Eight Short Years

The following is an intensely personal and controversial topic. I apologize. You do not need to read it, but I do want to write down my feelings.

Two weeks ago, I went to my "six-week" postpartum appointment. I went nearly six weeks late, and I knew that I was recovering fine - physically. I knew it would be very routine, and it was. I sat in the waiting room. I tried to get intensely interested in "Newsweek," but the dozen or so articles on the economy bored me. Instead, I passed the time by observing the hustle and bustle of all the adorable pregnant ladies, and I fought back the tears. I was not prepared for this emotional outburst. Perhaps I wasn't quite done healing after all.

Austin was handed to us on a silver platter. A little over a year after we were married, Greg traveled to Houston to visit with some friends. While he was gone, I realized that I wanted to start a family. I picked him up from the airport, and on our drive home to our little condo in Bountiful I asked him what he thought. He told me he was just waiting for me to be ready. Three months later, we sat in our bedroom in that little condo taking pictures of the three of us - him, me, and the little stick that I had just peed on. The pregnancy was typical - some exhaustion, some nausea, my first experience with heartburn. The labor and delivery was also typical for a first timer. Three days before his due date, I labored for an entire Sunday. Finally, at 11:30 p.m., when I was crying through every contractions, we went to the hospital. Although I was in active labor, I was not quite dilated to a 2. The tears started to flow freely. After nearly 24 hours of labor and 2 1/2 hours of pushing, I held this angel in my arms. I was changed forever.

Austin was fussy. He had colic. We adored him. We didn't know the difference. I walked the streets with him in the evenings because if we were outside, moving, and he was upright - he didn't cry. At five months, he sat up and cried less. At seven months, he crawled and cried less. At nine and a half months, he ran (he never really walked) and he hardly ever cried. He was happy and on the move. In fact, he's never stopped moving (except that one time they knocked him out to remove his tonsils).

Two years later, I had my first appointment with a doctor that specializes in miscarriage. We were told that he is the best in the country, and we were grateful that he practiced at the UofU. They took so much blood from me that I joked whether or not I would be able to drive home. The nurse did not understand my humor. Very seriously, she told me that the most she has ever taken from someone was 19 viles and he was fine to drive home. She felt confident I would be fine as well. I stopped trying to be funny during these appointments. A couple months later, after a bazillion tests taken at various stages of ovulation, we sat in the office of our doctor who told us that he felt confident that he could get me one - maybe two more babies. I was relieved. Austin would not be an only child. He would have someone to go through this life with.

Eventually, we had yet another positive pregnancy test. Every week, we slept over at my parents house. We would leave early in the morning while my mom watched Austin. We would drive to the University Hospital for a check-up and ultrasound. Those ultrasounds were both a Godsend to my peace of mind and extreme torture. After they juiced up my belly, my heart would skip a beat as the technician prepared the machine. I held my breath as I frantically searched for the dark little circle that blinked. Every week, I exhaled when I found the heartbeat. Two weeks before her due date, and two and a half hours after they induced me, Macy made her entrance into this world in dramatic fashion. In fact, she's never stopped being dramatic. Greg joked that I had the gestational cycle of an elephant. After a few years of fighting, we had our little girl. I felt complete.

Three years later, as I sat in the hospital recovering from Paige's birth, my doctor came into my room and sat on the end of my bed. He had been looking at test results and had some good news. He told me that typically my condition gets worse with the birth of every child. He assured me that while I was not getting better, I was not getting worse either. He told me that if I wanted to do it again, he would go through one more pregnancy with me. All those prayers from years past came back to me. The words of the countless priesthood blessing flooded my mind. We were being blessed with several children after all.

I was six days late last October when Greg left for work and told me that I better take a pregnancy test. Ridiculous. How could I be pregnant? After one positive test, I ran to the store and bought the most expensive, most extravagant, most high-tech pregnancy test on the market, and it was positive too. I guess when the package on the birth control says 98% effective, that 2% is very, very real. We were excited, but busy...preoccupied. This was our fourth child, and we were "experienced."

