? We called the Relief Society president for help. She said she would call around to see who was available. And when I talked to her again, she told me no on could help. I was so overwhelmed with helplessness, and desperate for my children to come to be with us before Bridget died. Bridget was too critical for us to leave her. In desperation, I responded out loud, without even realizing the words had been spoken, "I need more friends!" And her reply was, "You just need more friends who don't work." And my shattered heart sunk so much more deeply, to think that no friend I had could be inconvenienced enough to leave their work to help my little ones have the chance to say good bye. But I called a friend I'd met at church when Dominic was dying. A friend who was outside the boundaries that had changed a few years earlier. And she came to help.
The Bishop didn't come back after the day his cell phone was more important than my dying child. Bridget died on Saturday. Just as we had done after Dominic died, we went to Temple Square. The same one we had been at less than two weeks before. And my daughter wanted to go back to the family presentation. I sat in that same room where I held my little infant daughter in my arms as we watched a movie about a couple and their infant daughter, pondering what the most important things would be to teach her: that she is loved, and she is a daughter of God. And I wondered, as my arms ached to have her back, if she knew. If she
knew I loved her enough.
I don't remember now if we went to church the next day. But I remember sitting with the Bishop and the new Relief Society president. And I remember contemplating if we should have her funeral at the funeral home instead of the church. After Dominic had died, our then two year old would say, "Dominic died" every time we'd go into the chapel. She would remember that as the place where his little casket lay in front of the pulpit, and her young mind only knew how to express the memory with, "Dominic died!" It would hurt my heart each time I heard it. And when she got a little older and we changed buildings, she stopped saying it. And I was glad for that change.
We decided to go ahead and have her services at the church. Thursday, September 20th, in that Relief Society room where I had gone without her the month before to teach my lesson. I looked down on her little body for the last time before we closed the lid of the casket, laying on the table in the front of the room. The clock was broken. Just like my heart. But I wish that time really was stopped. And that it wasn't racing by so fast that I couldn't reach back to grasp my little ones before death could take hold.
At the cemetery, the Bishop told us he'd call us later that night. He never did.
That very next Sunday, I went to church. I taught the lesson in Relief Society.
"It's True, Isn't It? Then What Else Matters?" In that same room where I'd last looked on the face of my sweet baby girl. In front of that same table her casket had laid on.
We kept going to church. Our Bishop still did not call. I wondered why. I thought maybe he was uncomfortable, and didn't know what to do, what to say. I sent a copy of
Suggestions for Clergy from Compassionate Friends, thinking it could help. Shortly after I sent that, his Secretary called to make an appointment to meet with us. There was no church that day due to
General Conference. He came to our home, and the first words after he sat down were, "Have we done enough for you yet?" I had wanted to believe this man had compassion, but was only unsure of how to help. But now I knew, the compassion was lacking. I still tried to explain that it had not even been two weeks since we buried Bridget, and that our experience with Dominic had taught us that we would need a lot of support for some time to come. Weeks, months, maybe even years. That all the overlaps was making this so much different, so much deeper, more difficult. That we needed dedicated home teachers, at
least. But our pleading was in vain.
We still went to church. I continued to prepare monthly lessons in Relief Society. The answers of what caused Bridget's death were still unanswered, and there was a lot of concern about whether or not the rest of us could be in danger. We were having a lot of testing to sort things out. In the midst of all the testing, I discovered I was expecting again. It had been such a big surprise. We were not ready to have another child. And the pregnancy was already threatened. I was ordered to bed rest. And I stopped going to church.
I did continue to go to teach my lessons. But medication I needed to support the pregnancy made me very dizzy. I was emotionally so weak. I could feel the intensity of prayers that had been offered in our family's behalf after Bridget's death had stopped. I was getting weaker spiritually. I was just unable to do very much at all-- physically, emotionally, mentally... my capacity was just too limited.
I had asked to keep my teaching assignment. But then with these circumstances, and for whatever other reasons, I was replaced. I wasn't needed, just like I wasn't needed to take care of Bridget anymore. I wasn't released. Just replaced, with an assignment that was in name only. We hadn't seen home teachers for months. They had only come the one time after Bridget died. We were getting so much more weak, and going to church just was becoming more and more such a difficulty.
I finally was off bed rest. I woke up that Sunday, and and was getting ready to go to church. The young men came to our door for fast offerings, and left the
usual monthly newsletter. I sat down to scan over it, when what I read sent me into a tailspin of flashback and emotion from that day in IKEA. That day in Lagoon. When we were desparately trying to use
CPR to save my children's lives. And it had failed. Suddenly, the emotions of those days events were spinning together with my efforts to go to church. And everytime I started to think about getting ready to go to church, it triggered the flashbacks.
