Heart Attack Reflections

Eyeballs...  Balloons...  Sharks... 

To the average person, these three words would have little, if anything, in common.  But to me, they all evoke the same feeling in my heart.  Fear.  I don't recall the exact moment any of these things started haunting my existence, but it was long before the man I married decided to make his profession one of slicing eyeballs; long before I had children who require balloons at every single birthday; and long, long before I moved to an apartment right on the beach where sharks are swimming entirely too close to me.  Facing these fears on a regular basis has not curbed their intensity... in fact, if anything the intensity has been inflated.  I now have rules about how much Brian can share about his day with me (no hand motions to describe procedures (only words), and I do not look into ANY eyes as he's talking about it).  I have rules about the presence of balloons in my house (ONLY on birthdays and NEVER in the car).  And I have rules about when I will and will not enter into the ocean.  My family and I laugh at the irrationality of these fears (mostly my family), but the laughter doesn't seem to curb their intensity either.

In addition to these silly and rather irrational fears, I have one very real and rational fear.  One that I don't laugh about (ever), sometimes cry about when I even think about it, and can actually remember the exact moment it hit my heart and latched itself there like a leech.  It was early spring.  I had just gotten engaged and heard a terrible story of a newlywed couple who, on their way on their honeymoon, got in a car accident which killed the groom.  (Why do people even share these stories?)  That was it.  A new fear had been born because I all the sudden had someone in my life that I loved in a whole new way and that I simply couldn't imagine living without.  And with each passing anniversary, each new child, each rocky path conquered, that fear of losing this man I love has only grown because now he's that person in my life that I love even more. And more. And more.

We have had a few kind notes and phone calls this past month from friends and family who are remembering the events of last Christmas.  Their messages are so appreciated and all have the same wonderful tone: thinking of you, and so happy you are all healthy together this Christmas season.  Of course, I've been reflecting about the last year because, that's what I do, and one memory keeps working its way to the front of my mind.  It was Christmas Eve, and the day had been so very emotional. After tucking the children into bed and leaving them in the care of Grandma and Grandpa, I drove to the hospital with a suitcase full of presents to set up in the hospital room.  (I must have looked terrible because more than one group of people stopped and asked if I was alright. No, I wanted to say.  My 32 year old husband had a severe heart attack a couple of days ago, I'm 7 months pregnant, and I have three small children at home, so... I'm scared... and I don't know what my future looks like. But of course I just smiled and nodded.  They smiled back and we shared a silent understanding.  You're here on Christmas Eve, too...)  I walked into Brian's room, so happy he'd been moved from the ICU that morning, and tried quite unsuccessfully to hide my emotional face.  I felt it so important to not worry him with my own feelings quite yet because I wanted him to focus on himself, so I explained them away by simply saying that I felt a bit overwhelmed.  I tried to set Christmas up quickly but, being the perfectionist that I am, I ended up staying too long and felt supremely guilty when Brian admitted that my preparations were stressing him out.  I left the rest 'undone', kissed him, and tearfully made my way to the door to leave him alone to rest.  As I opened the door I heard him say, "Oh, Linds," his tone was gentle and sounded as if he'd just realized something important. "I'm so sorry." I looked back at him, laying in that hospital bed and he continued, emphasizing each word, "This is your biggest fear."

I waved my hand to dismiss it, again, not wanting him to worry for me just yet.  "I'm fine, dear," I said.  Though, I most certainly was not and I'm sure my tears blew my cover.  "Get some sleep and I'll see you in the morning.  I love you."

Of course, I'm lucky that I didn't actually have to live through my biggest fear last Christmas.  But boy did I have to stare that ugly thing down face to face.  It came much too close.  Close enough to touch, to smell, to taste and, worst of all, to feel.

But, now I see that an unexpected thing has happened. 

Unlike my fears of eyeballs, balloons and sharks that intensify when faced, facing the fear of losing Brian has interestingly diminished it.  To be clear, it is still my biggest fear, and I pray every single morning that the Lord will protect him and keep him safe because that is certainly a trial I never want to live through.  But.  I'm not so afraid of it as I once was.  And it's because, through those indescribable hours where I wasn't sure he would ever be coming home with me again, I dug to the root of myself and somehow knew that I would be okay.  Call it faith or madness, but it is perhaps the most empowering feeling I've ever felt... the feeling of knowing that, even if my biggest fear happened... I would be okay. 

