I can't believe this is happening.

Dear Ryan,

I don’t know if you know that this is an important day for you. In most places, sixth grade is still part of elementary school. That means that graduating from sixth grade is the day you are no longer attending primary school. As you move on to secondary school, you have to grow up a bit. Mom and dad are no longer in charge of your education…you are. We don’t pick your classes or decide whether you do your work… you do. In essence, today is the day responsibility for who you eventually become falls on your shoulders. Today is the day you have to decide what matters to you. You have started attending deacons. You have received the priesthood. You are no longer a child, but a young man.

We want you to know that we are so proud of you. Heavenly Father expects so much of you, but we have seen that he has given you every tool you need to fulfill his plan. Like Nephi, the way has been provided. It’s all about choices now. We’re not afraid for you as you enter this exciting and difficult period of life. We know what kind of person you are. We know you will be okay. We just love you desperately and hope you will know that no matter what choices you make, we are here for you. You can always talk to us. You can always come to us for help and advice. You will never be alone as you make the difficult choices ahead.

Now for the advice section. Junior high can be hard and lonely and discouraging. You are going to be fine. You have such a good heart. We could tell you to work hard and learn everything you can. We could tell you to never waste your limited time and set goals for your future. But you know all of that already. The advice we want to give is to love everyone. Be kind to everyone. Never miss an opportunity to compliment someone else or to give service. There is nothing that will prepare you for the future more or bring you greater happiness than kindness. Everything else will fall into place. Remember that everyone you come into contact with has something they are struggling with. You can be an answer to prayers in ways you never imagined. Your greatest accomplishments, at any point in your life, will not be reflected in awards assemblies, but in the lives of those you bless. You have a limitless capacity for good.

Congratulations on graduating sixth grade. It’s impossible for us to tell you how lucky we feel to have been blessed to be your parents. You are brilliant, talented, sweet, handsome and kind. You are more than we every could have wished for and Heavenly Father blessed us beyond measure when he sent you to our family. Thank you for all you do. We love you. We trust you. We are so proud of you. We can’t wait to watch you make the world a better place. There is so much good in your future.

Love always,

Mom & Dad

One More Boring Day

Yesterday was my thirty-fifth birthday. We were having an unusually productive day. Nate was working in the yard. The ice cream and cupcakes were ready. The burgers were on the grill. The kids were out playing in the yard. There was a flurry of activity as everyone came inside for dinner. Rhianna was clearly over-tired. Over and over again she screamed “Evie!” at me. It is something she does quite frequently, whenever Evie steals what she was playing with. I was trying to get the food ready, though, so getting Rhianna’s toy back was taking a back seat to more pressing concerns, despite the temper tantrum. She would forget about it when we sat down for dinner.

As soon as everyone was inside and ready to eat, I noticed we were missing someone. Evie was probably hiding with whatever she had stolen from Rhianna. I called for her, but she didn’t respond. I decided to try the intercom. It’s a fun contraption that has certainly cut down on the shouting around my home. You push the button to talk and your voice is projected to every room in the house, the back porch, and the garage. For about 20 seconds after speaking into it, the speaker lets you hear what is happening in all the other locations, so that the person you are calling can respond without having to go find a speaker. I called for Evie to come, as soon as I let go of the button, fear exploded in my chest. She was screaming, from somewhere with an intercom speaker.  

Thinking she might be trapped in the garage, I went there first, with Chloe running in front of me. The garage has two sections, divided by a wall. As soon as I entered the first one, I knew she must be in the second, where Nate keeps the lawn mower he had recently finished with. I could hear her now, not the speaker. Chloe got there first and ran into the dark without bothering to turn on the lights. I flipped the light switch and Chloe shouted, “Open the garage door, Mom. She’s stuck.” Even as I reached for the button, my own chest compressed as if I couldn’t breathe. 

This is a paranoia of mine, along with blind cords and SIDS. When we moved into the house, I had the garage doors fitted with sensors, so they would refuse to close if a child ran under them. Only the day before, I had heard of a kitten getting crushed under the weight of a garage door and I felt sick for hours.