The agony.We had so much to carry those months I carried our youngest child. And then when there was preterm labor and bleeding from a placental abruption, I was hospitalized. I stayed for a week until she was born, then stayed another eight days in the NICU with her. So many overlaps. I couldn't go to church, but did have the sacrament there. We were instructed to keep her home from places like church to protect her from illnesses, and to keep the other children home, too.
When she began having episodes like Dominic, like Bridget, we were very concerned. She was hospitalized. No one from church came. We took her home again, just to have her hospitalized again. The night before we took her to the hospital, our hometeachers were supposed to come. The time for their arrival came and went. I was waiting for them to come to give her a blessing becasue we were very concerned about her, while trying to convince myself there was nothing to worry about. They called several hours later. I told them that we were likely taking her to the hospital, to which the response was, "well, I guess we'll just try to catch up with you later then." No sense of concern. No visit to the hospital, no offer to help. That next day also happened to be my birthday. I called the friend who'd come to take my children to see Bridget at the hospital. She came with her husband, and another friend and her husband. They brought cheesecake and the men blessed our newborn. But no one from my congregation came. For days I wasn't even sure she would even wake up. Where was the strength of fellowship in our time of need? We called elders at the hospital to give blessings. The doctors still couldn't find answers for us. But she did finally wake up.
We took her back again when she appeared to be going into another episode. The week of September 8th. And we were there in that hospital, where we'd been the year before. Where we'd been seven years before. And my mind couldn't bear it.
My heart couldn't bear it. And where were those who had made a
covenenant to be give comfort when I was so much in need of comfort, but so unable to stand?
RSV season. Don't go to church.
Triggers. Flashbacks. Can't go to church.
Hurts. Heartaches. Won't go to church. I went to church on Sunday. I took my daughter, and on the way home, she asked why we didn't go to church anymore. I gave her the quick answer about how my mind is still a little sick from when Bridget died.
My heart so very sick. She seemed to understand, but I didn't.
I don't understand!Months have gone by. I try to go to church. It still is so heavy. I cannot go by that building without the crushing weight pressing on me. And I have tried. After months of being told I could go there sometime on my own, that the bishop would get me the keys, finally a sister got the keys for me. It was just a few weeks ago. The week of Dominic's 8th birthday. I had the keys in my hands, and I tried to go to church. My body was overcome. My skin broke out in hives. The next morning, my face was swollen. So swollen, I went to the doctor and got medication. My body just couldn't handle it all. All the trauma of all these things overlapping.
The agony.When the meeting was at another building last week, I thought I'd try again. It was hard. It was harder as I fought off the terror in my mind when I saw an infant, lying on the floor in that windowless room. On a blanket. Sleeping? Looking like the paramedics needed to be there. Just like they were there working on Bridget in that windowless room as she lay on the blanket...
sleeping? It was such a difficult trigger. But I forced my mind out of it. Like the speaker said, I
can do hard things.
But going to church is harder than hard on some days. Most days. Last month, our home teachers again didn't come. The assignment was switched to the Bishop and his counselor months ago
just so that our family would not be neglected. And yet, months still go by without a visit, or even a call. Since Bridget's death nearly 20 months ago, we have had more than half of those months without any contact from home teachers. Really, only about a quarter of those months. A quarter we are grateful for, but we need a whole to fill holes and be
whole!
For months, recognizing we did not have the capacity to go to church, we asked for the sacrament to be brought to our home. The sacrament has a power of renewal. A power we need in our time of such great weakness. Finally, our request was considered worthy enough to send the young men. But it is unpredictable whether they will come each week after church.
So many things rush through my mind as I ponder the question: why don't we go to church? So much, but no real answers.
Next week is mother's day. It is such a difficult day knowing that in this mortality I will never have the opportunity to be with all of my children on the day we celebrate motherhood. I have always hated going to church on this occassion. My mother hated the day and how it represented so much of what she was not representing in her own role as mother. Going to church usually meant hearing from a speaker who just couldn't understand the difficulties of a young mother with five children and a husband who had abandoned us all. I learned in childhood that it wasn't a day to look forward to.
But I admit, as I had my own children I did find it a special honor to be called mother, and loved to hear the little ones sing in tribute to us. And to receive little gifts, and to see my little ones around me. So I miss my little Dominic and my little Bridget ever so much more on this day. And I don't like going to church to hear how it represents so much of what I am not representing in my own role as mother. And I don't want to hear from a speaker who just can't understand the difficulties of a young mother with eight children and two of them who have already gone on without us.
But I am still working on going to church. It won't be, can't be, in that building where we last saw the tiny little body of our sweet baby Bridget. Where so many people seem to be lacking in compassion, sensitivity, real concern. But perhaps, in that other congregation where friends have responded in the greatest times of need. Where we have had their arms wrapped around us instead of merely waved at us in passing. Perhaps there I will be able to fight off the terror. The triggers. The trauma. And find the fellowship that has been missing. And maybe get strong enough to make going to church as much a part of our lives as it was before Bridget died. Maybe. Where holes can be mended, and we might be made
whole.