Maybe that's what the Lord wanted to teach me through all of this.  To have faith in myself.  To have faith in Him and to know that I could get through anything... anything... with His help.  How blessed I feel that the Lord could teach me that lesson without making me live through the real thing.

Oh gosh.  How blessed I feel in that.

 Sometimes the rest of the picture is just so great that your poo-face just has to take one for the team.

This past year has been shoved full of so many experiences and memories that, because of our humble feelings of mortality, have been absolutely cherished.  We have lived this year and I have a folder bursting full of pictures to show it.  Of course, we have struggled and cried and wrestled and woken up exhausted just as much or more than other years because, evidently that's just life, but we have also laughed and loved and played and dreamed. We've hugged more and listened more and navigated through our disagreements with more love.  Brian and I are having very different experiences this year - me living a sort of dream, and him living a sort of nightmare - and for all the friction that could cause in our lives, we've still managed to respect each others feelings, to stick together and to feel part of the same team through it all. 

He is such a good man, guys.  And I am one lucky lady.

Don't Judge the Bird

I watched the seabird struggle against the wind.  His wings flap, flap, flapped and I could see from below the backwards progress he was making.  He was tilting from side to side and then in a moment of decision, folded his wings into his body and dove - beak first - into the choppy waters below.  He came up empty handed and the wind blew him back over the sand and the dunes.  His flight became more staggered and his elevation dropped and rose and dropped and rose as if he were being jerked around by a cruel and invisible puppeteer.  That is the most ungraceful bird I have ever seen I thought to myself.  His brothers in the air were able to maintain their level of grace and composure despite the high winds... what a funny bird.

He seemed so unsure of himself, so confused at how to use his wings that he kept my attention.  And then, just like that, I was surprised to see him open broadly his magnificent wings and use the winds to soar beautifully, gracefully, majestically through the air directly above my head.  As he passed above, I saw what had been hidden to me from the distance.  He hadn't come up empty handed after all; a giant, floppy fish hung from his tight talons.  A bigger fish than I'd ever seen a bird that size carry.  And as I watched him soar gracefully down the beach to find a place to feed, I realized that he had never been ungraceful.  He had been struggling.  With the fish.


This was interesting to me.  You know, I thought sadly, I wonder how often I've done that to other people.  It seems to me like we're all wrestling in mid-air with sometimes invisible-to-others issues that could make us appear ungraceful, or curt, or unfeeling, or snooty, or fillintheblank.  A problematic car with no money or time to fix it might make me prone to snap at my kids.  A friendship that is falling apart might cause me to appear distant to my husband.  A child who is struggling in school might make me unwilling to help a friend (okay, confession: all of those things have happened).  But most of us are good people who care about others, and who are trying the best we can.  And, thankfully, we all have moments when we soar through life majestically, too.  This bird made me resolve to look deeper, as I continue on through life and its ever changing making-friends-and-keeping-them cycles, and try to be the kind of friend who will look at another with understanding and compassion.  The kind of friend that will be more careful about not letting an impression hide the truth.

Because, as I learned today, someone who might seem ungraceful might actually be very graceful, but struggling instead.

Sandy or Snowy... Christmas feels like Christmas

 

I grew up with snowy Christmases.  And still, nothing feels quite as cozy to me as sitting inside a warm house on a comfy couch, dressed in a sweater, wrapped in a favorite fuzzy blanket, and sipping hot cocoa as the snow falls outside.

It doesn't seem like that is going to happen this year.

I'm a rather sentimental soul, so I wondered how I would react to Christmastime when the temperatures stayed in the shorts-and-swimmingsuit numbers.  Especially after I felt Halloween was an imposter plugging itself right into the middle of my summer.

Turns out the spirit of Christmas doesn't really care if it's sandy or snowy.

I love Jesus Christ.  Really, I do.  And the warm testimony I have of him, and the intense gratefulness I have for what he has done for me is, of course, always kindled during Christmastime.  This year almost feels more intense because I'm surrounded by what are, in my opinion, some of the crowning masterpieces of his creations.  

