Let's talk about mental illness, shall we?

How’s that for a blog post title?  But seriously, this subject has been on my mind for a while now, and I have some stuff I want to say about it.

I have been on an antidepressant since Baby Sally was born six months ago, and it has helped me a lot.  I have always had what I call a “melancholy” disposition.  I'm not naturally a downer or anything--I actually think I'm naturally optimistic and grateful--but I’m a deep thinker and sometimes life with all of its complexity really troubles me.  I’ve had bouts of deep discouragement over the years, and heaven knows my worrywart nature has sometimes bordered on anxiety.  But I’ve never been on medication before now, and I’ve always been able to manage.

That changed after Sally was born. As my hormones were leveling out, I had crazy physical symptoms, such as chills, uncontrollable shaking, nausea, vomiting, and night sweats.  I had major insomnia, so even when the baby was sleeping, I couldn’t.  I felt afraid to go to bed at night because I knew that I would just lay there and ruminate and my thoughts would go to crazy places, and I would say to myself over and over, “You need to sleep, you need to sleep, you need to sleep…” which would make anxiety take over.

Most troubling was my overwhelming, irrational fear that I wouldn’t be able to take care of my children.  I cried all the way to the hospital when Ryan and I went for an appointment with a lactation consultant.  I didn’t know quite why I was crying, but whenever I looked at the baby, I felt a surge of inadequacy that bordered on panic, and I just couldn’t hold back the tears.  Feeling so out of sorts left me wondering, “Am I ever going to be myself again?  What if I get serious depression and can’t care for my children?  What if my personality changes and I’m never the same?”

The kicker was when I had a full-blown, world-closing-in panic attack one afternoon while I was trying to take a nap.  We are talking heart racing, deep breathing, pacing around the room, sweating bullets, fearing that I was going to die in that moment.  It was one of the scariest things I have ever felt. After the panic attack, I called the doctor and asked to be put on an anti-anxiety medication. 

The doctor put me on a low dose of Zoloft, and it has made a huge difference for me.  I feel like I am the best, truest version of myself now.  I am more patient, happier, and less of an irrational worrier.  I still have hard days on occasion, of course, but it’s not like it was before.  I actually think I probably should have been on medication long before the baby was born, but it took a major event and a major breakdown for me to see what has maybe been clear to the people closest to me for a while.

Will I stay on this antidepressant forever?  I hope not.  I’d prefer not to be on any medication forever.  But if I had a thyroid problem, I would take my thyroid medication without feeling weak or guilty.  So if I have to take an antidepressant forever, it will be hard for me, but I will continually remind myself that it’s okay—that mental illness is just an illness like any other, and there is no shame in that.  And of course, I will continue to try to do all of the other things that help: getting enough sleep, eating healthy, exercising, having outlets and hobbies, and spending time with loved ones.

I have several friends who suffered with depression for months, even years, before talking to their doctors because they felt weak and ashamed and didn’t know if their symptoms were “bad enough” to merit asking for help.  That just breaks my heart, and I'm grateful that I got help quickly, before things got too debilitating.  It helped to think about other women whom I love and respect who have taken medication for anxiety and depression--it made it feel “okay” somehow, and it gave me hope.

I think there's a misconception that anyone who has a mental illness (such a scary term, isn't it, but I'm not sure why--it really is just illness that requires treatment and sometimes medication, like any other) is really crazy or not normal--and no one wants to be labeled that way.

So, if you are struggling emotionally right now, or if sometime in the future you find that you are, maybe it will help you to know that I have been on an antidepressant and it was helpful.  I also wanted to put this out there in case anyone ever needs to talk to someone who has been there or wants advice about whether to seek support from a doctor or a counselor.  You can always talk to me about anything—truly.

I recently read a blog post written by a woman who struggles with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder since surviving the earthquake in Haiti five years ago.  Though I have never lived through an earthquake, I related to so much of what she shared about her experience with anxiety, and it also reminded me of my experience with physical trials and illnesses, such as my very hard pregnancy.  (The more that I live, the more that I realize that though the trials of life vary from person to person, so many of the feelings we experience during those trials are similar and unify us, if we allow them to.)

This is a portion of the blog post that really stood out to me:

“I have an irrational and driving need to appear capable and stoic.  Sure, I mock my foibles in the little things from time to time, but in general I go to great lengths to avoid seeming flustered.  I am like a duck who is gliding across the water, appearing graceful and effortless, all the while with two feet just under the surface, desperately paddling in circles to stay afloat…

DON’T LET ON THAT YOU ARE A MESS.  Keep the anxiety under the surface.