By the time I got there, after opening the door, Evie was up and obviously okay. She was sobbing and shaking, with a thick bruise on her arm, where it had been stuck, but she was not seriously hurt. Apparently, she had seen a toy on the outside of the door as it was closing. She reached her arm out to grab it and the door had closed on top of it. But this particular door is broken. It never closes all the way, leaving half an inch gap which enabled Evie’s arm to be stuck, but not crushed.  

When tragedies happen, people often find themselves haunted by the “what ifs” that might have prevented their misery. I found myself in a similar state of mind in this near tragedy. What if that door had closed all the way? What if it had been her head, neck, or chest which had been stuck? If she hadn’t been screaming, how long would she have been alone? What if she had become another heart-breaking statistic of childhood accidents? And on the other side, why in the world hadn't I listened to Rhianna?

Last night, as I sent the kids to bed, I looked at my Evie and told her that I loved her. My little three-year-old said, “I love you, too.” Then she paused, as if she knew what was going on in my heart, and added, “Mommy, I’m okay.” 

Today was just another boring day. There are days I get a little lost in the monotony. I did some dishes, washed some clothes, and changed some diapers. But when Evie came down to the laundry room to ask if she could help me (which is code for messing up all the work I’ve already done) I told her I would love that. How grateful I am for one more boring day.

Mr. Durfee's Gong

Adelaide’s Birth Story

I suppose the story of my youngest daughter starts almost a year before we welcomed her into the world. Nate and I were certain that we were finished with having children. I was so pleased to have been blessed with three boys and three girls. We were still basking in the miracle that was Rhianna. After being born prematurely and having to stay in the NICU, we felt we’d been blessed to a breaking point. 

We were visiting family for Christmas when I realized I was expecting another baby. I cried when I told Nate, who had been quite happily finished with the five we had before Rhianna. He didn’t respond to the news that I thought I was pregnant again. I didn’t even know for sure if I was. I never took a pregnancy test because I didn’t want to. 

Of course, I didn’t remain uncertain for long. Neither did I remain unhappy. As the months passed, the familiar excitement took hold of me. The reasons for not wanting more children started to seem silly. I entered into my usual pattern of waiting and anticipation. I would feel more excited at times (like when I found out we were expecting another little girl and Nate and I went to lunch to celebrate and pick out a name) and less excited at other times (like when I had all six kids at church on days when Nate was working). But, overall, I loved our new baby just like the others, despite her being unexpected and unasked for. 

I waited until April 1st to tell family and friends about the pregnancy. It amused me to announce our exciting news on a day when I knew everyone would assume I was lying. I think everyone was pretty shocked when I never did utter the expected, “April fools!” The news was met with excitement and surprise from some and a cautious hesitation from others. I didn’t mind. It’s perfectly understandable that people thought we were crazy. Not only were we having our seventh child in a decade, but this would be our third baby in three years. 

Each of my babies, with the exception of Rhianna who was premature, was born in the 38^th week of pregnancy. My mom, therefore, arranged to stay with me in Rexburg during that entire week. She would have liked to stay longer, but she had to start school the day I hit 39 weeks. That was okay, we all expected to have our new daughter in our arms by then. It was not to be. Mom was beside herself as the time for her to leave approached without any sign of the baby showing up. She tried to make herself feel better by making meals that could be frozen so I would have them for after the baby and doing laundry for me, but she still worried about the kids and me. On the day she had to leave, she packed up all of my kids and took them to Utah. She arranged for my niece to watch them while she was at work. It was a Wednesday and she promised to bring them back over the weekend. Surely the baby would be here by then. Nate and I had a lovely couple of days. We went on dates and spent time alone together. But we didn’t have a baby. On Sunday, Mom returned as promised, bringing with her my fifteen-year-old niece.  Trinda didn’t start school for another week, so mom reasoned that she could stay with me in case I needed her even though Mom had to go back to Salt Lake. 

