What Once Was Lost, Now Is Found

I wrote this post last year on September 10. I hurt in ways I lacked words to explain.

And then--a date you'd think I'd remember forever but for some reason I don't--it reappeared.

Eve found it, but I don't know where. I quizzed her, but she had no answers and quickly skipped off to play. After carefully tucking it in the drawer between a small blue box filled with her memories and her pewter photo album I invested all of my grief into creating, I sat on the bed and wept--tears of joy and tears of loss spilling simultaneously down my cheeks.

I still can't explain how my locket reappeared, but it's back around my neck today.

Fourteen years.

I know God has a plan for all of us, but I still wonder sometimes  . . .

As Lily, Micah, and I ate breakfast this morning, we talked about Ella. They mentioned her by name and talked of her as they would any of their siblings. Who would her friends be? And we listed a few fourteen-year-old girls we know. They then sat quietly, alone with their thoughts of the sister missing between them. My thoughts swirled as well, and the empty chair next to me suddenly felt even emptier. She would be riding carpool with these two sibs, sneaking Lily's clothes and makeup and crushing on Lily's much older, much cooler guy friends. Micah would surely have crushes on her friends just a grade older than he is, right?

Bitter yet sweet, these thoughts of what could have been.

The heart that has been glued together for thirteen years suddenly sprang open this morning on my bathroom counter. While I have other pictures (and one is always on the shelf in my bedroom), I hadn't seen this picture in over a decade.

As I looked at it, I remembered cutting the photo paper to fit inside the small indentation, worrying that I would ruin one of the only pictures I had to remember her tiny self. Weird how the world has changed--we used a film camera way back in 2002. Remember those, and how precious each image was?

Three years ago, I shared Ella's birth story, and after rereading that post, I can't believe I wrote it. Writing is a funny creature. Sometimes the words flow beautifully and perfectly from my fingers, and at other times, they get stuck somewhere between my brain and the keyboard, stumbling awkwardly onto the page in inarticulate fashion.

Today the words stumble and fall, but the feelings are the same.

Happy Fourteenth, Sis.

As Long As I'm Living,

Mom

It’s gone.

The locket I wore around my neck every day for a year.

The locket that holds a very tiny, very blurry, very dark picture of a very tiny girl.

The locket whose clasp was broken by a two-year-old who constantly asked to look at the picture of the sister she would never know.

The locket I glued shut so I could continue to have its comfort close to me.

The locket that brought her heart close to mine.

The locket I only pull out of its place once a year.

It’s gone.

I tore that space apart looking for it. It's not there. It's not anywhere. It's not in a drawer or in my nightstand or in the bathroom or hidden between two scarves. I know Eve plays in my jewelry and scarves frequently, and I’m sure she played with it one day, not knowing what it means to me. I’m sure it’s shoved in a dark corner somewhere or casually thrown into the trash. The trash. I can’t think about that.

It’s gone. And I can’t wear it close to my heart today.

Today. The one day a year I need it.

The heart-shaped locket that seals two hearts together.

Two hearts.

One here.

One there.

I should be planning carpools to junior high. 

Whose room would she share—Lily’s or Eve’s?

I should be setting a table for seven each night, not six.

Would she love Harry Potter and Percy Jackson like Micah?

I should be making a birthday cake.

What would her favorite dinner request be for tonight?

I should be planning a party—one of those big junior high things with pizza and swimming and giggling. So much giggling at thirteen.

Who would she invite?

I should be refereeing shared bathroom time.

Whose pants are these—yours or Lily’s?

I should be driving to dance or tumbling or soccer or volleyball.

What if . . .

I should be . . . 

But I’m not.

Instead, I weather September 10^th mostly alone, and this year I will do it without her and without my locket. Alone with my what-ifs and my should-have-beens. I know I will see her again, one day. One beautiful, perfect day.

Will she know me?

Will I recognize her?

This daughter of my heart.

Happy Birthday, Sister.

