In 2017, my husband and I went to our 20-week ultrasound appointment for our fourth child. We were excited and comfortable, forgetting for the most part that aside from discovering the gender of our little baby, this would also be the time when we would find out about our baby’s development. Having had simple pregnancies in the past, I was feeling confident and healthy. I’d gone on a four mile run the morning before, and I was planning on keeping up the pace as long as I could. That confidence plummeted as I sat in the ultrasound office, trying to register what the doctor was trying to tell us. I’ll never forget that day, and nor will I ever forget the outpouring of love and help that came out of our time of relying so heavily on others.
The doctor explained that I had a condition known as Vasa Previa, further complicated by a velamentous insertion of the umbilical cord. The doctor asked me to pack my things, and come back to the hospital when I was 23 weeks along, where I would stay for the duration of the pregnancy when they would deliver our little boy cesarean at 35 weeks. The goal was to stay close by the operating room just in case our little boy decided to come naturally, because, as they explained it, we would have a mere 5 minutes to safely deliver our child if he started to come on his own. Our hope was that he’d stay put until 35 weeks, allowing us to safely birth him on our own terms. I would continue to feel as though nothing was wrong with my body, and would need to ask everyone around me to lift and nurture me because I suddenly could not.
As we anticipated my two months hospital stay, we were especially anxious about our three children at home, and how it would affect them. I was often in tears, feeling overwhelmed by the sadness of the small details. I knew I’d be missing the first day of school for my soon to be kindergartner as well as my third grader, missing two birthdays, missing morning send offs, checking in after school, daily hugs and affection, feeding them healthy food, and just being mom in general. I spent a lot of time praying and asking Heavenly Father for help-especially help for my children. I knew it would be impossible to see them everyday, and I had to rely on others to care for them and bring them to me when they could. I would have to ask others to do my laundry, tend to my house and my children’s needs. My fiercely independent spirit would have to step aside and watch while others labored.
On one of those preparation days a dear friend from our ward dropped in while she was on a walk, and she told me something that had a huge impact on me. She said that when she’s faced with something particularly daunting, she finds it helpful to think of a situation that’s even harder. That way she has a bigger perspective, and greater capacity to endure. I decided to give that a try, and it was amazing advice. I considered a sweet sister from our stake who found out she had advanced cancer. In stake conference, she openly shared some of her heart wrenching experience. I thought about what it would be like to wonder if your children would EVER have mom at home again. And I considered other stories of moms who have had to leave mortality while their babies were left in the hands of others. It encouraged me to be grateful that while it might be hard and inconvenient, it was also likely that it would end well…and we actually knew when it would end. It helped me think about how people all around us are working through challenges, and some much harder than we’ve ever imagined ourselves going through.
When I went into the hospital I decided to write down when people came in, called, texted, served my family at the house, brought a gift, sent a card, ran errands, washed our laundry, mowed our lawn, fed our family, brought my children in to see me, etc. Eleven typed pages later, (and knowing that I didn’t write down everything, and not having included the sweet nurses, doctors, housekeeping, and food service at the hospital) I was amazed, absolutely amazed, by people and how they were willing to do so so much for our little family. People are filled with the love of God, and do so much more than we might be aware. When each of us reaches out in even a small way, it adds up to an incredible whole. That was a precious revelation for me.
Sometimes the emotional pangs would make me gasp at unexpected moments in my day, but I found it impossible to be sad for more than short stretches when I would think of the ways we saw blessing after blessing come in from Heavenly Father. It was as though He had opened the heavens, and poured out blessing after blessing and I felt so amazed and overwhelmed by His goodness and generosity. He answered personal prayers that were asked years ago, and He opened doors we didn’t even know we were looking for. I feel strongly that He let us go through that tiny portion of trial just so He could show us how much He loves His children on an individual level.
Our little boy was safely delivered at 35 weeks. He spent one week in the PICU where his lungs developed enough to work on their own. The day I look back on as the conclusion to this story is the first Sunday I was able to go back to sacrament meeting. With some sickness at home, I quietly entered the chapel on my own, just to receive the sacrament and slip out again. I’ll never forget sitting there, and lifting my eyes to row after row and seeing face after face of people who had served so kindly. I couldn’t find a row that didn’t have at least one person who had reached out and comforted and helped us in our time of need. Sometimes we think we have to do things just right, or that it has to be a large thing to matter, but one tender thing I learned from this experience is that each smile adds up, matters, and makes a difference. I found that I didn’t weigh the value of a gesture by its size, but by its simple perfect existence. There will be times when we can do more, and times we can do less, and together we work with Heavenly Father as he makes our lives whole.