Waves, clouds, filtered sunlight, breezes, salty air, breathtaking sunrises and sunsets, the warm blanket of humidity... all these things are wrapping me in the warmth of this season and touching my heart in that cozy way hot cocoa, sweaters and snow have done in the past. 

It also helps that we have a few tried and true traditions that make it feel familiar.  Christmas music sounds the same no matter where it's played, and the decorated Christmas tree looks the same no matter where it stands.  Also, this group...

Even though we do miss so many wonderful people, I have a feeling this year will go down as one of the best.

And hopefully we'll get enough Christmas cards to fill up our door and make it seem like we're not *quite* so lonely.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Face Plant in the Sand

I've been thinking a bit about 'bad days' recently.  Maybe because I've had some lately and I keep telling myself that, really, I should not be having bad days when everything around me is screaming of beauty and life.  And yet.  Turns out that even on the beach days can feel drippy and heavy sometimes.

Making decisions has never been one of my strong points.  If you don't like shopping, DO NOT go with me.  Seriously.  It takes me forever to make decisions on everything from a new pair of jeans to peanut butter.  (Which is probably why I never go shopping for a new pair of jeans, and why you'll always find the exact same kind of peanut butter in my cupboards because I already agonized over and made that decision years ago and I'm not about to go there again.)  In addition to making decisions, change has never been one of my strong points either.  There's a famous family story involving the kitchen cupboards in my childhood kitchen that sent me spiraling into waves of tears when my parents removed them. As a child I would also cry if my dad got a new car (especially once when his new car had a taillight configuration that made it look incredibly sad), about shaving my legs and piercing my ears (because I was growing up), and always at the beginning and end of school years (which is rather normal, I think).  So, when these two weak things in my life get thrown together and I am forced to make a decision on a major change in my life it creates a perfect storm, so to speak, for a disastrous emotional roller coaster.

I'm all better now and, truthfully, I have nothing really insightful to say about these so called 'bad days' other than they must all be part of the great plan.  Opposition in all things, you know?

And, the bad days have given birth to wonderful things.  Hard decisions have been made and our future is starting to take the form of something wonderful.  It's not all the way formed yet, but I feel like it's moving in a good direction and that most of the hardest decisions have been made. I'm sure you'll hear more details as things unfold a bit more concretely, but for now I'm happy to be back!  Back to blogging, back to this dreamlike year we're living, back to my happy place.

Subtle Changes - The Wife's View

 
August.
I see it at the top of my calendar.
August.
And I know what they say.
August.
Eight months, they say.  Eight months after December.
And still I don't believe.  No matter how many ways I bend my brain, I cannot make sense of the reality that it's been eight months since I stood alone, gripping a friend's phone in that emergency room, watching doctors and nurses frantically work to save the life of my husband.
To be cliche, It Feels Like Yesterday.
Well...
Maybe not yesterday.
But certainly not eight months ago.

In March, a friend asked me over the phone if I felt like Brian's heart attack had changed me; if it had helped me realize the gift that Every Day is; if it reminded me to live fully in each moment.  I thought for a minute and then answered as honestly as I could.
"I wanted it to.  I thought it would."
But life still felt hard.  Our house wasn't selling (wasn't showing) and we had a newborn baby to care for.  Brian's energy was low and our stress levels were high.  Little things still irritated me sometimes and, darn it all, the kids still needed to eat every couple of hours.

More time passed and the stress of selling and moving and leaving grew.  And grew some more.  But my pregnancy related hormones started leveling out and Timothy started giving us longer stretches of sleep through the nights.  The aftershocks of the heart attack itself started subsiding and I found myself feeling a little more in control of the chaos that had become our lives.  And one night, I noticed that a small shift in service had taken place during the months.  Instead of asking Brian to finish the dishes for me, I had been doing them myself.  Instead of waiting for Brian to go get our late-night ice cream snack, I had preempted it and made my way to the freezer.  I pulled the sheets tighter when I made the bed in the mornings because I know that Brian does it for himself every night. And I thought, maybe I have changed a little after all.

