Chapter 4 Losing it

Chapter 4 

Losing it

Chad had been the construction business almost all his life.  He started out by himself with just a hammer and a nail bag.  Over the past decade he had built a very successful construction company.  He had over fifty employees working for him, and had accrued all kinds of construction equipment and tools that would make any man jealous.  For the first time in our married life, we didn’t have to worry about money all the time, but that changed almost overnight.  I really hadn’t even had enough time to enjoy it. 

After several disappointing construction projects which involved attorneys and attorney’s fees, Chad decided to quit.  He said he was tired of always fighting to get the money he was owed. I was terrified. We had no savings and construction was all Chad knew.  Neither one of us had more than a high school diploma.   He couldn’t just quit, but he did.  We took a second mortgage out on our home and bought a small snowmobile business—it was insane.  Chad had never even ridden a snowmobile before.

The first year was exciting and demanding.  We rented a house on Main Street and put up a huge sign: “Outdoor Action”. Chad also opened a bike store at the same location.  He knew bikes well. It was a good fit for him.  He had been riding mountain bikes long before we met.  In the summer, we purchased four-wheelers and rented them out as well.  Chad hired young man to work on bikes and a neighbor to help out with the rentals.  Snowmobiles in the winter and ATV’s and bikes in the summer.  It was a good combination. Chad enjoyed his new business and it didn’t take long before he was a pro on the snowmobile.  Rescuing stranded clients was probably his favorite part of the job.  About once a week in the winter, someone would get stuck in a ditch or buried in powder.   

The second year didn’t go as well.  It was stressful because money was tight.  The novelty of running an adventure company was losing its appeal.  There were a few disasters, and the business wasn’t making enough money to cover the unexpected expenses.  Then there were damaged and wrecked machines, employee theft—missing bicycles and inventory that just disappeared, customers who wouldn’t pay, bad weather, and just unforeseen expensive learning curve mistakes. Then an employee who claimed to have injured himself on the job was threatening to sue.  

 Each month we went further and further into debt.  As strong as Chad was, I could see things were starting to wear him down.  The lines in his already sun worn face began to deepen.  Bills began to pile up and things that needed to be done were left unattended.  There was just too much to be done.   Chad became depressed and lost his drive to work as the business began to fail.  At times his clear green eyes looked dazed when I talked to him; it was as if he wasn’t there at all. “Chad, where are you?” I thought out of frustration.  I needed him.  I needed his strength, but he had partially, if not totally, checked out.  He kept saying we could do it.  

 I did not want to ask my older sister for help, but I did not know where else to turn for advice—for emotional support.  Laura and her husband Dave had always been there for me. Laura was like my second mother because my mother wasn’t there after my father died in a plane crash.  I was only eight when he died and Laura was just 15.  Out of necessity, she immediately took on the role of mother—showing me how to put make-up on, helping me buy a dress for prom, and running me to cheerleader tryouts.  Mom just wasn’t home of course, she never was—she had too much to take care of with no husband and seven rowdy children.  Laura was there though.  She was there to help me through life: through kid stuff, embarrassing puberty things, selfish teenager years, two weddings and a divorce.  So, when she married Dave, he became my stand in Dad.  It was a role he knew he would have to take on if he was to marry my sister.  That fact became apparent soon after they began dating.  Laura would drag Sara and me along with them on many of their dates.  They took us to the park, played racquetball with us, and even took us to the movies where Sara and I would giggle if they even looked at each other. On one date in which Sara and I were not invited, we sneaked under the kitchen table and watched them in the living room.  Just when he slid closer to her and put his arm around her, we started singing in unison, “Two little love birds sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g” Then we would run as fast as we could when Laura angrily cried out in frustration, “MOM!”

Laura was so different than the rest of the family, she was prim and proper, and unlike my siblings and me, she had manners.  She never joined in the burping or farting contests—she thought that was utterly disgusting.  She was always trying to get us to eat with our mouths closed or to keep the house clean.  I didn’t care for it then, but I’m glad she did it. 

Laura also didn’t like camping or getting dirty which was what our family enjoyed the most.   She needed a shower—we didn’t.   And what made camping even more unbearable for her was the fact that she was terrified of even the smallest bug.  Our brothers had a good time with that one.  They teased her with small fake spiders or stringy objects they would hurl in her direction.  Sometimes they even used the real thing.  They got a lot of entertainment from hearing her squeal.  Looking back I think of how hard it must have been for her—to be different and to be teased incessantly.  It probably should have been the other way around.  We were the odd balls not her.  

Laura’s complexion was soft and smooth like that of a porcelain doll.  Her features were very feminine and petite.  And she was always decked out from her head to her pretty pink toes.  I would have been insanely jealous of her if she hadn’t been so nice to me.   Not that she didn’t take full advantage of her big sister status—bossing me around, hogging the bathroom, and taking first pick of everything, but she really cared about me.  So, I was so glad that she found a guy like Dave.

Dave was as handsome and masculine as Laura was pretty and feminine.  He had strong facial features with a rugged complexion.  He had blond hair and clear blue eyes.   He was strong yet there was something about him that made him approachable and likable.    Perhaps it was the fact that he grew up in the most meager of circumstances, or maybe it was because he had to get along with 14 siblings.  Yes, 15 kids.  Ten natural born and 5 adopted.  Because of this, he gained many attributes that couldn’t have been learned by any other means.   I’m sure this also contributed to his sense of humor.  Whatever it was, he was the perfect guy for my sister.  

