A Wife's Wrist Band...

I realized today I still had my wrist band on. The paper kind with the sticky end you get at concerts. Only the black skeleton silhouettes dancing across this one was evidence of the corn maze I had been to with the ward's young women a few nights before. As I went about needing to find scissors to cut it off a reminder of another wrist band came flooding back without warning.

Another wrist band. Same style, only hot pink. Without Halloween clip art. Simply, my husband's name, DOB, and hospital room number jazzed it up. When I returned back to Primary Children's Hospital after Jared had been admitted, I had to get a security band so I could just walk back to his room without checking in each time. As I talked at the security desk, I had to explain I was the patient's wife, not mother. Especially with the silly faces he was making all the while. 

"In 25+ years, I've never given one of these to a patient's wife," he said. And I would suppose not. It was a children's hospital after all. That was evident by the coloring book, crayons, and animal themed menu in my husband's room. In fact, there wasn't even an option for "wife" at the security check-in. I joked then that I sometimes felt more like a mother, since Jared was always a kid at heart. Despite not having wife as an option, hot pinkness still came to symbolize my "wife's" band. When I pulled into the parking lot after going back and forth between the hospital and my parents that first day, the guard asked who I was there for. I held up my wrist, flashing my pink band, and he waved me on. "Ah, you have a kiddo in there," he said and smiled. I smiled back. Yes, I had a big kiddo in there.

Even after we soon transferred hospitals and the band was no longer required, I kept it on. I liked seeing my husband's name around my wrist. It signified I was there for him.

After Jared's passing and the band was no longer required, I kept it on. I liked seeing my husband's name around my wrist. It signified we were still connected.

And even after we laid my husband to rest, all through the viewing and the funeral and the band was no longer required, I kept it on. It signified that I was still his wife.

I debated taking it off when I went to the temple the morning of Jared's viewing, but I just couldn't. The neon peaked out from under the sleeve of my dress; the same dress I wore when we were married. In fact, I wore that hot pink wrist band through that month, and the next, and then a little longer. To me cutting it off signified he wasn't there, and I couldn't bear the thought despite it running through my mind over and over. I wore it in the shower, to sleep, watching it get folded over and somewhat tattered. Then I noticed Jared's name began to slowly but surely fade. Eventually worries I would wear it out to the point of not being able to see my husband's name there, I took a pair of scissors and somewhat ceremoniously snipped my wrist free of the hot pink. I've put it in a safe place, along with other momentos of my husband. Forever reminding me that I was there for him, we are connected, that I am his wife. 

As I stare at the red and black band on my hand now, I can envision see the hot pink "wife band" that signified I was at the hospital for Jared, and tears well up. I would proudly wear anything that shows I am his wife.

A Merry Heart Doeth Good Like A Medicine...

A

 day, a week, a month. Why do we keep track of time when it really all just rolls up on top of itself and folds back over into one giant experience? Does it help or hinder us to mark stretches of time? As the first day of a new month rolls around yet again, I feel the pit of anxiousness swell up inside me. With the beginning of a new month and season, it's a reminder of the ending of the life I once had and loved. The 1st marks 8 months since Jared’s spirit was finally able to leap up and run. And oh, how I miss him! 

Sometimes I still count back to add up the number of days since his passing, although it always just makes me feel sad. Some hours it feels as if just yesterday we were talking and holding hands, living our beautiful life. Other times it seems light years away. Time is so warped to me now and seems to stretch on and on, and on and on. Yet, while each day is one more added to our length of separation, it also means one day closer to our reunion. 

When I first started this blog with Jared's encouragement, and then didn't really start it, my intention was to keep everyone updated on my husband's health, and how he was doing so great. And mainly, how his merry heart was what I felt was keeping him so healthy and happy. 

I anticipated creating a blog full of heart healthy recipes I had tried for Jared, ways I would make our home cute and crafty to reflect our family's love, and all about how Jared was defying the doctors' predictions. We both knew his merry heart was doing more than medical treatments could ever do. But now, none of that is valid and I have anything but a merry heart of my own. 