The first Sunday in April, Brian stood in sacrament meeting and walked our little baby to the front of the room.  With a circle of men he stood and surrounded Timothy with the power of the priesthood and, in that setting, cradled our son in his hands to give him a blessing.  As he spoke I was overwhelmed by the simple fact that he. was. there.  I thought of the moments we'd shared that had been sandwiched between the heart attack and that minute of Timothy's blessing and felt the warmth of all the long hugs, the joy of all the laughs, the sweetness of all the tender conversations and even the sting of all the tears.  It was hearing Brian's voice blessing our child that made that moment even more special and even more cherished than it otherwise would have been.  And in appreciating that moment so deeply I thought, maybe I have changed a little bit after all. 

I have noticed that there is a substantial increase in the number of times I shrug my shoulders and genuinely mean it when I say, "Eh, it doesn't matter that much." In small things such as not being able to find time in the day to get dinner started, to personal things such as feeling a little too squishy in my bathing suit, to big things such as the thousands of dollars lost on our home.  I see that it is my faith that matters.  It is my husband that matters.  It is my children that matter.  It is relationships and love and trust and companionship and friendship and doing good for others and seeking the most delectable brand of chocolate ice cream that matters.  So, maybe I have changed a little bit after all.

This man... this incredible man holds a much deeper place in my heart today than ever before.  I can see that we have built our lives in, around, and through each other to an extent I still can't quite grasp.  Through the past eight months as I've contemplated just how close I came to losing him, I have started to see all the ways that he is literally a part of me.  I would not be who I am today without his influences on me, and I would not like to try to be me without him by my side.  I need him.  And despite what critics might say, I believe this is how God intended love to be... whole and completely encompassing.  Independent, yet so dependent.  I sometimes get scared to love him this deeply, but my faith reminds me that, should God call him away from me on this earth, we would continue in this love through the eternities.  In this new and more dependent depth of love, I see I have changed after all. 

It's just that I had expected the changes to be drastic, I suppose.  But I should know by now that change in myself doesn't happen drastically.  In fact, change happens so slowly that sometimes I wonder if it's even happening at all; so to have expected myself to never again feel irritated at a glass of spilled milk on the carpet, or shoes left (again) in the middle of the floor, was, simply, to be unfair.  But now I see that, maybe I have become a bit more thankful.  A bit more humble in the knowledge of our mortality.  A bit better at focusing on the eternal perspective of my life and a bit farther away from getting so distracted in the details of things that simply don't matter.

But as far as the day to day life goes, things feel... remarkably the same.  I've gotten used to hearing the sound of pill bottles being rattled in the mornings and evenings.  It just reminds me to be so thankful for all the medical miracles.  And I've gotten used to the slight discomfort I feel every. time. he. lifts something/walks quickly/goes for a run/looks stressed/wrestles with the kids.  It just means that I love him.

So I guess the heart attack has changed our lives.  Not drastically, and not outwardly, but significantly.  It's given us hard things to work through, wonderful things to cherish.  And oh, how lucky I feel to be living this day with him.  And if the wind makes my hair look like dandelion poof?  Well, that's just the small stuff.

Happy 11th anniversary, my love.  I pray that God has many, many more years planned for us. 

Peace

Every spring I'm reminded about how much ants love our house.  Big ones, small ones, they're all particularly fond of our bathrooms and kitchen and, until we spray, we can always find a trail leading to piles of them underneath our kitchen island or in our wastebaskets.  When I sweep the kitchen floor, I'm left with a squirmy pile of them, running in all directions.  They're fast, but not fast enough to run further than my outstretched broom and they keep getting drawn back into the pile until they're all swept into the dustpan and flicked to a more appropriate ant-home (ie - outside). 

I was thinking about them today.  Most specifically about those moments I've spent sweeping them into a pile and watching them scatter.  I think I'm a bit like one of those ants... consistently following a cycle of being drawn back into the pile (which will ultimately lead to a better life) and wandering away.  But whenever I wander I can expect to feel the soft straw of a broom, held by the Lord, gently push me back to the pile.