I continue in my charade because a) I am in a good bit of denial myself, and b) people don’t like a mess.  Not for any length of time, anyways.  There is a statute of limitation for what is acceptable for grief.  My succession of miscarriages taught me this painful fact. One or two miscarriages? People are there for you. By five or six? People are uncomfortable. People stop calling. And you start to get the sinking feeling that people see you as a lot of work…

It was too exhausting to explain myself to others . . . too tedious to continually remind people that I’m still compromised.

‘How are you?’

When the answer to that question continues to be negative . . . when people seem disappointed and irritated when it remains stagnant. . . it gets easier to lie.  Or to avoid situations where I’m asked. Because the only fear I have greater than seeming like a mess?  Seeming like a burden.”

Oh have I been there.  Wanting to be capable and stoic.  Fearing that people will find out that I’m a mess.  Not wanting to be a burden.  Fearing that I will be seen as “too much work” in a relationship if I really let on to how desperate I’m feeling. 

So I want to end this post by saying this to my friends who struggle with anything in life, physical or mental:

I get it. 

And I believe you.

And you will never be too much work.  Ever.

I am imperfect and hurting too—so let’s just talk about it.

 A few favorite resources on depression/anxiety and mental health:

Religious

"Like A Broken Vessel" by Jeffery R. Holland

"Upon the Top of the Waters," Ensign Oct. 2014

Podcast

"Unhealthy Stress or Habits? Break the Cycle!" 

         ^I recorded this podcast for Power of Moms about what I learned in counseling 

Helping a spouse or loved one who is facing depression

"10 Ways To Show Love To Someone With Depression"

Welcome to the World, Sally Grace!

Our little Sally Grace will be four weeks old tomorrow.  I had no idea that life after pregnancy would feel so chaotic and overwhelming.  Between recovering physically, dealing with hormone freak-outs,  attempting to breastfeed, caring for a rambunctious three-year-old, and trying to keep the house at least minimally picked up, I feel like I've hardly had a moment to catch my breath, let alone blog!  (All I have to say is THANK GOODNESS for the family members who have come to stay with us and help this past month--much more on all of that in another post.)  In my last post, I promised more details about my labor and delivery and more photos of Sally "in a few days"...uh, make that a few weeks!  (Better late than never, right?)

I know some friends and family are interested in the gory details of how Sally's birth went down, and although I will try to leave out the gory stuff, I am going to include lots of details here.  I want my experiences, thoughts, and feelings from that special day to be recorded for posterity--especially for Sally.

At my 38-week appointment on Monday morning July 21st, the doctor decided that Baby Girl needed to be delivered pronto because she had been diagnosed with IUGR (intrauterine growth restriction) and her heart rate was dipping during the non-stress test that day.  He told me to go home, get my hospital bag, arrange childcare for Noah, and come right back.  He wanted the baby on the monitors, and he wanted the nurses to get me started on Cervadil.  I was only barely dilated and effaced, and Cervadil was supposed to get things going a bit before they started me on Pitocin to fully induce labor.

It was super exciting to call Ryan and family and tell them that the baby would be arriving in the next 24 hours.  I had gotten an ultrasound that morning to check the baby's growth, and I kept looking at the photos of her squished little face and squealing inside that I would be holding that sweet girl within the next day or so.  

When I got home, Noah and the babysitter were sitting at the kitchen table creating a dot-art picture for "Baby Sister."  When Noah saw me, he lit up and said, "Baby Sister is coming today???!!!" (I had called the babysitter to see if she could stay with Noah until my mother-in-law arrived from Pocatello, and she had told Noah the news.)  He ran over and threw his arms around me in excitement, and I showed him the ultrasound pictures from that morning.  He loved them so much that he almost refused to give them back to me--so I cut one from the roll and put it in a ziploc baggie for him to keep and look at throughout the day.  

I hastily finished packing my bag while I waited for Ryan to get home from work.  When he walked in, he was flustered and grinning, and he said "Wife!!" while wrapping me in a big hug.  It felt surreal and exciting--heading off to the hospital together to have our baby.  Before we left, we gave Noah a big family squeeze.  I said, "We've had a great three years with just the three of us, haven't we, Noah?"  "Yeah," he responded lazily, as if he weren't really listening.  "Are you ready to share Mommy and Daddy with your Baby Sister?" I asked.  "Yeah," he responded again without having any idea what he was actually saying and committing to. :)  I felt nostalgic and a little teary as we left Noah, knowing that it would never be just the three of us again.  Oh how life was about to change!

