delighted to be » baby amelia

/ april 24, 2012

Church was hard on Sunday. The minute we walked into the foyer, my eyes were greeted with at least seven or eight fathers and mothers holding their young babies. Bouncing them, cuddling them, feeding them cheerios. Thank goodness Jack still likes cheerios.

Yesterday wasn’t easy either. If I’m smiling and seem like I’m okay, please know that it’s not true. I ache so deeply on the inside for Amelia’s little life.

The hardest times are late at night when Tyler and I are laying in bed. With darkness and silence all around, I can feel Amelia’s spirit and body so close to me. Tyler and I will snuggle as close as we can, our legs intertwined and noses touching. I can feel his light, steady breathing as he falls asleep holding me. I wish it were that easy for me to drift into a deep slumber, but the past few nights have plagued me with the nightmares of losing a child. I sob quietly, and tears soak my pillow. Tyler will often wake up and soothe me, whispering how much he loves me as he gently strokes my head. He truly loves me, that man. He loves me so passionately and deeply, and I know it hurts him to see my pain.

But the reality is that it hurts me too, knowing he doesn’t get to experience the joy of carrying this child within him. He’s left in the dark. He can’t yet feel all of the little punches and kicks and wiggles she’s trying so desperately to share with him. He doesn’t get to be connected, body to body, to her kind spirit. So I weep not only for little Amelia, but for my dear husband. It just doesn’t seem fair to me.

“It  is imperative that we recognize that whatever has happened to us has happened to others. They have coped and so must we. We are not alone.  Heavenly Father’s help is near.” – President Thomas S. Monson, July 2004

If you’ve got a ten or fifteen minutes, this recent BYU Devotional address was kindly sent to me by my old boss. (Bless you, Paula!) It’s definitely worth a read and really puts a new perspective on dealing with the mountains of challenges we face in this life.

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Earthly Tabernacles / april 22, 2012

I wrote this early Friday morning, just after we got the news Thursday evening.

The first thought I had when I woke up this morning was, “The little kicking baby inside of me is going to die.”

I think in a strange way I was prepared for this through Tyler’s brother’s death last month. I can’t speak for Tyler because being his brother he will have had an entirely different experience. I can only speak through my own eyes and my own perspective.

Looking at the body at a funeral viewing isn’t something I’d say I’m comfortable with. But over the course of the two days and several hours we spent with an open casket in the room, my mind began to slowly make sense of things. The very first time I viewed the body, I could immediately tell it wasn’t Trevor. It was his body, but without his spirit it was merely the tabernacle to carry him through this life before he went into the next.

I’ve never lost a child. How does ones prepare for the inevitable loss of the being inside of them? But I imagine when the time comes I will view the body of our babe and know that this is merely a body. I will know beyond doubt that our precious baby’s spirit is so choice it will not need to live with a mortal body here on earth but will live forever in the eternities with our loving Heavenly Father.

I’d like to end my thoughts by sharing with you an excerpt from an email my dad wrote to me last night that helped me keep in perspective the Lord’s timetable:

“You two are very valiant children of the Lord preserved to bring forth the Lord’s purposes in the last days. One of these purposes is to provide earthly tabernacles for the Lord’s children. In most cases these tabernacles grow up to adulthood and experience earth life proving their faith and obedience. On occasion a child of the Lord need not experience earth life to prove their faithfulness. These children have proven themselves in premortal life, but they can no longer dwell with our Father in Heaven in a celestial world. They lack a body. Without a body they cannot be resurrected nor can they emulate their Father. They can not enter into the Celestial world, they are lost forever.

Because the Lord is so loving he has provided a means for these children to gain a body and thus return to him in Celestial Glory. Part of this plan involves his children that already reside in an earthly state. The two of you have been sealed in the “Temple of Our God” and your children fall under the covenant. This child you carry is yours and will be forever. How blessed you are to have been chosen to provide a tabernacle for one of the Lord’s most choice. I know it is sad and seemingly unfair, but what greater blessing can you receive than the sure knowledge that one of your children is guaranteed residence in the Lord’s kingdom?”

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It’s a… / april 21, 2012

If you haven’t read day one of our story, read it here (or scroll down to the next post) first.

Well, the Lord kindly sent us the baby girl we’d been hoping and praying for. Her name is Amelia.

My heart stopped yesterday and I couldn’t hold back the tears of gratitude when the hospital sonogram technician announced baby jones was indeed a girl. My eyes welled up with tears when we finally got to see her perfect tiny fingers and toes on the screen.

Every doctor we’ve seen has expressed their shock at how calmly Tyler and I have handled the situation. Today we are smiling, as hard as the situation might be. But don’t let it fool you; we are hurting deeply inside. I’ve cried myself to sleep the past two nights, knowing that I might never get to meet our sweet Amelia alive here on earth.

Yesterday we met at the Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla, CA in the perinatal services ward. We and the doctors were able to get a better look at baby Amelia. She’s beautiful. She has ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes that she couldn’t wait to show off. She’s got long, slender legs and a cute squishy bum. Her heart is strong and vibrant. Essentially, her body from the neck down is nearly perfect.

Friends, I’d like you to meet baby Amelia:

She’s looking right at you, with her cute button nose and big eyes. I’d like to think she’s smiling for us in this picture.

We then got a chance to talk to the doctor one-on-one about our situation. We explained “terminating the pregnancy” was NOT an option, and though we know sweet Amelia cannot live outside the womb, we want her to know she is welcome here. She needs a body, and I am the only one that can provide that for her.