Monday dawned the same as every day before it, but about noon I started feeling some very painful contractions. I was excited, thinking we had finally made it. I soon became very frustrated. The contractions got as close as 2-3 minutes apart and never stopped coming, but they weren’t changing my cervix or increasing in intensity. When night came I was both exhausted and frustrated. I knew sleeping was out of the question and Nate stayed up with me until about midnight. By that time, it was more than just the pain that was getting to me. I had a constant backache and I had started fevering. The rotating chills and hot flashes were so reminiscent of the symptoms I experienced when we almost lost Rhianna that my imagination started going wild. I wandered the house, sat in the recliner with my hand held Doppler and even tried laying down by Nate for a while. Nothing helped and I wanted so much to go to the hospital to have them check on the baby. It was almost four in the morning when Nate came up the stairs to find me. He took my temperature three times and said, “Let’s just go in.” He didn’t have to convince me. I woke up Trinda and told her we were going in for monitoring and we headed to the hospital. 

I felt a little stupid when they started asking the questions. I knew I wasn’t in imminent danger of delivering, but the symptoms felt like what I went through with my placental abruption and I just wanted some monitoring on the baby. They hooked me up to the monitors and checked my cervix. I was dilated to a two and, as she put it, “really thick.” Despite that, they called my doctor and he said he would come in and check things himself. 

Even though it was four in the morning, the doctor got there quickly. After saying hello, he walked over to the strip of paper recording the baby’s heartbeat. He didn’t have to consider this time. He looked at it for a few seconds and told me we couldn’t wait for my cervix to thin. I would need another emergency caesarean. Since my only conviction with this pregnancy was that I did not want a c-section, you would think I would have felt frustration. I didn’t. I only felt relief. I had been so afraid. Again. 

But this delivery wasn’t nearly as bad as the last for one reason. Nate was there. He held my hand and touched my face while giving me the play by play. When she was born he whispered, “She’s a girl.” The doctor said, “We have a blondie.” I couldn’t stop smiling. It may not have been the way I wanted it, but it was, somehow, absolutely perfect. 

Nate stayed with me until I was stitched up and wheeled into a recovery room. He then went to the NICU with our daughter. She stayed there for two hours because of the liquid that hadn’t been worked out of her lungs. When they brought her to me, she was ready to learn to nurse and sleep, just like my babies born naturally. She weighed 7 pounds 10 ounces and was the only one of our children born with silver/blonde hair instead of black. But she was unmistakably ours. 

My Masterpiece

Nate and I named our last child Adelaide Amy Hancock. I think that needs a little bit of explanation. We’ve given each of our children a middle name chosen to honor someone we admired. But it was more than that. We wanted our children to know the stories of the family members they were named after so that they would understand that we expect them to grow into the kind of people that they received their legacy from. 

It’s taken me seven children to decide I wanted one named after me. After all, it seems a bit arrogant doesn’t it? My perspective has changed on that point. When an artist creates a masterpiece he always adorns it with his signature. The cover of a great book is graced with the author’s name. I don’t think this is necessarily a point of egoism. I think it’s a statement of value. An artist who pours his soul into his works takes the opportunity to show the world that this is what he has dedicated his life to. This is what he values. Even more telling is that the work of art itself represents the best of the artist.  When we admire the beauty of a great work of art, we don’t see the human faults of the artist. Despite the fact that we all have failings, struggles and shortcomings, those imperfections don’t detract from our greatest accomplishments. 

My sweet Adelaide, I want you to know that, along with your siblings, you are my great masterpiece. It truly doesn’t matter what else I do with my life, I have chosen motherhood to be my greatest accomplishment. I know that I have and will continue to make mistakes as I raise you. I know that I am far from perfect in the choices I make each day. But I also know that there is nothing I could possibly create, accomplish or contribute to that will hold a candle to you. I have given you my name as a symbol of what you mean to me. I know that you are truly everything good I have to offer and I promise that nothing will ever be a higher priority to me then helping you see the value in yourself that I see in you. Thank you for coming to our family.