Now, I realize this analogy has several holes in it and that there is another analogy that is much, much cleaner and easier to understand involving sheep and a shepherd but... I'm not exactly a shepherd.  I haven't even met a shepherd.  And, I haven't ever touched a sheep outside of a petting zoo. So, it's a little hard for me to put myself in their shoes.  An ANTherd, on the other hand, I know something about.  I've watched the ants scatter, and I've brought them back again and again.  So, that's what we have to go with.

Anyway - my little ant self has been swept back into the pile again.  General Conference has a way of doing that for me.  Every time...

Every six months, Mormons around the world gather to listen to our prophet and other church leaders speak to us.  These talks are dear to me and always, always, I find something (multiple somethings) to strengthen me, uplift me, and encourage me to be a little better and to happily hang in there a little longer. 

This season's message to me was one of peace.  There were so many gentle and bold reminders that the way to feel peace in your hearts and your homes is by obediently following the commandments of God. 

McKenzie listening to our prophet, Thomas S. Monson

I know that.  I've known that for as long as I can remember.  I've not only known that, but I've felt the peace that comes from living the gospel many times over.  Yet, in this trying time of my life where things just seem to be falling apart at every seam, I somehow lost hold of the strongest lifeline I had.  We were barely hanging on through an emotional pregnancy full of the regular fatigue and slothfulness, but we lost our hold when Brian's heart attack almost took him from us.  We were filled with gratitude and humility for his life... but somehow our family scripture study and prayer were forgotten as seemingly more pressing issues took their place.  Kids' bedtime was hard... Brian was tired, I was big and pregnant tired, and the children were acting out... shaken by the inconsistency of their own little lives.  Somehow the goal of 'getting the children in bed' was a goal of mammoth proportions and, no question, the path of least resistance did not include scripture study and family prayer.  We were lucky if it included brushing teeth.  

McKenzie took the camera for a bit.

Timothy was born smack dab in the middle of it all.  Four and a half weeks early, he gave us something new to start healing from.  So, the healing from the heart attack was put on hold as we adjusted to life with a new baby.  A new small baby who needed to be fed for an hour and a half out of every three.  All the sudden the goal of 'getting the children in bed' was almost insurmountable and the idea of fitting family scripture study and prayer into the routine again was far from our minds.  I did not go to church for several weeks as I healed physically and then as I kept our tiny little one away from the norovirus that was circulating like mad around the halls of our church.   

RSV struck next, and Timothy ended up in the hospital for five painful nights.  I had no sustaining power left and I crashed emotionally.  I had not been to church, had not been reading my scriptures, had not been praying for several weeks and felt the consequences of those choices while I sat in the hospital, again, needing faith.  I was frustrated and angry with the seemingly never ending trials that were being heaped upon me and wondered how we were going to put our lives back together. Again.  All the while gutting out closets and cupboards, recaulking baseboards, packing boxes, rearranging furniture, and scrubbing the house down to its bare bones to get it on the market.

A couple of weeks later I went to church for the first time since Timothy's birth.  "Has anyone seen my scriptures?" I asked as I packed my church bag.  I hadn't seen them for six weeks.  Prayers started seeping their way back into my life (though inconsistent) and I started feeling... better.  A little bit.  Easter came and went and I felt sad that I had not thought much about Christ during that important holiday.  So one night in the week between Easter and Conference Sunday I knelt and poured my heart out to the Lord. 
"This hurts, and this hurts," I explained.  "This is not going well and this is making me frustrated.  I feel angry because of this and ... I'm just a mess.  Please help me get back on my feet."  I wiped my tears and climbed into bed.  

Sunday Afternoon Session - why is that the hardest one to stay awake through?

The following morning my brain hummed along to the tune of Count Your Many Blessings and, as I brushed my teeth, I noticed it.  Having not heard or sung that song in a long, long time, I realized that this must be the answer to the prayer I had cried out the night before. 

So, I did.  I started counting my blessings, and that morning I worked hard to only thank the Lord for the things I was grateful for in my prayer.  And I felt happier almost instantly.  My testimony grew that morning in two ways. 1) I was reminded that the Lord really does hear our prayers.  And he answers them, too.  2) I also developed a testimony of the power of positive thinking and that counting your blessings (along with prayer) can help. 

Another of Kenzie's pics.  Busted.  Now you know we eat oranges on our carpet sometimes.