Once we arrived at the hospital, it took several hours for them to get the paperwork done and the doctor's clearance to start Cervadil.  It was frustrating to just be sitting there for hours with no progress whatsoever being made, but I was grateful to be on the monitors and listening to Baby's heartbeat loud and clear.  They finally got me going with the Cervadil around 4:30 p.m., and they told me it had to set for 12 hours before they could start Pitocin.  So Ryan and I settled in for date night at the hospital.  He ran and got us Cafe Rio (I wouldn't be able to eat once I was in active labor) and we watched a made-for-tv movie about the life of JK Rowling.  (Random, I know!)  It was actually really fun to be together, even if it was in a hospital room.

We also had a visitor come to interrupt our date night: Noah arrived with his Grandma around 7 p.m. to make sure that Mommy and Daddy were alright.  He was super hyper and only wanted to push the buttons up and down on my hospital bed, but it was still so good to see him.  I am a sentimental sap, and I was missing him and wanted him to be as much a part of the experience of welcoming Baby Sister as possible.  I was glad he was able to come be with us for a few minutes.

Ryan and I went to bed early.  Even with the help of a strong sleep pill the doctor prescribed for me, I had a hard time resting because I was too excited and nervous.  I could feel subtle contractions that weren't super regular--and just knowing that the Baby was on her way kept me awake.  The nurse said I could disconnect the monitors while I slept, but I was too anxious about Baby's well-being to do that.  So the sound of her little heartbeat filled our room all night, even as I wrote her a letter at 3:30 a.m.  I loved listening to that sound and feeling her kick and hiccup inside of me.

The nurse checked me around 5:00 a.m., and I had progressed a little with the Cervadil, but not much.  She told me to get up and take a shower, walk around, eat something--whatever I needed to do for a break before they started Pitocin in an hour.  

This is where things got crazy.  The minute that I stood up, contractions started fast and furious.  I mean, I was absolutely doubled over in the shower, crying and writhing in pain.  There would be no eating and no walking around.  With Ryan's help, I stumbled out of the shower and onto the bed, and I thought, "Is this what early labor feels like?  I feel like I'm dying, and they haven't even started Pitocin yet!"  Ryan let the nurse know that I was ready for Pitocin whenever, but when she saw how much pain I was in, she decided to check me.  Sure enough, I had dilated to a 5 in less than an hour, and there would be no need for Pitocin.  My body skipped the whole "early labor" thing.  I never had far apart contractions where I was able to walk around and breathe deep and get counter pressure from Ryan and all of that.  My body had decided it was ready to get that Baby out, and it went into overdrive to make it happen.

I had heard that first-time moms are usually in labor for a long time, and I didn't want to have an epidural for 12 hours, so I tried to wait it out a while before I called the nurse anesthetist, who happened to be our good friend from Buffalo, Ben King.  (Crazy, right?)  But within an hour, I honestly felt like I was going to die, so the nurse called him.  When he entered the room, I said, "Ben!  Save me!"  I couldn't believe how much pain I was in.  When Ryan tried to comfort me during contractions, saying things like, "Rachel, you're okay!" I shot back angrily, "I AM NOT OKAY!!!"  Kind of hilarious in retrospect.  I am a somewhat reserved person, and I didn't think I would be willing to make a scene during labor in front of anyone but Ryan--but with that level of pain, I was moaning and acting like a crazy woman when the contractions hit, no matter who was in the room.  I was in way too much agony to even care who saw me in that state.  Ben and the labor nurses certainly saw me at my worst!  (For the record, Ryan claims that I wasn't that bad.  Smart man.)

As soon as the epidural was inserted, the nurse decided to check me again.  She said, "With the level of pain you were in, I guess it's possible that you are almost fully dilated, though for a first-time mom, I highly doubt it."  But to everyone's surprise, when she checked, I was a ten and ready to push.  This made me feel a little better about my dramatic scene pre-epidural.  My body had gotten to a 10 in a ridiculously short amount of time, and I'm pretty sure I was in transition about the time that Ben arrived to give me an epidural--no wonder I was flipping out!

Then it was time to push, which was awkward and hard with an epidural--I kind of hated the feeling of my legs being numb (though I was certainly grateful not to be in agony anymore).  After over an hour of hard pushing, I was super light-headed and felt sick, so they turned the epidural off.  I was still numb but could feel the pressure of the contractions better and had more control, plus I no longer wanted to throw up.  I was making progress but still had a ways to go, so the doctor was summoned, and he was the first person to discover that our little Sally Girl was posterior.  As he felt around, he realized that she was face up instead of face down, which he said explained the excruciating labor pains I'd felt in my back, as well as the lengthy amount of time it was taking to push. He said I should still be able to deliver vaginally since she was measuring small, but the baby's face would likely be very bruised.