Rhianna's Birth Story

 

Thursday was a busy day. Nate had gone to work for his final shift before leaving to Chicago to take the Emergency Medicine Oral Board Exam. We had two weeks until Sean’s baptism and my list of things that needed to be done kept growing. Nate had spent the day before pruning the trees in our yard. The entire place was blanketed with branches of every kind. He had called to find out where he could take them, but the hauling could only happen during the hours when he was at work. He could, he had been told, bundle them with twine in four feet bundles and leave them by the garbage on Friday. I knew he didn’t have time to do it. I regretted walking away from the projects in the house that I needed to finish, but garbage day was the next day and the yard had to get done.

It was a good day for it, cool and buffeted by dark, fluffy rain clouds. I even got the added blessing of a few sprinkles to mingle fresh water with the mounting sweat on my arms. I had to straddle the bundles I made, to hold them together before tying, and the branches were leaving shallow scratches up and down my arms. Still, the worst part was my hands. The twine wore my skin raw while I tied the knots. I couldn’t wear gloves because they made me completely unable to tie, so I took them off each time and then slipped them back on for gathering the next bundle and cutting the branches to the correct size. I worked all day, continuing when the kids got home from school. They helped me carry the finished bundles to the road; although, I had to go out and restack them afterward. I didn’t finish. The rain came again and I took the excuse to rest my aching hands. It was enough. Nate could do the rest tomorrow.  I felt good about the work I had done. As I sat down to rest, I noticed the dull aching in my lower back. It didn’t hurt. It was just a symbol of a good day of working.

As expected, my sweet Nathan was pleased to find so much of the job finished after work. He hadn’t had a great day himself and I knew it meant something to him to not have that task facing him on his one day off before his huge test. He wanted to spend Friday studying.  We were both exhausted and went to bed immediately after tucking in the kids. I suppose that is where the story really starts.

Thursday night didn’t end up being as restful as we could have hoped. Halfway through the night, I woke up, shivering uncontrollably.  I reached over to Nate and asked him if I was fevering. He rested his hand on my forehead and then my neck. He answered that I was really hot. The next day, when all this had passed, I would find myself thinking that sickness was worth the pain because it gave me the opportunity to see that my husband really loved me. Of course, I had no idea what was in store when I had those thoughts. It was a long night. Nate didn’t sleep either. He gave me medicine and water. He would seem to be dozing, but would then reach out and place his hand on my waist or back, checking for improvement to the fever. He asked questions about other symptoms, and pushed gently on my back and stomach, looking for tenderness, but he never shared his thoughts. By morning the fever was gone.

I wandered around the house Friday morning worrying about the strange fever. I didn’t think very much about the backache because of the work I’d done the day before. But I was afraid because Nate was leaving and I wouldn’t have him to tell me if I should worry if the fever came back. I spent a ridiculous amount of time reading about kidney infections. I knew they could cause preterm labor and I didn’t have any flu-like symptoms, so what else could it be? Finally, I decided to just go get a urinalysis. It was only money that made me hesitate. The insurance wouldn’t cover the visit. But Nate was leaving and I would be alone. I needed to know for sure I didn’t have a kidney infection.  I called the doctor’s office. My doctor didn’t have any appointments. I could see the Nurse Practitioner. Well, she could order a urine test as well as anyone.

The appointment was exactly what I was expecting and why I had hesitated to go. My urine was fine. She ordered a blood test for a white cell count: also fine. I didn’t have an infection. The fever was gone. It was probably just a virus. I felt of twinge of regret about the bills we would soon receive for that waste of time. I didn’t let it consume me the way it would have a year ago. Nate was leaving, the peace of mind would be worth the expense. I came home still feeling lousy. Nate gave me a kiss and told me to go lay down.  We were supposed to go find a notary and sign the selling documents for our house in El Paso. I was just so tired. We could do that later.

The kids were home when I woke up. Nate was helping them remember to do their homework and piano practice. We went out to get the paperwork signed and FedExed to the title company. It had to be done before he left for Chicago. I told Nate I wasn’t really up to making dinner, so he bought pizza for the kids and, again, we went to bed early. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything the entire day.