Landmark Day

As we walked into the restaurant for the last time, Eve excitedly exclaimed, "I know this place! Daddy and I came here on our date! Daddy loves to eat here. And so do I." We hadn't had time to dress up as we normally did when dining there--it was lunchtime, and we had a very tight timeframe in which to eat and leave. But we had to come say goodbye.

Brad's favorite restaurant in Mesa--favorite for the famous salad room and perfectly cooked pot roast--closed its doors last week.

So many memories under those brass chandeliers.

This was the place we always brought our kids when we wanted them to work on their best table manners. My kids are rowdy and rambunctious without particularly discerning palates, and dressing up a little bit and using black napkins at white-draped tables was a bit trying for them in the beginning. I was always a bit on edge, trying to communicate telepathically. Sit still or Chew with your mouth closed or Talk quieter or Slow down with that full plate or Only one cookie at a time. Sometimes, they responded to those telepathic messages that were accompanied by the evil eye. Sometimes, they ignored me in their excitement. And then, as if through the sheer power of my will for them to be good, they transformed into better behaved little ladies and gentlemen who knew the first thing they did when sitting at this table was to place their napkins in their laps.

We took our seven kids to this restaurant with us once--Heidi, Tucker, Ben, Lily, Micah, Hyrum, and Angelo. Two babies and a toddler. What was I thinking? Many older couples surrounded our boisterous family, and I just knew we were disturbing their quiet night out. I was wrong. As one couple left, the man stopped next to me, placed his hand on my shoulder, and said, "What well behaved children you have. I am impressed with their manners." No words could have been sweeter to this stressed mom at that moment. When everyone was buckled in the car, I glowed as I related his comment to my brood. Remarkably, it wasn't the last time someone would comment on their good behavior while dining there.

Brad's sister held her wedding luncheon here. Two unfamiliar families united together in the basement of a landmark. The Landmark.

We used to bring Brad's dad to this restaurant with all of the cousins when they were little. On one occasion, Tucker took so many trips to the salad room that he was full "to the top." He decided in the parking lot to jump up and down to move his food through a little faster. Instead, he threw up all over, with his cousins and siblings watching and laughing. He was about eleven years old, and the story has been told so many times that we've lost count.

I don't know how many of my kids accepted Brad's $1 bribe to taste a quail egg or some other delicacy from the salad room. I know I never did.

So many memories in this red brick building.

Most memorable meal of all was lunch February 13, 2003. It was raining that day. I remember.

I remember, because heaven wept with me that day. I tried simultaneously to remember and to forget that day--the day our fifth child was supposed to be born.

In an attempt to console his mourning wife, Brad wanted to take me to a nice lunch. He had the pot roast, I'm sure. I slid a tower of carefully selected tidbits around a clear salad plate, but nothing that entered my stomach could fill the empty place in my heart. I left the restaurant that day a weeping mess, but it marked the end of the worst and the beginning of my healing.

Collected soup tureens and vintage photographs of Mesa from its early days. Heavily trimmed windows and outdated wallpaper. A broken chair lift on the front stairs and antique stoves in the salad room.

There will never be another.

Goodbye, Landmark Restaurant. Thank you for teaching my children manners and the joy of trying new foods, uniting my family, and helping heal a mother's broken heart. The Dentons will never forget you.

ImPACT from Unexpected Sources

Just when you think you have a handle on everything, the handle slips out of your hand and you fall.

Ten months down in 2013.  Two left to go.

I've spent this last year trying to focus on the word ACT--acting with purpose, controlling my reactions, and training my actions to serve others around me.

I had more downs than ups this past month, but I think I learned more about this complicated word during October than I have in any other month of 2013.

Acts of Service

 A dear friend experienced the loss of her twin boys this month. While it is not my place to tell her story, I would like to share a few things with you.  I firmly believe that God uses us as angels on this earth to help those who are hurting.  Twice I thought to act in ways that weren't my own thoughts.  I had spent the entire afternoon writing this post, anxious to hear what would happen with the babies.  My mind was flooded with memories of my own loss, and suddenly I remembered a short list of things I wish I had known before losing my baby--things I wanted Heather to know before it was too late.  Twice I was prompted to send a text, and twice I dismissed the idea, fearing to intrude at such a private and difficult moment.  Finally the idea came a third time, and I decided that it was better to be inopportune than to be too late. 