After 2.5 hours of pushing, Sally was almost here, but she was also starting to be in distress.  Everyone in the room could hear her heart rate dropping when I had a contraction, and I will admit that I was slightly terrified.  I prayed during each contraction that she would be okay and that I could push effectively to get her out.  The doctor told me that he was going to have to get her on the next contraction, even if that meant an episiotomy and using the vacuum.  Of course, I was okay with that--anything to get our girl here safe and sound.  He did end up giving me an episiotomy but did not use the vacuum.  

When she emerged, she didn't really cry, so the nurses rushed her to the other side of the room and suctioned her mouth and worked on getting her more responsive.  I lay in bed and watched helplessly as they worked on my tiny baby.  I shed a few tears and kept asking everyone if she was okay.  The doctor was calm and the nurses were calm, so I figured she wasn't in any real danger, but I just wanted to hear her cry and to have her in my arms.  After about 15 minutes, the nurses brought her over to me, and I got to snuggle that perfect little bundle to my chest, skin-to-skin.  5 lbs 12 oz, 18.5 inches of pure perfection. Heaven.

She was worth every moment of the struggle it took to get her here.  I felt overwhelming happiness and relief holding her for the first time.

The doctor was certainly right that she would be bruised!  Holy moly--she was our little purple creature for a few days.  Still pretty stinkin' cute, though, if I do say so myself! 

A highlight of my year--maybe my whole life--was watching Noah meet his Baby Sister later that night.  We had talked about the baby for months, and he had been super interested in everything to do with my pregnancy.  Honestly, I am wondering if the kid is going to be an OBGYN or something because he was so fascinated by it all.  He loved watching the videos from the Baby Center app of the baby's development, and he constantly asked me things like, "Is the baby in the birth canal yet, Mom?  Did your water break yet?"  That kid!  Needless to say, he was beside himself with excitement when the moment came for him to finally meet "our baby."  

When he looked at her for the first time, he started doing this squeak that I'm pretty sure is his version of baby talk--he just kept pointing and squeaking.  Then he climbed up on the bed next to me and "held" her, and as he gazed down at her, he said, "Oh mom, she's so beautiful!!"  Melt my heart.  He didn't even notice or mention the ginormous purple bruise on her face.  So sweet. 

I love my children.  I am so lucky to be their mom.  Taking our little peanut home from the hospital, I felt overwhelmed but so grateful and happy.  What a miracle little Sally is, just like her brother Noah.  The road to parenthood has not been straightforward or easy for us--but it has been so, so, SO worth it.

Welcome to the world, precious Sally Grace!  You are so loved!

A Letter to My Daughter on her Birth Day

My Sweet Daughter,

I am sitting here in a dark hospital room, listening to your constant heartbeat on the monitor, and wondering when you will be in my arms.  It is 3:30 a.m. and Daddy is asleep on the couch just across the room (probably more like half-asleep with those accommodations), and though I know that I should be sleeping now, before the pain becomes too intense, I just can’t—I can’t stop thinking of you.  And though the doctor warned me not to watch the monitors that track your heart rate and my contractions, I also can’t stop doing that.  It is exciting to be in the midst of this, in the process of bringing you into this beautiful world. 

My contractions right now are subtle and inconsistent.  They come and go.  The doctor decided to induce me today after my appointment in his office this morning when your heart rate started dropping during the non-stress test.  They have been monitoring you closely these past few days because, at my appointment last week, they recognized signs that my placenta is petering out and you may not be getting enough nutrition.  My uterus is measuring small, you are measuring small on the ultrasound, and most concerning, your abdomen is measuring disproportionately smaller than the rest of your little body.  To make matters worse, your S/D ratio, which measures blood flow into and out of the umbilical chord, is elevated which is another sign of this placenta problem.  The doctor felt it was best to wait to induce as long as we could, to give your little lungs more time to grow and develop, but after this morning’s results, he decided it is time to get you here.  Daddy and I agree—we don’t want to take any chances when it comes to your safety and well being.  

You will be arriving just over two weeks early, so you might be a peanut, but I think you will be just fine.  I can’t wait to hold you in my arms, to kiss your chubby little cheeks (at least they looked chubby on the ultrasound this morning), and to look into your eyes for the first time—to stare deeply into the eyes of my daughter and to see you searching my face, learning me, and seeing for the first time the woman who will cherish you and be your mother throughout this life and into eternity.

I’m sure I won’t be perfect at it, my little love.  In the past few weeks, mingled with my feelings of sheer excitement at the prospect of your impending arrival, I’ve felt a twinge of fear now and then—fear and inadequacy and nervousness.  Because I won’t be perfect.  And when I picture you wearing the tiny pink pajamas that I brought to the hospital, all swaddled up and ready to go home and begin the adventure of life, I know that you deserve all the love and all the good things this world has to offer.