The fever came back, as is often the case at night. I repeated to myself how glad I was that I had gone to the doctor. I said I should feel good because I knew my baby was safe. I knew it was just a virus. It was worth getting the tests done. This time, the fever was accompanied by another worrying symptom. The backache had faded, barely noticeable most of the time. I had been, as with all my pregnancies, experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions every few minutes most days. But the contractions Friday night were accompanied by the resurgence of the back pain. In fact, they felt like labor contractions, if very mild ones. I told myself again not to worry. It was just the Braxton Hicks and they were putting pressure on my already sore back.

Nate had to fly out of Idaho Falls at seven Saturday morning. He tried not to wake me as he made his final preparations and packed up his truck. He kissed me goodbye, told me to call my mom and ask her to drive to Rexburg, and left. I laid in bed, glad I had been to the doctor the previous day.  I wasn’t going to make my mom drive four hours. I’d just been tested and found infection free.

When I realized that all the kids were up, I stumbled out to the couch. The fever hadn’t broken with morning this time and I felt as weak as a kitten. The kids made their own breakfast. I swallowed some Tylenol  and made myself get showered and dressed. Chloe, Quentin and Sean were all in soccer games that morning at ten. I helped them gather their clothes and loaded them into the car. I honestly don’t remember much of the games. Despite being a beautiful day, it didn’t feel like the invigorating family time I usually enjoy on Saturday mornings at soccer. Somehow, we made it to the games and somehow we made it home. By the time we got there and I fell onto the couch, I was starting to shake again.

After that, the whole day is kind of a haze, but here are a few of the details that stick out. The kids weren’t interested in chores or piano. I couldn’t make myself care. It was like some odd music video where I just sort of stared at the room while life passed by in fast forward. Chloe brought me a blanket and pillow. At lunch time, Ryan made Ramen noodles. He brought me in a bowl and I told him to feed the kids. He just stood there, holding it out to me and said, “I want you to eat first because you’re sick.” Later a doctor would ask when I last ate and I would remember those noodles as the only thing I’d had in days. I took Tylenol whenever the shivering started. It was six hours the first time, then five, then three and a half. Once, I pulled myself off the couch and tripped over my feet to my bedroom looking for the Tylenol. When I turned around with the bottle, Ryan was standing there. My sweet nine year old said, “What are you doing? I could have brought you that.” He had been bringing me glasses of water at the couch. I couldn’t believe how thirsty I was. Twice the waters got knocked over. I couldn’t care.

Evie, my precious thirteen month old, decided she had enough of me laying delirious on the couch. She put her face in mine and screamed. I asked Sean to get her a bottle of milk. Other times she would bring me her empty cup and hold it out, as she does on normal days, but I couldn’t fill it for her. I felt sick at being too sick to help her. But her brothers and big sister always came over to handle the task.  Toward the end of the night, she started crying uncontrollably. I tried to pick her up, but really didn’t have the strength. I cried too. I asked Ryan to put her in her bed. He did, but she didn’t stop crying for a long time. Ryan came back and found me shaking and bawling at the same time. He put his arms around me to hold me still and said, “I will help you stop shaking.”

Laying on that couch (on my left side, sipping water), the contractions began to feel more and more like labor contractions. My mind went crazy with horrible fantasies. They had switched my urine with someone else’s. I did have a kidney infection, but some other poor woman was getting treatment for it. I was in preterm labor. My baby was already dead and my body wanted to rid itself of her. Thankfully, she was still moving from time to time and every time she did, I said a little prayer of thanks. I tried to text Nate, hoping he would just tell me to go to the hospital. He was out with his medical school friends and didn’t get my texts. The Oral Board Exam that he was there to take wasn’t until Sunday. I started to honestly consider the idea of not worrying about what it would cost and just going to the hospital.

