Still here

Even if you haven't experienced much grief in your life, you've most likely at least heard the phrase, "grief comes in waves." And it's so very true. For me, tonight is one of those times when that grief hits like an enormous tidal wave, and the sorrow and the pain is so intense that it even hurts physically.

This New Year's Eve marks the one-year anniversary of Isaac's accident, which is frankly so painful and horrible to remember that I don't think that I will ever be able to write of it. I will say that throughout that day, he had been so sweet, so cuddly and clingy-- grabbing my face to give me slobbery baby kisses-- and I remember feeling so grateful to be his mother.

Before my husband went to work that day, Isaac looked into his eyes and smiled the most incredibly loving smile I've ever seen-- before or since. My husband called to me to look at our baby, and Isaac continued to smile that beautiful smile at both of us. We marveled at the deep kindness and charity we saw in the eyes of a seven-month-old child.

I remember that I held Isaac in my arms that afternoon while reading a long article about blogger Stephanie Nielson's plane crash and lengthy recovery, and making a resolution in my heart that I would truly devote the coming year to my sons, to giving them a fuller, happier life, and to showering them with all the love I feel for them.

I remember that day was the first, and only, time I ever heard him call me "Mama."

And yet... that very night, our world was shattered. And it will never, ever be the same. Nine days later, after many prayers and blessings, after countless tests and examinations revealed our son would not ever recover, we said our goodbyes as Isaac took his last breaths in my arms, surrounded by close family and a few friends. The morning he was born, we had listened to peaceful Beethoven sonatas, and so we played them again for him as his spirit returned to his Father in Heaven.

Sometimes when I realize that we've lived a year now without our Isaac, it feels so awful and terrible to think it has gone so fast. How in the world could we have lived a year already without our little Sunshine? How has life kept going on? Why didn't the world stand still, at least for a little while, to acknowledge the tremendous loss of this perfect little angel? How have I endured life without my baby for nearly a year? It feels so wrong.

For many people, writing about their grief is very therapeutic. I am so grateful to those who are able to share their deepest feelings, to allow others to gain strength from them by bravely laying those feelings bare for others to see. But I don't think I'm really there yet. When I wrote of Isaac's birthday, and how we wished to commemorate it, I was initially overwhelmed by the response. Facebook friends had invited hundreds to spread sunshine for others, and I felt great hope that many people would be touched by our sweet Isaac. But very few people actually let us know how they honored Isaac or what they did. Instead, more people seemed to want to praise us for what we did. And that really bothered me. I didn't want to be praised or congratulated. Maybe it sounds strange, but I did not want anyone to hold me up as an example. Because honestly, I didn't-- and still don't-- feel worthy of it.

Two days after Isaac's birthday, we finally made it back to the cemetery-- exactly a year from the day we had brought him home from the hospital. As I look back on my life, May 12, 2009 was the brightest and most hopeful day I can ever remember experiencing. In contrast, May 12, 2010 was dark, cold, rainy and miserable. I sank deeper into my grief, and the Spring and Summer seemed to slip past me before I even noticed. The loss of our Isaac seemed so pronounced and obvious. Thoughts of all the things he should have been learning and doing haunted me and made my broken heart just ache.

Much to my astonishment, during this period of intense mourning, I was asked to teach Early-morning Seminary, a daily scripture study course for high school students from our Church. Each year has a focus, and this school year's curriculum covers the history of our Church, and also a book of scripture called the Doctrine and Covenants. For more than 14 weeks I was immersed in my teaching materials, and while I would never have aspired to teach teenagers at 6 a.m., it has blessed my life. I have gained strength from reading of those early Latter-day Saints, who willingly endured great hardships because of their testimonies of the gospel. One night, while reading from the Church History institute manual, I came across the following account:

Jane Richards (1823–1913) made the trek across Iowa late in 1846 without her husband, Franklin D. Richards, who was on his way to England... Jane’s little daughter, Wealthy, was ill and died at Cutler Park after weeks of incredible suffering. Sister Richards recounted the incident:

“A few days previously she had asked for some potato soup, the first thing she had shown any desire for for weeks, and as we were then travelling, we came in sight of a potato-field. One of the sisters eagerly asked for a single potato. A rough woman impatiently heard her story through, and putting her hands on her shoulders, marched her out of the house, saying, ‘I won’t give or sell a thing to one of you damned Mormons.’ I turned on my bed and wept, as I heard them trying to comfort my little one in her disappointment. When she was taken from me I only lived because I could not die.”

As I read those words, I couldn't stop my tears. Although Jane Richards' daughter died 164 years before our Isaac, and under different circumstances, I felt a deep kinship with this woman I have never met. I felt that here was someone who knew and felt what I now felt. And she did not give up. She did not die when she buried her precious little one. She kept going. Like me, she didn't know how to keep going. She just somehow did it anyway.

So while it seems incomprehensible much of the time, we still get up every morning and keep trying. I wish I could say I've been strong, and cherished every day and become a better person-- but honestly, grieving is hard. It is exhausting, and draining, and isolating. It can make a person question everything she knows and believes. It includes not just profound sadness, but also deep feelings of fear and regret and anger and jealousy. And I'm not sure how much of that to share, or how to share it.

Another somewhat surprising thing has happened in the past several months...

I became pregnant again. We weren't trying to prevent a pregnancy, but being under such intense stress and grief, we honestly didn't think we would conceive any time soon. And even once I'd had two positive pregnancy tests, I was convinced that I would most likely miscarry. I was fearful not only of that possibility, but also of negative reactions from others. And, truly, some people, when they have been told, have shown no reaction whatsoever or still have never offered any congratulations. So I've kept a lot of that, too, very private.

I suppose there are some who think we are foolish to have another child when we continue to struggle financially due to this crappy economy. Despite his ceaseless, heroic efforts-- not to mention his intelligence and abilities-- my husband has not been offered a job in his field and has worked willingly and diligently at the most thankless job I've ever seen-- for over a year.

I think more likely, though, the others find it distasteful that we should have another child so soon after Isaac's passing. Perhaps they mistakenly feel that we are trying to replace him. But NOTHING could be further from the truth. NO ONE EVER could replace our Isaac. No one will ever be just like him. No one will ever fill that gaping hole in our lives. It's just not possible. We will continue to miss him every day of our lives.

24 weeks pregnant, late September

However, this new baby boy, whom we will welcome in just a few short weeks, will help fill our empty arms. He will be a companion for his oldest brother. He has given us hope for the future. He will bring us joy, and we are grateful to have the blessing of being able to love and nurture another sweet little child. And truly he deserves to have parents who are happy that he is part of their family, too-- even while they grieve the loss of his brother.

So that's where I've been, in a very simplified nutshell... In time, perhaps I will be able to share more. I would like to, if I can figure out a way that feels right and fitting. For now, I'm still working on just getting through each day.