This pregnancy will continue as normal as possible, as if I was carrying a perfectly healthy baby. I am not considered high-risk because (aside from the normal risks of carrying a child) there are no added risks. We know the outcome, and there is absolutely nothing anyone can do to change it.

Anencephaly babies have a 75% chance of living full-term (40 weeks), and most are deaf and blind. I strongly feel that as long as Amelia is living and breathing inside of me there is a reason for it. We will make decisions much later, but right now it seems that a c-section may give us the best chance of (at least Tyler) getting to meet Amelia while she’s alive on this earth.

I’m grateful for every moment I get to spend with her. She’s connected to me, and without me she cannot live. Right here and right now, we desperately need one another. Though she may never get to see my face or hear my voice with her physical body, I know our spirits will forever be connected. We’re already best friends, Amelia and I.

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An Eternal Perspective / april 21, 2012

Since day one of this pregnancy, I’ve had a gut feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Some might call it simply “mother’s intuition” but I know now those feelings came from a higher power above. Just ask Tyler; I’ve just known that someday we would face a challenge like this in our lives. I just didn’t dream we’d have to face it right now.

I excitedly walked into our ultrasound appointment, nervous but eager to finally find out the baby’s gender. Would it be the girl we’ve secretly hoped for, or an equally-loved, rambunctious little brother for Jack? The radiologist invited me back to measure and assess the baby’s growth while Tyler patiently waited with Jack in the waiting room for their turn to join us. We struck up polite conversation, and while I was bummed that I couldn’t see the monitor, I tried to keep calm. I talked about how we would love a boy or a girl in our family, and mostly prayed for a healthy baby. I talked about our impending move (next week!) to San Jose. I hinted that I felt much more nervous this time around than at my 20-week ultrasound with Jack, but reassured myself out loud that it was probably just my paranoia and pregnancy hormones. After all, I had been feeling the baby kick the past week or two so I knew a beautiful life was still inside of me, growing to its full potential.

Per routine, the radiologist asked if I had any family history of genetic disorders or problems. Nope, none that I know of. I then blurted out that my cousin and his wife recently gave birth to a baby with a severe birth defect (full trisomy 18) that died three hours later, but a case like that is incredibly rare. Just an unfortunate thing that happened to really good people. We continued our conversation, talking about Mexico and San Diego rent prices and how my doctor was out of town right now. Finally she let me pee (I had been holding a half-gallon of water for almost two hours at this point) but insisted on rechecking a few things when I came back. While I went to get Tyler and Jack from the waiting room, she consulted with a technician in the other room. And instead of routinely letting us have our long-awaited gender reveal, she sent us straight up to my OB to get our test results.

I told you I knew something was up. I could feel it in the ultrasound room, and I could feel it in the elevator. Tears were welling up in my eyes and I couldn’t think straight. If it wasn’t something critical, why would they have sent us up here immediately? As we met with the nurse (who, through no fault of her own, was able to tell us anything), I couldn’t hold my sobs in any longer and began bawling like a crazy lady. The nurse reassured me that my doctor would be back on Monday to read me the results. Then my knight-in-shining-armor (Tyler) insisted the nurse that we were sent up there for an obvious reason and though our doctor was out of town, she needed to find a doctor – any doctor – who could interpret the results for us NOW. We couldn’t wait until Monday.

She ushered us into an unused exam room, and there we waited. And waited. Those were some of the longest minutes of my life. Tyler and I both knew something wasn’t right, but neither of us could admit it to each other. We made small talk, conversing about the proper care of laminate flooring to his baby pictures that I sorted through that morning. Finally we were led to an OB’s office down the hall, who had to give us some of the worst news possible.

The baby has anencephaly, a serious birth defect in which a baby is born without parts of the brain and skull. If baby makes it full-term, he/she will either be still born or won’t live longer than a few hours (a day or two at best). There is a strong heartbeat and reflexes of the baby kicking and moving, but with the absence of a brain there is no brain function that an individual needs to live. The doctor reassured me it is most likely an unfortunate fluke, but I can’t help but feel as the mother like I somehow caused it to happen.

We have two options: we can choose to abort the baby or, at no risk to me, let it live its life, however long that might be. Being the Christians we are, abortion is entirely out of the question. It is our duty as parents to give precious spirits in heaven a body here on earth, and we strongly feel that this particular spirit was sent to our family for a reason. We might not even get to meet him/her in this life, but we know without a doubt God has a bigger plan and there will be one more child up in heaven waiting for us to join them.

I think the hardest part for me is trying to comprehend that I still get to help nourish and grow our little baby inside of me for the next few months. Each time I feel the baby kick and squirm it reminds me how precious and fleeting life really is here on this earth, and how I need to fight for the chance to live each and every day the best I can. And it makes me ever-so grateful for my husband and sweet toddler that wake up healthy and strong each day to tackle life with me.

Things didn’t go as planned. Our little family of three will stay a family of three here on earth a little longer than expected. We won’t need that third bedroom in our house quite yet. But I’m grateful for the plan of salvation, for the knowledge we have of eternal families, and that we know with a surety that life continues on after death. Our little baby has had the blessed opportunity to receive a body, and when it is time will continue on to the heavens where he/she is most needed by our loving Heavenly Father. I know now that this earth life won’t be the last time I get to be a mother, and I feel so blessed for that opportunity.

Life hasn’t gone how we’ve expected it to lately. We’ve had some major highs and some major lows. The veil on this earth is so incredibly thin between life and death.

But tomorrow is a new day and I would feel selfish and ungrateful to waste it. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, and we hope you’ll join us with gratitude in your hearts for the blessings God has given us each and every day of our lives.

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