I feel I am being held together by sloppy yet faithful stitches, yet they can't seem to hold closed the tender wound in my own aching heart. I'm sure if doctors were to open my chest, they'd find an actual gaping hole where all my emotions, abilities, and confidence are pouring out. 

A few days ago I found myself gripping my steering wheel while I cried the kind of crying that makes your body ache and your head numb. Maybe it was the gloomy clouds or the rain pouring down that day, the same as on the morning we laid my husband to rest. Or maybe it was how the clouds lingered lower over the foothills above where I live; where we lived. But the tears began to fall as I drove back from a simple run to the post office. Sometimes the emotions fill up inside and have no where to go but overflow. They tumble out of my eyes and down my face. 

As I parked along the curb in front of my parents' house, I stared out the window. Everything was blurry; the neighbor's leafy trees, the black pavement, the late summer flowers. Even if I wasn't crying, the rain streaking across the window pane blurred all the greens of summer together into a sort of new gray hue. There have been times like this that I cry so hard I can't catch my breath. I continued to grip the steering wheel, seeing my knuckles turn white and almost shake. The emotional pain becomes physical and I have no particular thoughts, just everything rolling together through my mind. And then almost as sudden as it began, the tears stopped. I took out the keys, and I went inside. 

Moments of anguish come and then they go. Life goes on. The mail gets delivered each day, the phone rings with sales pitches, breaking news still gets reported by 5 o'clock each evening. Even though my own world has come to a screeching halt, a continuous halt that has lasted 8 months now, the rest of the world carries on. 

I know I need to get back to that place, to have a merry heart. This blog is my journey back to that now. The truth is that my grief, while more than skin deep, isn't all-encompassing. There is happiness. At first those moments of gladness seemed fleeting and spread far apart. Or was it just me keeping them from coming and not opening my eyes to know happiness is truly there constantly just waiting for me to grab on and hold tight? Within my soul past that wounded heart of mine, my spirit is happy and has reason to rejoice! 

I've heard others ask to those who have been traveling this journey of grief how long until the hurt goes away. Some same "In time," some say "Never." The truth is, I don't want it to go away. At least not completely. I feel my grief is only as equal as my love for Jared, and I fear if I feel less sad it would mean I feel less love for him. And that will never happen. I love Jared with all my heart, broken or not. While part of me has gone with him, I think I can still have a merry heart and happiness. There is happiness for the life we shared, the life I have and will still need to live for our daughter Liberty and her eyes full of light. There is happiness for that eternal bond I share with Jared, one that began eons ago and continues even now. Most importantly, there is happiness in the Atonement of the Son of God that enables me to have hope for a merry heart once again. 

Lady Liberty...

We welcomed our beautiful daughter into our family during the wee hours on July 31, and she immediately became my whole world. Liberty Eden takes after me in the punctuality field, being 6 days late from her EDD. I was beginning to feel like she'd never arrive! I was really starting to get discouraged waiting yet another day for the signs of labor. Each day dragged on as family would call or text to check in, always getting the same answer, "No news." I was really anxious to meet my daughter since I felt like we'd been cultivating a relationship for so long already. 

Throughout my entire pregnancy I was constantly in awe at the little miracle growing inside me, as I'm sure all mothers to be can relate. When I was first pregnant, it was a little strange as my mind kept playing scenes from alien sci-fi movies Jared loves to make me watch. You know, the ones where aliens come bursting out of peoples bodies where they've been incubating and invade Earth. Yes, those were my thoughts.  Needless to say I was a little freaked out when the time for labor finally arrived. 

I woke up that day feeling pretty crummy, more like I had food poisoning. And that's how I'd describe labor, cramps and food poisoning. Something for you future mommies to look forward to. My doctor had scheduled for me to be induced the very next day, and it was seeming more and more like that was inevitable. After a short nap, my water broke, only, I didn't really know that's what was happening. Of course I called my sister right away to get her opinion and advice. She had just given birth to her third child and by all accounts was an expert in my eyes. I told Jared I thought I was in labor but that I wanted to "get ready" first. So he napped while I did my makeup and hair! I spoke to the doctor on call and next thing you know we were on our way to the hospital. We got into a room right away and things went pretty quick from there.