I promise I will do the best that I can.  I promise that I will love you with every piece and particle of my soul.  We will figure out this life together—you, Daddy, Big Brother, and I.  We are so ready to add you to our “family squeeze” before bed each night (we will squeeze you softly at first, I promise), and we are ready to try our best to meet your needs, whatever those may be.  

It has been an honor to be pregnant with you.  Just the other day, I was staring in the mirror at my “baby bump” thinking, “Is this really happening?  To me?”  I never knew if I would have the opportunity to carry a child in my womb, and as incredibly difficult as it has been to be pregnant at times, due to sickness and other complications, it has been an experience that I would not trade—to feel you kicking inside of me, to see my belly growing over the weeks and months, to put my hand on my stomach and know that a baby girl is in there all nuzzled up, safe and growing.  Pregnancy has been long and much harder than I ever anticipated it would be, but sitting here in the dark, listening to your heartbeat and feeling the contractions that will eventually (but probably not for a long time at this rate!) bring you into the world, I know that it was worth every moment of the pain to be a part of this experience.

You are almost here.  In a few minutes, they plan to start me on Pitocin, so I am sitting here contemplating the unknowns.  What hour of the day will you arrive?  How will my labor progress?  Will I end up with a C-section if your heart rate drops during contractions as it did this morning during the non-stress test?  In my mind, I have an idyllic picture of how I’d love the next 24 hours to go (and that picture does not include a C-section or vomiting during labor or many of the other unpleasant things that often occur during delivery), but writing this letter has reminded me that no matter what today holds, it’s going to be a great day.  Because, at the end of it, the world is going to be blessed with a beautiful, fresh, new soul.  Certainly, my world will never be the same.

Happy birth day, my precious Sally Grace.  Come quickly—I am waiting for you.

With love beyond words,

Your Mama  

**Sally Grace was born at 11:08 a.m.  She measured 5 lbs 12 oz, 18.5 inches.  She is healthy and perfect in every way.  More details and photos to come in another post in a few days! 

Pregnancy Nausea, Compensation, and the Goodness of God

I woke up this morning feeling extremely nauseated.  This is a norm for me since I've been pregnant--it's not every single day, but it's enough days that it can feel really, really discouraging and daunting.  After dry heaving into a trash can for a few minutes (sorry for the details), I sat in the recliner in our bedroom and just cried.  I suddenly felt so tired and so hopeless.  My rational mind says there's only four more weeks of this until the baby is born, but underneath that logical thought brews the fear that this is never going to go away completely.

Do you remember my bout of unexplained nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea last summer?  I lost 15 pounds in three weeks.  My OBGYN thought it might be from ovarian cysts, but when they gave me a laparoscopy, they found that the cysts were resolving and were not the problem--turns out it was my endometriosis. (I guess women with endometriosis release more prostaglandins, which cause nausea and diarrhea...lovely.)  Once they removed the endo, I felt better for a few months--until I did IVF and got pregnant.  I don't know if it's common for women with fertility issues to have tough pregnancies, but it makes sense to me that if your hormones are already messed up to begin with, pregnancy is going to do a number on your body.

I could have it way worse--some women have to be hospitalized during pregnancy for vomiting and other complications--but even though my pregnancy hasn't been the hardest that I've heard about by a long shot, not a single day has been easy.  I am so grateful for the opportunity to bring this little miracle baby into the world, but after nine months of feeling pretty darn cruddy, I sometimes spiral down into a hopeless place on the days when I feel especially terrible.  I try not to let it happen, but it does on occasion--because there really aren't guarantees that I'm ever going to feel awesome, with all of the weird stuff that goes on in my body whether or not I'm pregnant.

I know it's pointless to think this way...to worry about a future that may or may not even occur...but sometimes it's hard not to go there.

Yesterday morning, while sitting in our recliner with my trusty trashcan by my side, I read a sermon called The Resurrection of Jesus Christ given by one of the leaders of our church, D. Todd Christofferson.  It is excellent--I recommend it.  It details the events of Christ's miraculous resurrection and goes on to explain some of the spiritual significance for us today and always.  One passage in particular caught my attention:

"The Savior makes all things right.  No injustice in mortality is permanent, even death, for He restores life again.  No injury, disability, betrayal, or abuse goes uncompensated in the end because of His ultimate justice and mercy."

The word that caught my attention was "uncompensated."  I've heard that word used in the context of life's trials and difficulties before, but I've never thought deeply about what it means.  I looked up the Webster definition of "compensate," and I was struck by the definition as it relates to the struggles of life:

"Compensate: to provide something good as a balance against something bad or undesirable"

Sitting there in the recliner in the early hours of the morning, before Noah had woken up and while everything around me was quiet, I was overwhelmed by the implications of this definition.  To be compensated doesn't mean that we get back exactly what we lost.  It doesn't mean that those whom we feel have harmed us receive a "comeuppance" that we determine is just.  It doesn't mean that life is perfect or easy.  It just means that when we face something difficult, God--in His infinite, unspeakable goodness--will provide something good to balance against our struggle.