I sent the text. I later found out that I was just in time. 

A few days later, my family was preparing to go out of town for the weekend, and I felt like I needed to stay home one more night before joining them.  As it turned out, Heather's mother called me the evening that my family left, asking me if I could play a musical number for Church, since she was leaving town to be with her grieving daughter.  We talked at the door for a few minutes when she dropped off the music, and as she left I realized that if I had left with my family, I would have been unable to help.

Sometimes, thoughts come to our minds and we wonder, "Is this thought my own or is it from God?" And even more rarely do we get confirmation that we were acting as His hands here on earth.

Acting with Purpose

I experienced something this last month that I haven't faced in a long time.

I got into a full-fledged funk that lasted almost two weeks.

I couldn't make myself do much of anything.  I couldn't make myself get up early like I did for the entire month of September. I went to my yoga classes, but I couldn't make myself do yoga on my own.  I couldn't muster the energy I needed to do my homework. I couldn't force myself to make to-do lists or even stay on top of my cleaning  or scripture study or prayer. 

Funny how this behavior is a surefire downward spiral into the land of "feeling worthless."  I would crawl into bed each night, reflect on my day and feel like I had done even less than the day before.  I was miserable on the inside and trying to keep it all together on the outside. I thought back to Elder Jeffrey Holland's talk just a few weeks ago--Like a Broken Vessel.  How he said, "if the bitter cup does not pass, drink it and be strong."  I knew what I needed to do to bounce back into the joy of my regular life; I just needed to make myself do those seemingly insignificant but perspective-altering small daily things that make all the difference.  I needed to reacquaint my body with my spirit.

Little by little I wriggled myself back to where I know I need to be.  I'm sure it will happen again, but I learned that losing my focus on acting with purpose can have a devastating effect on my self-esteem.

Action, Not Reaction

 Mothers are supposed to be the teachers and kids are supposed to be the students, right?

The greatest lesson I learned this month (maybe even all year) I learned from Ben. 

Ben took the ACT (appropriately enough) last June.  He got a great score, but he didn't finish the math section, and he knew he could do better, so he decided to take it again on October 26th.  He took a prep course and studied for the test as often as he could find the time.  Friday night was Homecoming, and because he was taking the ACT at 8 am the next morning, he came straight home from the dance to get some sleep.  By 6:30 am, he was up, showered, fed, and studying again.  Around 7:15, Ben came into our room and said that he couldn't get his admission ticket to print.  I headed downstairs to see what I could do, but for some reason the website wasn't recognizing his password, and customer service isn't open on Saturday.  I fired off a quick email  to ACT then thought I'd try to call, just in case someone was there to answer day-of-the-test questions.  An operator answered, pulled up Ben's account, then told me, "We have no registration for today's test for a Benjamin Denton.  I'm sorry."

I screwed up.  Screwed up big.  I hung up the phone and then turned to share the horrible news with my son.  Before the words could leave my mouth the tears stung my eyes and began to roll down my cheeks.  The weight of my mistake was killing me.  My son who had just spent four weeks cramming for a test would be unable to take it because I had forgotten to register him. "I'm so sorry, Ben.  I must have forgotten to register you.  I never forget stuff like that.  I'm so sorry.  I can't believe it." Not only were the tears streaming down my face, but my body began to wrack with sobs. Hyrum walked into the room and immediately walked back out again, not knowing how to handle his distraught mother. How could I have forgotten something so important?

My Ben.  My sweet, peacemaker son looked me in the eye, wrapped his arm around me, and instead of lashing out in justifiable anger, he tried to soothe me: "Mom, it's okay.  There's nothing we can do about it now.  It's okay.  Really.  I guess it was meant to be this way. Don't be so upset about it.  It's okay.  I promise." Over and over he repeated these words to me, trying to stop my tears.

Not a single word of reprimand. Or anger. Or recrimination. Or disappointment. Or . . . anything.  Nothing but kindness and understanding came from my son.