The anesthesiologist was great. So great in fact that my husband later told me that I apparently blabbed on about how he was my new best friend and that we should make friendship bracelets. I do remember saying something to that effect, but also thinking that is was a perfectly normal thing to say to someone who just took all my pain away. My husband on the other hand was rather embarrassed and tried to get me to shut-up. 

Needless to say, the epidural was fantastic. I didn't mind that my legs kept flopping off the bed and my husband had to keep putting them back, because the food poisoning feeling was gone and we were on our way to meeting our little baby! My doctor was unable to make it to the hospital, but the doctor on call turned out to be the same doctor who had delivered 3 of my nephews. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else other than my own OB, so it was a blessing to have someone who we already knew. 

Turns out that extra week in the oven made my little bun extra big. It was just a few minutes under 3 hours of intense labor before she finally arrived, all 8 pounds 5 ounces of her, straight from heaven. Of course I cried tears of joy, and probably exhaustion. I was just so glad to finally have our little baby here with her perfect ten fingers and perfect ten toes. 

Throughout my pregnancy I was amazed each day at the miracle going on inside me. I suddenly had this feeling that not only was my baby growing and becoming an entire human being one cell at a time, but that I was becoming something new myself. Something that was somehow more special, more holy. While reading a book the other day to my sweet baby that I was given as a shower gift, Errand of Angels, I found a quote that explains my sentiments. 

"She who can paint a masterpiece or write a book that will influence millions 

deserves the plaudits and admiration of mankind. But she who would 

willingly and anxiously rear successfully a family of beautiful healthy sons and daughters 

whose lives reflect the teachings of the gospel, deserves the highest honors that man can give, 

and the choicest blessings of God. In fact, her high duty and service to humanity, endowing 

with mortality eternal spirits, she is a co-partner with the Great Creator Himself. "

-David O. Mckay

The last line is really what struck me - I felt like a co-partner with God. I know that's a lofty place to put myself, and I in no way want to imply I am on the same level as Diety. It's just that I felt while I was becoming a mother I was also becoming so much more, somehow even godly. As I've spent the last 6 weeks caring for my precious angel, I've felt more like I'm remembering how to be a mom rather than learning for the first time. This may sound strange to most people. No, I don't think I was a mother in another life who's now been reincarnated. I guess I just feel that the drive to be a mother and love my daughter nearly to the point of smothering has been part of who I am all along and I'm just now growing into it. It's more than just maternal instinct. I feel God has instilled this within me and given me all the godly characteristics needed to be a mother. Because I think the characteristics of a mother, those of patience, compassion, caring and selflessness, and most notably love, are all godlike.

I may not be perfect and need to continually grow into this role. My baby makes me want to be a better wife, friend, and neighbor; I feel like I owe it to her. She deserves the best mom - butnot just someone who makes great chocolate chip cookies and has snacks ready everyday after school, or drives her around from musical lessons to sport events. There are enough women in the world who are beautiful, smart, sophisticated, successful. I want to be all those too, but more than that I want to fulfill my eternal potential and role as a mother.

Liberty is beautiful and precious and as I stare at her tiny perfect features, I see her daddy so much. The eyes especially. I'm there too, and even a hint of both grandmas is apparent. She sleeps in my arms with all the hope and potential the world can offer. And then I see it, a glimmer of godliness and holiness all her own. Did she bring it with her from Heaven? After all, she came from the presence of God and his angels. Or perhaps, did she inherit some of that from me? The seeds of what I am now becoming have been passed down from God to all the mothers in the world and are planted in the hearts of our daughters. As I think this, I can't help but cry tears of joy. 

Original Writing: September 12, 2013

Starting...