General Conference came the following weekend.  And my prayer was answered further.  Be obedient.  Be consistent.  And have peace.  

Our circumstances have not changed.  In fact, one could argue that they've gotten worse since selling our house is not going very well... but that peacefulness that comes from living the gospel is coming back into our home and I suppose that's what this life is all about anyway.  Learning to live gracefully and faithfully through these hard years.  These hard years that we call Life.

Windows through time

"Can you believe we used to do this?" my dad asked.  His question was directed at my mother in the early hours of the morning as he held my newborn son.  Brian and I had left Timothy in their care and had gone to bed to try to chip away at the gigantic block of sleep deprivation we'd built.  I did not watch them take care of Timothy that night; but I think I know what it looked like. 

I'm sure there was a tenderness.  A sense of awe and beauty and love.  There must have been because I had already noticed it in my parents' eyes and in the way they cradled Timothy's tiny body close to their own. And somehow those feelings are magnified in the quietest hours of the early morning when a sleeping baby lay nestled in your arms.  I know what that's like... I've felt those feelings, too. 
Tired, so very tired, but eyes unable to close because that face is just. so. precious.
And Beautiful.
And Miraculous.

Watching my parents love my newborn has found its way into the small and growing list of precious treasures written in my heart.  This was the first time they have been able to stay in my home to help with a baby and I feel so blessed to have had the experience.  With my first, they lived close by - close enough that they came for many visits, but not to stay.  With the next two, they were all the way around the world serving missions in Thailand.  But this time... this time they were able to come to our home, sleep under our roof, and soak in that tiny baby through all hours of the day.  And through the magic of the night.

And I was able to watch them.

As I watched them a tiny window was opened into my past.  Seeing Timothy tucked tightly in the folds of Dad's arms... I was there once, too.  Seeing Mom's whole face brighten with the delight of newborn expressions... she brightened with my own once, too. 

And then a window to my future... one day, as I'm holding a grandchild, will I turn to Brian and ask, Can you believe we used to do this?  In that day, will I remember these days with the clarity I hope for?  Will I remember the way that Timothy smelled and softness of that tiny patch of skin just below his cheeks?  Will I remember the way his newborn smile fills me with delightful emotions strong enough to elicit tears and the way his cry of pain touches my soul?  Will I remember the softness and sweet smell of a pile of freshly laundered muslin blankets and of his clean little body wrapped in one?

I hope so.  But if not, I'll answer my future question with a resounding yes.  Yes, you did used to do this.  The nights were sometimes long and hard and the days sometimes exhausting.  But the peace of a baby - your baby - made it beautiful.  Worth it all. 

And, oh, how you loved it.

PS - aren't my mom's eyes beautiful?

Free Fallin'

Sitting around a bonfire over ten years ago with 15 other students from our apartments at BYU, Brian taught me how to play a song on his guitar.  We were in that super fun does-he-like-me phase (fun if you suspect the answer is yes, that is) and I was all too aware of our shoulders softly touching and the way his fingers almost touched mine, but not quite, as he showed me where to place them on the strings.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, my roommates sat across the large bonfire and watched us.  "Oh, look!" one of them said to the other in a dreamy tone, "they're having a moment."  It was true.  We were. 

Something about seeing this handsome boy work his fingers raw to get that D cord just right pulled my heart back to that moment.  I hope he has a girl, someday (in the far, far future (but not too far)), that feels the same way about him as I feel about his Daddy.

He was quite proud of his D-Cord Skills and was all too eager to show them to his sweet friend, Kaileigh.  (KAY-lee)

 "You have to push down H A R D," Carson explains.

If you don't know the context, he looks like he's seriously jamming below.  But really?  He's just showing how hard he can push the strings down. 

Maybe he pushed down slightly too hard.  "Oooo, ouch," he said.  Kaileigh ignored him and tried it out for herself.

"See these prints on my fingers?  That's how you know you're doing it right."

I totally have a crush on my six-year-old.

And, speaking of moments, I just about walked straight into the middle of this one:

Thankfully I stopped in time to snag this picture before the moment was gone.  Keep practicing, guys.  Soon enough that D cord won't stand a chance against you.