As it turns out, Ben can take the ACT one last time (in December) before the final fall 2014 fall application deadline.  As it turns out, Ben was right.  It will be okay.

Before he even knew he could still take the test, Ben had forgiven me for my mistake. How could he do that? I kept replaying in my mind how I would have reacted in a similar situation. I know I couldn't have mustered such control in a similar circumstance, but because of his example at that pivotal moment in his life, I now know that it is possible, and I know that, for the rest of my life, I will look back on that morning many times, hopefully mustering control and kindness and forgiveness in situations that appear unforgivable. 

How I was blessed to have a son like Ben I'll never know.  What I do know is that he is a much better person than I in so many ways.

2013--I'm going to give you everything I've got these last two months. 

ACT.

Empathy--My Final Birth Story

Empathy--the feeling that you understand and share another person's experiences and emotions

Every journey through the loss of a child is different. It doesn't matter if you lost your child as an infant, as a toddler, as a teen, as an adult--or if they never even took their first breath. No one's journey is harder or easier--each journey is just different.   I don't claim to tell anyone else's story.  This just happens to be mine.

For Heather and Greg--
How I wish I could change this last week of your life.  How I wish I could do something to alleviate your pain.  Just know that I love you, and that you are not alone in your journey. I love you like one of my own.  I haven't felt compelled to share my complete story of loss until now. This post is for you. I hope it helps.
Jenny

I have a small blue treasure box (hand painted with roses) that protects a set of precious, tiny memories.  
I had two pink stripes on a pregnancy test. 

It was June of 2002, and we were on vacation in Mexico with some friends. My period was late.  I was never late, but I didn't really consider the possibility that I could be pregnant until we had been in Mexico for four days and there was still no sign that my period was going to start.  Brad and I took a small detour to a Mexican pharmacy, where I bought a kit that informed me that I was indeed embarazada. After needing six rounds of Clomid to get pregnant with Lily, we had indeed succeeded without even trying.  We were excited.

I have a crocheted baby afghan no bigger than a kitchen rag, a small teddy bear, a seashell, and a knitted baby hat that would fit a racquetball inside that blue treasure box. 
I had an expanding waistline under a red gingham maternity shirt.
Heidi was eleven, Tucker had just turned ten, Ben was six, and our baby, Lily Jane, was two.  My hands and my days were full of mothering, and I was happy.  I always carried my pregnancies straight out front, and it was no secret to anyone that we were expecting again. 

I have a soft pink washcloth used for a blanket and a miniature headband made by my own hands with a bow in the center inside that blue treasure box.  
I had flutterings in my stomach.
Although getting pregnant was difficult, my actual pregnancies were joyous times for me.  I always felt great.  Sometime around fifteen weeks, I started feeling those unique butterflies that only come from new life inside.  I treasured every tickle, every private moment I shared with my baby.  I had been spotting and feeling some pressure, but that was nothing unusual for me; the doctors were monitoring it.  In fact, I went to see the doctor just the day before, where the nurse strapped me to the monitor to assure me that Baby was strong and good--"Listen to that heartbeat," she said. "I will schedule you for an ultrasound in the morning, just to be sure, but I think everything will be fine."

I have a full pewter photo album which I assembled whenever I could be alone. 
I had blood--there was so much blood--and a middle-of-the-night emergency to the hospital. 
We left all four kids asleep in the house that night, not knowing what time we would return. I grabbed a red hand towel from the hall bathroom as we left the house, hoping it would mask how much blood there was.

I will never buy another red towel.

I have poems, scriptures, quotes, and photographs glued carefully and lovingly on embossed linen paper, all inside that pewter photo album.
I had one lucid moment before I was lifted to the examination table.
Brad ran into the L&D entrance of the hospital to get a wheelchair for me. I had one final moment alone in the Suburban, and that is when I knew.  I whispered out loud, "Good-bye, Baby," before I was gently helped into the wheelchair by my sweetheart and rushed into the hospital. 