The problem was that there was no one else to take care of my kids. I had neighbors, but no one I could invite into my disaster of a house. It’s never spotless, but the days of sickness had made it very close to needing a visit from a HazMat crew. I thought of Sean’s friend, Michael, who had been at my house all day, running amok with the other kids. His mom was a nurse and maybe she could help. I sent her a text. She advised me to call my doctor. This may seem like a “duh” solution, but I didn’t even know you could call a doctor on a Saturday night.  I called the office and got the answering service. When the poor lady asked what was wrong, I just started sobbing. I felt like such an idiot. I did not want to be one of those whiney pregnant women, but I couldn’t get out an explanation without accompanying it with tears. It was also accompanied by apologies. Yes, I had been seen in the office just the day before. Yes, all the tests were negative. I knew how silly the whole thing sounded. I was just so scared. She told me that the doctor on call would call me back. So many of my fears melted away just knowing I was going to get to talk to someone soon.

I waited an hour. Then ninety minutes. I had given the woman my cell number, but I made the kids bring me the home phone too, just in case. The fears started mounting again. I couldn’t push away the silly scenarios. The fever wasn’t reacting to the Tylenol at all anymore. I could feel myself getting hotter. Finally, the phone rang. It was Nate. He had gotten my frantic texts. He wanted me to first, call back that answering service and ask for the doctor again, and second, go to the hospital.  It felt like a license to act silly. I was happy for it.

This time the lady was able to get me on the line with the doctor on call. He said he would call labor and delivery and tell them to expect me. He would also call my doctor, Dr. Zollinger, and ask him to meet me in the hospital.

I texted Michael’s mom again. It was nine at night, but I told her I needed help. She sent over her husband. The poor man had to sit in my messy house with the kids. The humiliation barely fazed me. I was teetering back and forth between feeling silly about running to the hospital and feeling relieved that Nate and the doctor on call wanted me to.

On the way to the hospital, I called my mom. When I told her I was going in to get checked out, but that it likely wasn’t anything to worry about, she told me she was on her way. I didn’t argue. I wanted her here. Even if I only spent an hour at the hospital, the sickness wasn’t going to be gone the next day and Nate wouldn’t be home until Monday night.

I had to enter the hospital through the ER. That meant that everyone Nate worked with would know I was there. The lady at the admitting desk asked if I was “Dr. Hancock’s wife.” Then she asked if I was in labor.  I told her I wasn’t. My husband was out of town and I figured going to the hospital was the best way of getting a babysitter. I was feeling sillier by the minute. As soon as I entered the hospital, I had started to sweat. “Oh great, “I thought, “Of course. I’m here, so the fever is going to magically disappear.” Despite my insistence that I was fine to walk up to labor and delivery, they made me sit in a wheelchair with a nurse to push me.
I was hustled into a small room used for outpatient monitoring. They gave me a gown and asked for a urine sample. I changed and sat in that bathroom for ten minutes, but I was too dehydrated to produce more than a trickle. The nurse started knocking on the door to make sure I was okay.

Once they had me seated with monitors hooked up to measure contractions and the baby’s heartbeat, she started asking me the barrage of questions. She was very nice and I appreciated the candor. No, there had not been any bleeding. I didn’t know how far apart the contractions were. The possible symptom list left me, again feeling a little silly. I said “no” to almost everything. Somewhere during the interview, I started to feel leaking fluid. I interrupted the nurse to tell her I thought I was leaking something. She pulled back the gown and gasped, “Oh. It’s blood.” I looked down. I was covered in bright red blood and a ping pong ball sized clot sat in the middle.  The nurse put the gown down and ran out of the room, saying she was going to page the doctor.

While we waited for him to arrive, she continued her barrage of questions. At one point, I commented that I was feeling kind of lousy. She glanced down at the print out recording my baby’s heartbeat and said, “Your baby isn’t doing so hot either.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. The strip had a zig zag line right down the middle. It wasn’t flat, but it had very little variance. I didn’t know what that meant.

Dr. Zollinger started with a speculum exam. He declared that the baby was okay and that my cervix was still closed, but that the blood and blood clots were still pouring out. I wondered how closed it could possibly be when it was letting out clots. He performed an ultrasound next. He didn’t say a whole lot during the procedure, just that the placenta was well away from the cervix. After that, he stood back and looked at me for a moment, obviously unsure what he should do next. Then, he said he was going to go “talk to some guys” and left. I was pleased he was asking for a second opinion. Having had the advantage of watching Nate through the medical training, I understand how valuable it can be to discuss situations with other professionals.