Oh how true this principle has been in my life!  I could never expect to be compensated by God for any of the trials I face--I am too richly blessed to begin with to ever feel entitled to more blessings--and yet He never fails to pour out His tender mercies on me.  It brings me to tears when I think about it.

When my mother was sick for thirteen years, when she passed away, when I struggled with infertility, when adoptions fell through, when my baby had colic and I felt so alone, when I was going through the intense process of IVF, when I am enduring months of pregnancy nausea...honestly, even when I go through the simple, everyday trials and stresses of daily life (which sometimes feel even more overwhelming than the "big" stuff)...God has compensated me for my heartaches through unexpected, undeserved, beautiful mercies.  Sometimes it's hard to recognize those blessings in the moment, but when I pause and reflect on my experiences, it is so apparent that His hand has been there, lifting me and prompting others to lift me as well.

Why does He do this?  Why is He so good to His children?  He loves us.  I know He does.  I believe that He weeps with us during our trials, and though He doesn't always intervene, He is there strengthening us, reaching out to us in small ways to "balance" some of our heartache with gifts that bring us joy and get us through.  I know that this is true because I have lived it.

So why am I writing this post today?  I am writing it to remind myself.  Because even though I had this revelation about compensation and the infinite goodness of God yesterday, I felt so hopeless and discouraged this morning.  Sometimes life is just tough like that.

God is good, and He is there--and whatever life calls upon us to bear, we can do it through Him.  I want and need to remember this, always.

A Letter to My Mother

**My mother passed away when I was 19 years old, on July 14, 2003.  Since her death, I've written her a letter every year on Mother's Day, and it's become a tradition that I really look forward to.  I think these letters will become my personal history someday, as they always chronicle the ups and downs of my previous year.

I don't usually share these letters but have decided to share this one because it explains the name that we have chosen for our Baby Girl who is due in August.  I miss my mother and am so grateful for the knowledge that families are eternal.  I know that, somehow, she is aware of me and of these letters that I write to her.  I love her.

*Me and my mama, shortly after my birth:

Dear Mama,

Another year has passed with so much news to share.  We’ve had our highs and our lows—but, as always, we have so much to be grateful for.

I’m glad that Mother’s Day happens every year in the spring when the long winter is just ending, the flowers are blooming, and the sky is blue.  It’s a time of year that always makes me feel hope and reminds me that, like the winter, the trials in our lives do end—“joy comes in the morning.”  I’m grateful that it is often with this perspective in my heart that I am able to write my annual update to you.

This year especially, I am filled with joy as I write your Mother’s Day letter because, even as I type this, I can feel a tiny, precious, little being moving around inside of me.  Yes, that’s right, Mama—I am pregnant!  We did IVF in the fall, and miraculously and mercifully, it worked.  My long years of infertility are over, and a little girl will join our family sometime in the beginning of August.  Only three more months to go…I can’t wait.

We are going to name her Sally Grace—Sally, after both of her incredible grandmas, and Grace, because I could not have gotten pregnant or made it through this pregnancy without Him.  Truly, it’s all been a miracle—an experience that I never knew if I would get to have.

After adopting Noah, it no longer really mattered to me if I ever had biological children; I learned firsthand that the children God intended for our family would get to us somehow, and that my love for them would be all-encompassing, unconditional, and inexpressibly deep, whether I carried them in my womb or not.  Yet I am grateful for the opportunity that I’ve had to be pregnant, not because my love for this baby is any different than my love for Noah—but because this new experience has taught me just as much about life, faith, and myself as adoption did.

It has been pretty tough, Mama.  The IVF experience was difficult, with daily hormone shots and doctor appointments and procedures—and then I was terribly nauseated for the first 17 weeks or so of my pregnancy.  I couldn’t really function and couldn’t take good care of Noah, and I felt lonely and desperate at times, wishing for no one else but you to come take care of me and help me.  I am almost 28 weeks pregnant now, and I still feel nausea almost every day, though it is not nearly as bad as it was early on.  Add to that headaches and backaches, insomnia and bladder infections, and it’s been quite a tumultuous seven months!  As is always the case when I go through a physically difficult experience, it makes me think of you and your long battle with cancer.  How did you do it, Mom?  How did you live with such grace and gratitude, even when you felt awful?  I have often yearned for your advice during all of this, but when I think about it, I feel like I know what you would tell me if you were here: Take it one day at a time.  Get through the day, do your best, and never lose faith that God is there and He is helping you. I am trying, Mama—I am trying to be like you.