After we found out it would actually be our fourth and fifth children, Greg looked at me and said, "You are done!" We both fought mixed feelings the entire pregnancy. At one point, Greg confessed that he didn't know if he even wanted another child, and now we were having two. (Of course, now that they are here, we can't imagine our life without them. We wouldn't have it any other way. But feelings are raw and honest, and we were on an emotional roller coaster.) Gradually, the discussion of "permanent" birth control came up. My doctor turned to me one day and said, "So, are we tying your tubes while we're at it?" My initial reaction was "Absolutely not!" But, he calmly explained the why's and how's, and I knew in my mind that it made sense.

I was so confused. I knew...and I mean knew...that I could not have any more children. I was about 10 weeks along, on the couch for the evening, and I just felt it. These pregnancies were simply too much for my body. This was IT. And, if I were being completely honest with myself, I was probably at my emotional limit as well. But permanent is just that - permanent, and I just didn't know if I was ready.

I've listened to women for years describe their experience with finding "the end" of their families. Over and over again, I heard phrases like, "I held my last baby in my arms and I felt complete." Or, "That yearning just went away." Or, "I don"t mind holding babies, but I love giving them back." Or my personal favorite, "Thank goodness that isn't me!" The problem was that I wasn't feeling any of this. Here I was, pregnant with twins, and my ovaries still ached (to borrow Jen's phrase)! I kept waiting for those feelings of completion or relief, but they just weren't coming. The thought of never experiencing the movement of a baby inside of me, or the overwhelming joy of birth, or cuddling a newborn brought instant tears. Worst of all, the thought of all my children in school in five years brought panic. To never experience the adorable phrases of a toddler learning to talk, or the conversations of preschoolers playing pretend, or the fact that a kiss on an owie makes everything all better in an instant. This was unthinkable, and I did not want to face this reality. I was perfectly content burying my face in the sand.

Then I spoke with a dear friend of mine who had been through quite a bit during her childbearing years. Molly's baby was about 10 months old at the time of our conversation. She had her tubes tied during her last C-Section, and she told me about how she held a newborn just the other day and was surprised by her tears. She told me that her yearning will probably never go away. Then I spoke to my mom about this subject. She said the same thing. She told me that she sobbed for hours when she signed the papers for their permanent birth control solution years ago. She told me about a conversation between her and an old friend of hers. Her friend commented on the joy and blessings of grandchildren. She talked about how these new little ones helped fill a void that she had felt since birthing and raising her own children. Then, my mom put her arms around me and said, "Honey, since you are already having a C-Section, you really should have your tubes tied as well."

I cried again.

My doctor telling me to do it what one thing. My husband jumping on the bandwagon was significant. But in all honesty, they are men and they didn't understand how I felt (believe me, I tried explaining it over and over again ). But my mom...Someone who understood all my fears, anxiety, and sorrow over this decision...She was telling me that I should do it!?! At first I felt betrayed, but eventually found peace. I would do it, but she needed to be there with me...She needed to hold my hand as I crossed this very precarious bridge. I needed another woman there with me. She was my strength that day (and medical situations are typically not her strength), and I will be forever grateful.

When I got into the examination room that day of my postpartum visit, I found myself pouring my heart out to my nurse and doctor. He hugged me as he acknowledged that this journey we had taken is over. He thanked me for letting him be a part of it from the beginning.

So that's it. This chapter of my life is closed. When I was 24 and invincible, naively "planning" my family, I had no idea that it would be over in eight short years. I forgot to cherish every second. The other night, Greg sat on the couch with me as we looked at a picture of all of us holding hands and commented on how these are the most precious years of our life. So true.

As I mourn these endings, I feel ungrateful. But in reality, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Although some would say that I am "only" a mother in a small Utah town, I am so grateful that I have this opportunity. I am overwhelmed that Heavenly Father entrusted me with these five amazing and unique spirits. I cherish each one of them and marvel in their greatness. I know this is the most important thing I'll ever do, and I am constantly committing myself to doing better. I desperately want to enjoy this journey and foster happiness in my family.

Let the next chapter begin...