When he returned, his whole demeanor had changed. He explained to me that since I didn’t have placenta previa, the likely cause of the bleeding was placental abruption. I knew what that meant. If it abrupted completely it could kill the baby and me, as well. I asked if he had seen an abruption on the ultrasound. He hadn’t, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He felt like the best course of action was to perform an emergency caesarian. I didn’t have to think about it. I was very afraid of losing my daughter.

Dr. Zollinger pulled out his cell phone and asked for Nate’s phone number. I told him not to call Nate because he wouldn’t be able to take his test if he was worried about me. It was half hearted, though, and the doctor was insistent.  I listened to him explain to my husband that we were headed to surgery. When he handed me the phone and I asked Nate for his opinion, he said that if the baby monitor wasn’t picking up variance, she needed to be taken out. He told me he loved me and asked me to call as soon as I could with news. I felt a strange comfort from the fear I heard in my husband’s voice. I know it should have disconcerted me. He’s so hard to upset. But just knowing how worried he was about me and his baby made me feel better. I needed his love.

The doctor went out to make arrangements. The surgical staff would have to be called in. It was eleven at night on a Saturday. The nurse stayed with me. She asked if I wanted a blessing. I told her I would and she said she would find someone to perform the ordinance. A few minutes later, my own doctor and the anesthesiologist came in with a vial of consecrated oil. I didn’t hear much of the blessing, a bunch of words about helping me and the medical professionals. I just kept praying he would tell me the baby would be okay. When he finally did, I started to breathe again.

The surgery went well. I was surprised by how many people they had in the operating room. I didn’t feel any pain, but I did throw up a couple of times. The anesthesiologist gave me the play by play as the incision was made and the baby pulled out. Dr. Zollinger held her up above the sheet that blocked my head from the action and declared that she was a little girl before the nurses whisked her away into the other room where the pediatrician on call was waiting. She was born on April 28th, 2012, at 11:57 p.m.

The clean up took much longer than the actual birth did. The anesthesiologist kept adjusting my medications and holding the little bowl so I could throw up. I wasn’t really paying attention. I just kept listening to hear the occasional cries from the other room. It wasn’t persistent, but she was crying. If she could cry, she could breathe.

After he was done, Dr. Zollinger again pulled out his cell phone and dialed Nathan. This time, he handed the phone to me. I announced that our little girl was doing well. He just wanted to know one thing. In a strained voice he asked, “Does she need a respirator?” Listening to his concern, I realized that being in his swanky hotel room all alone had been much worse than what I had gone through in the operating room. In the conversations that would come, I would understand that he was dealing with flashbacks from his time rotating in the pediatric intensive care unit in El Paso. Not much fazes Nate, but a tiny little boy named Landon had. Nate had to be there as his parents signed the DNR order a year before. Now he saw the possibility that his own precious child might be in the hospital, hooked up to all those machines and he was across the country. My heart ached for him.

A couple hours later, I found myself in the recovery room when my parents arrived. They were allowed to go see my little girl, even though I was not. They brought me back pictures. I would spend the next day with those cell phone pictures; they helped me sleep.

I honestly don’t remember a whole lot of what happened over the next couple days. Whatever had caused the fevers that forced my daughter’s dramatic entrance into the world did not go away with delivery. The doctor tried four different antibiotics. It took another 48 hours before the cycle of shivering, fevering, getting overheated, and taking drugs abated. I remember being afraid that they wouldn’t find what was wrong and I would never be able to take care of my kids again.

I was optimistic for the most part, but had a minor breakdown two days out. I had called home and my 13 month old was crying. I felt so absolutely useless. Everyone else was doing my job because I couldn’t. Mom and Dad had decided that I couldn’t come home to all five of my kids and they took the two youngest home with them. I agreed to it, but I felt like a horrible mother. The feelings improved as the sickness slowly abated. By the time I was fever free for 24 hours, I was feeling pretty okay.