Oh how I wish I could’ve seen and heard your reaction to the news of my pregnancy.  It was so fun to tell our families the incredible news.  There were cheers and tears, fist pumps and hugs—and Ryan and I just felt overwhelmingly grateful that we have such amazing people in our lives to love and support us.  We are mighty, mighty blessed.

I’ve always thought that we would probably name a little girl Sally, since it is so special that both of our moms share that name—but I didn’t want to make a definitive decision until the time got closer.  Once we found out that this baby is a girl, I made a list of all of the girl names that I love—and there are a lot of them!—because I wanted to give each one of them a fair shot; but for some reason, the only name that stood out to me was “Sally.”  My eyes kept coming back to it every time I looked at the list, and it was the name that came into my mind whenever I thought about or pictured the baby.  “I think her name is Sally,” I told Ryan one evening, as I stared at the list of names, and I was surprised when he immediately agreed.  (We had quite a bit of trouble agreeing on Noah’s name before he was born.)

And speaking of Noah, he took quickly to the name as well.  I was afraid he might be confused by all of the Sallys in his life, but he seems to understand perfectly that Grandma Sally is in heaven, Grandma Nielson is “Big Sally,” and the baby in Mama’s belly is “Little Sally.”  Just the other day, a saleslady asked Noah if his mom had an Elmo in her belly, and he responded quite vehemently, “No!  It’s not an Elmo; it’s a Sally!”  He is the cutest, smartest, spunkiest, little boy, Mama.  You would absolutely adore him.  As hard as it can be sometimes, motherhood has been the best experience of my life, and I am nervous and excited to expand that experience with the addition of another baby.  How much love can one heart hold?  Will I really love this new baby as much as I love Noah?  It feels impossible—but I know that I will.

I love that this special little girl is going to have your name and that I will get to think of you every day when I say it.  I hope that she has your strength and resilience, your love of life and your undaunted courage.   I hope she has Ryan’s mom’s amazing ability to nurture and to mother, her innate goodness and her desire to do what’s right.  I certainly want our Sally Grace to be her own person, but I hope she will look to the example of her grandmothers and be inspired by the lives you lived and the people you were.  I hope she will also think about her middle name and always embrace the goodness of God throughout her life—allowing Him to fill her, enable her, strengthen her, and lighten every burden.

I can’t wait to meet her.  As I’ve started to feel her moving more in the past month, I have been filled with a happiness and excitement that is hard to explain—it must be what people mean when they say that pregnant women “glow.”  I am honored to be her mother and to be carrying her in my womb.  As hard as pregnancy has been (and still is at times), it’s an experience that I would not trade; even the horrible nausea has given me wisdom and empathy that I know will be invaluable to me for the rest of my life.  That’s the only worthwhile outcome of trials, isn’t it?  The faith, wisdom, and empathy that come as a result and enable us to better love and serve other people throughout our lives.  No wonder you were so amazing at connecting with and loving people—you’d been refined, humbled, and strengthened through all of the trials you suffered.

Oh, how we miss you, Mama.  We have needed you this year.  Laura had her first baby, Lucas Michael, in January (can you believe it??), and the experience of welcoming him into our family has brought us all so much joy—but it has also magnified the loss that we feel without you here.  Family milestones and celebrations always do that.  Sarah has continued to struggle with depression, and though she is amazingly strong and carries on as a loving mother, wife, sister, and friend through it all, she misses you deeply.  We all do.  A very common text message sent between us three girls over the past few months has been, “I miss Mom.”  Thank goodness we have Dad, who has been simply remarkable over the past eleven years that you have been gone.  We have clung to each other and to Heavenly Father, just as you always told us to, and it has made all the difference.

I do know that you are a part of our lives.  I have a feeling that you are beside us more often than we realize as we mother our own children and do our best to raise them with the same love with which you raised us—but we still wish you were here, beside us, laughing at the stories of our crazy children, and crying at our sorrows and disappointments.  There is no one who can take your place.  And no amount of time will completely erase the pain of your passing—you loved us too well for even decades of time to cause us to forget.

Your three girls are all mothers now, journeying through our own heartaches and joys, trials and triumphs—and we are thinking of you every single day.  On this Mother’s Day and always, I want to say thank you for everything you taught us and gave us and for who you were and how you loved.  Thank you for continuing to be our mother, even in heaven, and for not leaving us behind.  We still need you.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.

With love,

Rachel

Dear Sweet Baby Girl

You curled up and snuggled into me, your teeny legs moving to find a comfortable position, your impossibly fragile back arching into a curve and lifting your bottom into the air.  There on the ultrasound screen, you found a position that was so familiar to me—the position that babies often settle into when they are nestled in footy pajamas in their cribs.  And yet, you are not in a crib—you are inside of me—and you are only six inches long.