I’m feeling inspired today. This feeling often comes and goes, but today, I’m really inspired. Inspired to write. Most people wouldn’t think of me as a writer. In fact, I wouldn’t call myself a writer either. I’m more of a mental writer, going through my day conversing with myself and composing what I suppose are great ideas and stories. So yes, I talk to myself. But at least I know better than to do it out loud. So what makes today any different than the last 10,329 days of my life? Perhaps it’s the fact that with the upcoming birth of our daughter I foresee time to actually write down all the things I see and think about. And it inspires me to start now. Or maybe the notion of not procrastinating is finally making sense in my brain. I think it could be that I discovered another soon to be mom who was doing just what I’ve been talking about, and actually writing! While scouring the internet for a great thank you gift, I eventually found my way to a blog post by another woman expecting her first baby and was so impressed by her daily journaling. Granted, this is what she does for a living and is a veteran blogger. Unlike her situation, inspiration often finds its way to me while I’m at a non-blogging-job generating purchase orders or verifying employee purchases. Not an ideal or even possible time to pick up a notebook and jot down my scrambled thoughts. So I’m sending an email to myself on my lunch break while I’ve caught hold of this inspiration and motivation before it gets away again.

I actually created this blog nearly a year ago. And there it sat. Empty. No posts. No pictures. I was so excited to finally join the band wagon of blogging wives and mothers but when the page was actually up, I ran out of steam. This happens with me and projects. I envision all the greatness I want something to be, but when it starts out small I’m unimpressed and abandon it. I recognize most blogs and projects all have a starting point and evolve over time, but I am not patient. Ask my husband. I want it to be all it can be now! So I didn’t blog. I talked about blogging. I thought of great blog post ideas. I even posted 

things on Pinterest that I’d try and then blog about. But I did nothing more than that. So here I am starting.

I’m also having to face my fear of becoming one of those bloggers who thinks everything they have to say is so important and so original. I’m not original and I definitely don’t categorize myself as clever. There will be typos and grammatical errors. Hopefully that makes me more relatable. I’m also very careful to keep most things private. I tend to keep things close to the vest. I’m always telling my husband everything is not for everyone. Anyone will tell you I tend to shy away from the social media scene. I don’t want to read your tweet about how at this very moment you are walking into Wal-Mart, and that now you’re in the dairy section, and now you’re deciding to buy chocolate milk. And you will probably have to call me to tell me you sent me a text asking if I’d read your message on Facebook. But this inspiration I’m feeling today is also making me feel courageous. So writing means I have to let go of that fear of sharing, at least to some degree. Everything still won’t be for everyone. But I have learned from my husband over our 2 ½ years of blissful marriage that opening up a little may one day help someone. Once I tell his story, which has become our story, that will make more sense. He's teaching me that while our experiences in life, though often deeply personal, can be and should be used to do good things in this world.

I’ll soon be a mom, and maybe this writing what I’m thinking will only last until our bundle of joy arrives. I know she’ll demand all of my time, which I’m ready and glad to give. But she’s also the primary reason I feel inspired to write. I had planned to keep a pregnancy journal from the beginning. Once I found out we were expecting, I searched and searched for the perfect journal to track my emotions of being anxious, excited, overwhelmed, and grateful. Often all at once. I couldn’t find one I liked, so I didn’t write. Then I thought I’d start once I knew if we were having a boy or girl, and the search for the perfect mint green or pink notebook began again. No luck. I still didn’t write. Some of you might think how silly it is to not journal simply because I didn’t have the perfect notebook. You don’t know me well enough yet. I have an extensive collection of notebooks and stationary, all waiting for just the right occasion. So being pregnant was a big occasion that required the most amazing notebook of all. And here I am, 8 weeks left until our EDD, and no record of all the excitement and joy I’ve felt during this pregnancy. Pretty soon it will be too late and the thought that I’d have nothing to show for these long 9 months was so sad to me! I think I’ve only taken about 5 pictures. New camera is on the to-get-list before the baby arrives.

So here goes. Like I said, I’m starting.