Everyone who entered my room Sunday or Monday had the same question: “What is the baby’s name?” I answered the same each time, “Her daddy will name her when he gets here.” His test was Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t scheduled to fly out of Chicago until Monday. He tried hard to change that. He looked for flights that would get him home even a few hours earlier, but there wasn’t much point to it. The nearest airport was Idaho Falls and it was so tiny that it hardly had any flights in or out. He was just going to have to wait for his scheduled flight and meet his baby Monday night.

Nate finally arrived around eight Monday night. My parents had left with Evie and Quentin. The other kids were in the care of my visiting teacher. Nate came straight to the hospital. Together, we walked to the NICU and he finally got to hold his baby girl. He spent some time snuggling and some time shaping her thick, black hair into a Mohawk. Then he named her Rhianna Colleen Hancock. It was a name he had picked out himself, which meant a lot to me. With the other kids, I made suggestions and he said he liked it or he didn’t. But he had chosen Rhianna on his own. It is a Welsh name that means “Great Queen.” I pointed out that it was also the feminine form of Ryan, which is our oldest son’s name. He smiled and declared that we had come full circle in completing our family.

I could point to a hundred different points when this story could have changed directions and ended much differently. As is so often the case, I felt the power of a loving, attentive Heavenly Father every step of the way. Rhianna was escorted here by angels, both those on the other side and an army of them here on Earth who took care of her, me and my family as we welcomed her into this world. I don’t have the talent to express my gratitude or share my feelings. But I know that there can’t be a higher calling or purpose than being a family. I will try to be the mom she deserves, the mom each of my elect children deserves. Already during those quiet moments she and I have spent together with tangled cords attached to her tiny body, I have whispered to her about the covenants that make us an eternal family. I’m so very grateful that our eternity together will start with this life and not just the promise of a joyful reunion in the next. Welcome, precious Rhianna. The world is a brighter place since you arrived.

A Change in Perspective

I have been blessed with amazing children. Even so, I there was a period in my life where I went through a real struggle with my own self identity. The world likes to tell you that motherhood is not what defines success. It took time, and a change in my perspective about what it really means to be successful, for me to find contentment in motherhood. I came to understand that the world’s definition of success would not bring me the kind of happiness that I have found in my family. I finally realized that true success is finding true happiness.

Recently, I found myself discussing Ryan’s academic situation with my husband. He’s a very gifted student, but he’s also prone to do sloppy work because everything has been easy for him. We discussed different options for his academic future and how to be certain he achieves everything he is capable of. At one point, Nate dismissed a certain idea saying, “If we do that, he’ll end up like me.” He meant that Ryan would fall short of his true potential. (Nate has been so blessed academically that he never had to study, even in medical school. He simply wants his son to have to work hard for what he has.) But, the words were the start of a change in perspective for me.

My first reaction was shocking, I nodded my head to agree with Nate. But then I realized what I was doing. Why would I want anything more for my son than for him to turn out like his dad? Nate's is a good provider, a loving husband and father, and a worthy priesthood holder. He is everything I could hope for as a mother. Suddenly, I realized that I had changed my definition of success in my own life, but I was still enforcing the world’s standards on my children. I began to wonder if I was a whole lot better than those moms who put their toddler’s in beauty pageants or force them into talent agencies.

I turned to Nate and said, “We need to remember that our end goal is for Ryan to be happy, not to win a Nobel Prize.”

It’s a process. I know that helping my children their very best is important to helping them be happy. I want them to learn to work hard and excel. But I now try to take the time to ask myself whether I’m conforming to the world’s definition of success by forcing too much on my children. I realize that time with the family is more important than extra activities for a resume. I try to make family night, prayer and scripture study a priority, even when it interferes with all the other things my kids are doing. I’ve realized that sometimes saying “no” to a great opportunity is the better course of action. In the end, I just hope my kids can find the kind of happiness that I have found being their mom.

Superheroes

We went to a birthday party where the mom had hired a face painting service. The kids had a lot of fun. They made me promise to post these pictures for the world to see. I thought it was a fair deal in exchange for them washing the stuff off so we could make it to church tomorrow.