I caught my breath.  “Is she arching her back?”  I asked the ultrasound technician, sure I must be imagining that such a tiny being could already make such a recognizable movement. 

“Yes, she is,” she responded, smiling.  “I can hardly get a good picture of her face because she is so nuzzled into you.  Looks like she is going to be a snuggler!”

She. It felt surreal to hear the ultrasound technician say it—and even more so to say it myself. I felt timid uttering the word aloud at first—acknowledging that you were not merely a hypothetical or our “baby bean” or a flashing heartbeat.  One minute ago, you had been “the baby”—a nebulous presence that still seemed too small and too good to be true.  But then the sonogram wand had paused on my belly, and the world stood still while things came into focus.  I saw and knew before the technician said it aloud—

It’s a girl. 

Your dad and I left the hospital holding a small scroll of photos, grinning and giddy.  Whatever it was that I meant to get done that day was forgotten.  I felt lightheaded, dizzy with joy, overwhelmed, and amazed.  I laid on the bed and texted family and friends while your dad got your brother Noah down for his nap. And when he came in to lie next to me a few minutes later, I put my phone down and said, “Come over here, and hold your girls!”

He wrapped his arms around me, and I kissed him, long and hard—flooded with emotion that I get to share this experience—this life—with him.  He smiled and stroked my hair, and we talked about you, wondering aloud what you will be like and what gifts you will bring to our family.

He lay beside me and dozed for a few minutes while I continued the texting frenzy, and then he went into the kitchen to make chocolate chip cookies (we both agreed that we needed something sweet on such a special day).  I lay on the bed thinking, the sound of the mixer whirring in the background, and all of the sudden, as it always does on occasions such as this one, I felt the exhaustion closing in.  

It happened on the day that your brother was born, and it happened on the day after I found out I was pregnant with you.  After the elation, the thrill, and the flurry of excitement comes an unexpected feeling of overwhelm—whispers of inadequacy and vulnerability tugging at my heart.

What if I’m not a good mother to her? the whispers said. And then the deepest fear of all wrenched and twisted within me: What if I lose her, before she’s even born?

You’re not a hypothetical to me anymore.  You’re real, and you’re my daughter, and you are deep within me.  Now that I’ve seen you—now that I can picture you as a sweet baby girl in pink pajamas, a wobbling toddler with blond pigtails, a gap-toothed elementary schooler hopping off the bus—the emotional stakes are higher.  It’s hard, being a parent—unconsciously giving your heart to little human beings who can get hurt and sick and who are not invincible—and yet who own every tiny fiber of your soul.  It’s a scary kind of love to feel.

I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, and as I felt sleep coming, the tears came too.  Tears of exhaustion and overwhelm, tears of joy and elation.  So many emotions, all wrapped up in one sweet baby girl.

I woke up an hour later to a little boy with bed-head eating cookies at the kitchen table.  Dad had gotten him set up with the iPad before he left for a church meeting so I could have a couple more minutes of rest.  The fatigue and the fear had faded with sleep, and when I took my seat next to Noah at the table, I was smiling groggily.

“What ya doin’, Mommy?”  he asked, looking up from his show, chocolate smeared across his face.

“Just thinking about Baby Sister,” I told him.

“The baby in your belly?”  he asked, peering at my stomach as if that would give him some confirmation.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I responded.

“It’s a gwirl baby, Mama,” he informed me, remembering what we had told him that morning after we’d picked him up from the babysitter.

“Yes it is, honey.” 

“Is she ready to come out and play with me?” he asked innocently.

I smiled.  “Not quite yet, Noah…But she’ll be here before we know it.”

We’re all excited to meet you, Baby Girl.  August can’t come soon enough.  Please stay healthy and strong.  Keep growing—keep snuggling close—the next time I see you, you will be in my arms.

Waiting with love and faith,

Your Mama

Noah Shares the News!

After excitedly getting dressed and ready for my 19-week ultrasound this morning (and even curling my hair for the occasion, which I never do!), I came out of the bathroom and laughed when I saw what Ryan had chosen to wear to the appointment.  Of course, he hadn't knowingly picked a blue shirt--and neither had I--but I wondered if our unlikely "twinners" moment meant that our subconscious minds knew something we didn't...

Baby boy blue?

 

Ryan snuck into my "belly pic" which I thought was only appropriate since selfies are just awkward anyway.  I'm still not really showing, and I'm done with these belly pics for a while.

We were so excited as we headed to our appointment...

To find out if our choice of outfits was indeed revealing of the outcome, watch the video of Noah looking at the ultrasound photos and sharing the news.

We are so excited!!!!!