I have a matching set of tiny--oh, so tiny--handprints and footprints, made from purple ink that was pressed onto pink paper.
I had a baby.  A baby girl.
It was over before the doctor could even make it into the room. I was blessedly unconscious for the actual delivery, my body performing a task to which my heart never could have agreed. We spent a few difficult hours in that hospital room, building sacred memories that should have been formed over decades but instead needed to be completed by morning. Brad returned to our four sleeping children, making it back home before any of them knew we had ever left. 

I have a white rose bush growing in what is now another woman's yard.  
I had one small vase in my hand.
We left the hospital as early as they would discharge me. I was carrying a small blue treasure box (hand painted with roses) in one hand and a bud vase with three daisies and a single white rosebud in the other hand. My arms were glaringly, achingly empty. Before getting Lily from my Aunt Alison's house, we stopped for some breakfast. I had no appetite.

I have a dried rose topiary in the back of my bathroom cupboard. 
I had my own private funeral.
Flowers and meals and friends who had no idea what to say filed through my home.  I would sob on the couch in my cheery yellow living room for hours, looking from vase to vase, trying to find my old self again: the self who had never known such pain, such gut-wrenching, heart-searing, mind-numbing pain. I would never find that old self again. She is gone forever now.

I have a broken silver locket that cradles a single black and white photograph.  
I had a broken silver locket around my neck every day for eleven months.
One day in the shower, my milk came in.  What some women would have seen as a curse, I counted it as a blessing.  My body really had nurtured a child, and if she had waited until February, my body would have cared for her just as it had cared for her four older siblings. Each time I showered, I watched her milk and my tears run down my body to the drain until the milk dried up a few days later.  My tears didn't try up. Two weeks later, I found myself walking through the mall, and I couldn't understand how the world had kept going while I had cocooned myself with grief. Didn't they know that my entire world had changed?  Couldn't they see the pain on my face?

I hungered for some physical evidence that my whole pregnancy--my baby--had been real. I had a silver locket, and I placed inside it the only evidence I had that she had ever been on earth--a fuzzy black and white photograph of my tiny baby cradled in her mother's hands. My hands.

At two years old, Lily didn't understand why her baby sister lived in heaven or why they would never play together, so she would often crawl into my lap and ask if she could see her sister, then she would reach for the chain around my neck.  One day, she handled the locket too clumsily--but gently for a two year old--and the clasp on the locket broke.  My anger and tears rushed to the surface uncontrolled for the first time in months, and her shocked little face softened as she reached up to my face and wiped away my tears. "Don't cry, Mommy.  It's okay." She was right.

Not knowing how to fix the locket permanently, I glued it shut and wore that locket every day until my baby's first birthday--September 10, 2003.  I would finger it absentmindedly many times during the day, flooding my mind with memories.  Sometimes memories would trigger tears, but as time passed, the tears grew fewer and the memories grew sweeter. Over the next few years, three more babies joined our family, but never again would I take for granted the miracle of pregnancy and a safe, healthy delivery.

I have seven beautiful, wonderful, adored children. 
I had eight.
I have eight beautiful, wonderful, adored children. When September 10th rolls around each year, I catch myself thinking about how our family would have been different.  Would Evie have a blond, blue-eyed twin?  Where would this missing daughter be standing in our family picture? Who would be her best friend? What would be her favorite book? What dress would I have bought her for Tucker's wedding? It's the little things that flit through my brain.  Little things.

I know that one day I will see my Ella again.  The beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ is that families can be together forever.  Life continues beyond earth. Families are eternal units. Grief is real, yet temporary. Growth is possible, yet elusive.

While I almost always respond that I am the mother of seven children to avoid a lengthy explain, I never, ever, ever forget the truth.

I have eight.

September 10

One birth story will stay locked in my heart. 

 It's been ten years today.  Strange to think that if life had been different, I would be helping a fourth grader with homework, shuttling her to tumbling and piano and play dates.  Every chair at my kitchen table would still be full and Lily would have a roommate.

As years pass, it gets sweeter and less painful, to be sure, but the wound never goes away.  Ever.

Someday, my love.

Thank you for the lessons you taught me--for the compassion and perspective.  And especially for reminding me always to focus on eternity.

Previous birthday posts here and here.