Countdown

If our experience here on earth could be whittled down to a personal development workshop, I’d be stuck in an all-day session on Patience.

Yes, patience seems to be the thematic unit of my life.

I waited to get baptized. I waited to get engaged. I waited to get married. I waded (ha) through college, and I waited to have my first child.

After reading this Conference talk by President Thomas S. Monson, I came to the same absolution the missionary did. Well, not the exact conclusion, after four to five years of Spanish I still cannot speak the language…

However, the story made me reflect on what I have been compelled to wait for… Darn, I had to wait to receive the necessary ordinances for my salvation. Darn, I had to wait to be engaged to the love of my life. Further darn that I had to show patience to be sealed to him for all eternity. And darn, I obtained my undergraduate degree AND had an uneventful pregnancy that resulted in delivering a healthy baby.

My 20/20 hindsight is showing me that it’s easier to wait for good things, and that it shouldn’t be called "waiting." "Anticipation," yes. "Hope," absolutely. "Long suffering," not necessarily.

This insight is helping me now.

Considering our family’s current circumstance, I am waiting again. This time, I’m waiting to let go, which again is not really "waiting."

But, before our sixth ultrasound, the ultrasound that will live in infamy *insert sarcasm here* , I was actually "waiting" for something else. Something that has been overshadowed by recent events.

The wait is suppose to be at least eight weeks.

Desperate to keep my weekly blog posts, despite my blogger’s block, I have decided to keep you anticipating along with me. Without telling you what I’m actually waiting for.

Don’t worry, I won’t leave you clueless. Each week, I’ll give you a clue until the wait is over (hope you know your way around Google! A clue for clues? Why, I am so generous). First person to guess correctly what I am waiting for gets a surprise. It’s even a surprise to me! (I think the prize will have to be decided based on who the winner is.)

Disclaimer: Know-it-all friends and family members are prohibited from guessing.

Sorry.

August 20, 2005

Children Dancing at a Party by Norman Rockwell


Next week, we will be celebrating our fourth year of marriage.

Her Idea of Romance

Girls bond through gestures and meaningful experiences

When I was younger, my grandmother Kappes described the circumstances in which she had met my grandfather. It was at a dance at the county chair, Ada of Norman County in Minnesota. My grandfather was a musical renaissance man. He played the banjo, oboe and the piano, just to name a few. From the stage is where he spotted my grandma that night. She was dancing with another fellow. As the song he was playing came to end, he told the band he’d sit out the next tune. Quickly, he snatched up my grandmother for the next dance.

And I can honestly say that they hadn’t stop dancing since that night. They grew a farm and also a large family. They were not without hardship or trial, but they were partners and endured.

I knew I wanted to follow in my grandparents footsteps. I was pleased when I met Michael at a church dance. He was helping his brother DJ the affair. Not quite the oboe, but you get the idea. A year after we had met, we were married.

I love to dance. And despite his grumbles, Mike is willing to dance with me and even learned how to swing and waltz. He even waltzed with me in front of the entire Flagstaff stake. Ask me about it sometime. It was ridiculous. Not him, the experience.

His Idea of Romance

Guys bond through learning and recurring actions

While Michael was attending his first, and little did he know his last, year at Brigham Young University, he stayed with his uncle and his aunt. His aunt and uncle enjoy cooking together, and in my opinion, this activity surpasses just a plain-Jane hobby, it is art. Of course, I am partial to food… but I am zealous for good food. And they make GOOD food.

Michael has always expressed the desire to learn recipes and cook meals together. This dream has fell by the wayside as schedules began to clash and as Caleb begun demonstrating his acrobatic talents on the oven door.

So, this year for our anniversary, we are staying in and cooking dinner together. We’ll be making red bell pepper soup, kabobs (appropriate, no?) and a salad. For dessert, I have no idea. Maybe some mousse? : ) If you have any suggestions, I am open.

My hopes are a good meal, and maybe stealing a dance.

Here’s to family.

Our Long Road to New Hampshire

DISCLOSURE: The following post may be on the verge of too much information for some, for others it may cause convulsive crying. I have BOLDED the main point in RED if you don’t want to risk emotional or digestive upheaval.




I took to motherhood like a brick covered in feathers took to flight, so I imagine that it surprised others and even my husband that I was talking about the next child only a few weeks after Caleb was born. February – I decided- would be when we would start trying for the next child. No one can blame Michael’s hesitancy on the subject. We were sleep deprived and his wife was a feathered-brick, afterall. In September he went to the temple to ask about the matter and came back with a name and approval. The name would be as important as the approval, both a source of strength.

February and March came and went. In April, I took a pregnancy test and received a faint line. Appointments were arranged, the customary blood test was conducted.

Looking back, it is easy to see that life, in general, is just a compilation of moments that during the occurrence thereof seem matchless, but in perspective they are naught.

When I received the results of my first blood test, that my progesterone level was low, the sadness I felt- it was indescribable. I was told there was a possibility of miscarriage and was suggested to go on supplements. I declined the supplements, trusting my body knew best since it had thrived a perfectly normal pregnancy once before.

During the routine 8th week ultrasound the baby was measuring small, but otherwise healthy. Three days later, I started to bleed. After several days of bleeding, I suspected I had miscarried, it was a Sunday, and our small family stayed home from church to grieve. Two weeks later, still bleeding, I went in for another ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage, only to discover the baby was still intact with a strong heartbeat. Sadly, the ultrasound technician identified cystic hygroma, this led to three more ultrasounds with a pre-natal specialist. The fifth ultrasound during the 12th week concluded that there was no cyctsic hygroma present. Precautionary blood tests were taken, such as the integrated blood test to screen for spina bifida and downs syndrome. I bled from the 8th week of pregnancy to the 12th, I was poked and prodded, I was told the worst news and the best- it was a time of growth, to say the least.

Last Monday, my integrated results were released: abnormal. 1:5 chance of abnormality, specifically 20% of DS, Tri8 or Spinal Bifida.

Our ultrasound appointment was scheduled for Friday, I can say that I have traveled to the recesses of the human condition within those four days. Both in utter darkness and in brilliance.

Now, you may think “20%” is great odds, but in reality, a person is not a percentage, a person is a person. 1:5, means four other people are standing in the room with YOU.

Thursday evening I went to the temple, to compose myself, to seek guidance and to gain comfort. It was the absolute experience, and I am glad I have a place to go like the temple.

I left feeling that I could do anything, truly endowed.

During the ultrasound the technician could not get a good view of the gender. Through the extensive procedure though, our prenatal specialist identified markers of Trisomy 18.
Our baby has a slim chance of making it to full term and even a lower chance of survival after birth.

I feel for my doctor as he described the diagnosis and related our options to us. He counseled us about our relationships and our psyches. This is his profession: to deliver observations. How his observations will influence the patient and their life is out of his hands. He said something memorable, “I have yet to find a word to describe it, but a baby is like a sacred object, and when a regular person dies we eulogize them and don’t talk about the fact he was a drunk, but in this case, the baby is perfect and that can be difficult for people to come to terms with.”
I offered, “It’s like they are exalted. Exalted beings.”
He liked that.

At the end of our appointment, he told me I was lovely and therefore lovable and a great mother. He gave me a hug and said goodbye.

This is our long road to N.H. The realization of this journey brings me to tears because I am so glad that I know the course of this existence does not end at death. And that my son (yes, that is what we believe) will have his perfect body someday, but for now I’m grateful for the opportunity to be a vessel and a means for him to fulfill the measure of his creation.