They married at just nineteen years of age.  Dave often joked about being a teenager when he married my sister, and he always made a point of letting everyone know that she was older than him—even if it was only six months.   Being married so young and with no financial help from either parents, Laura and Dave had to make it on their own.  It was tough.  They were immature at times and money was tight, but they always seemed to get by, and they somehow always seemed to be able to help others by giving of their time and what little money they had.  Laura and Dave were good with money.  They were very conservative and cautious with their own business.  Over the years, they created a successful thriving automotive business. 

 Chad reluctantly agreed to go with me to talk to Laura and Dave.  I laid it all out on the table.  I showed them every penny we owed.   In all, we were upside down over $200,000.  Laura and Dave agreed that bankruptcy was the only option, aside from robbing a bank.  Sure, we could have held on for a few more months, maybe even several, but bankruptcy was inevitable—there was just no other way out.  I had gone over the bills and added the figures over and over again hoping we could somehow work it out.  We couldn’t avoid it.  I was ashamed and embarrassed.   I always looked down on people who claimed bankruptcy and considered them irresponsible.  

    With the facts right in front of me, I had to admit we made a few poor choices and some risky speculations, and there were a few unseen financial pitfalls.  I guess the first mistake was starting the business with no reserve—no capital, so the business had to support our family as well as turn a profit to pay off the loans.  Chad also probably could have purchased less expensive machines or secondhand machines for the rentals. Chad said that was debatable because he had gotten such a good deal on the new ones, and he wouldn’t have to worry about mechanical problems.   I could blame Chad because it was his business and his decisions, but there is always someone to blame and some way to shift the responsibility, but all of that didn’t matter.  The bottom line was we were where we were and we had to deal with it.  There was no going back now.  We simply had to face it and move on.  The list of could haves, should haves, and only ifs was long. 

After being in business for less than two years, it was time to face the unavoidable—a huge sign out front of the store read “Going out of business sale”.  The dreams and aspirations were replaced with feelings of failure, sadness, and despair.  It wouldn’t be long before everything we had worked for was gone.   For Chad, it was devastating.  He prided himself on his hard work and self-reliance and now he was powerless to stop the dominos that had been put into motion.  It was hard to shut the door on the business and hand in the keys.   

          The next several months were spent liquidating the store and trying to decide exactly what we were going to do.  Where were we going to live? What were we going to do for a living?  I spent a lot of time pondering, praying, and worrying.  I was really beginning to get scared as the liquidation of our store began to wind down and the shelves began to empty and the money began to dwindle.  The kids could sense the tension and were confused.  The neighbors began asking about the for sale sign in the front yard.  “What was going on? Where were we going? What was the plan?”  I had no idea.  

 As we closed the doors on our business, we had to face the shattered dreams, the disappointment, and reality.  The calls from bill collectors were relentless.  Everyone wanted their money.  They were threatening all kinds of things to try to get their money, but we just didn’t have it.  As the material things in my life were taken from me, I had an urge to hold on tighter.  We hid some money and some of the equipment.  The fear of losing everything began to consume me.  The thought of a bottle of tequila had crossed my mind on a few occasions, but I knew better.  I had kids who needed me and I needed them.  One night when I was praying, they thought came to me, “It is only stuff; let it go.” 

Losing the business was hard, but losing our home was probably the most painful for me.  Our home which we built with own hands would soon have new residents.  The rooms in which holidays were spent and memories were created would soon be filled with strangers.  The trees I planted and nurtured for nine years would soon shade someone else’s yard.  The wildflowers that once danced in the back yard where birthday parties were held and neighborhood kids laughed and played would eventually die and be replaced.  The large sturdy wood swing set and fort where my kids spent most of their summers in an imaginary world would only be a memory.  

I had never been the type of person to run away from my problems, but the thought of running away crept into my mind more and more often.   I know I couldn’t really run away from my problems, but I was suffocating in fear and panic.  I thought about the time my mother had taken all seven of us kids camping for one whole summer.  I had a blast; it was a summer I’ll never forget.  We camped in the mountains above Payson canyon on some land my dad owned.  It was about 2 hours from where we lived.  We swam in the pond and caught pollywogs.  My brother even swallowed one whole on a dare.  My dad built us a tree house in a very tall tree.  I remember how scary it was climbing up the nailed on wood slates that led to the platform, and how frightened I was it was as the tree house swayed in the wind.  I loved playing there. It made me feel brave and fearless.  I was only 6 years old so the aspect of an outhouse and not bathing made it even better.  The thought of that summer got me thinking.  Perhaps I could run away—just this once. 

 

I called a friend of mine, Brad, who worked for the department of wildlife resources and asked him where I could camp for three months.  I told him of my little fantasy of taking the kids camping for the entire summer. He was very amused at the whole idea and chuckled.  A part of him thought it was a little crazy—that I had lost my mind, but another part of him was a little envious.  He and his wife Diane had been our friends for about eight years.  Like us, Diane and Brad were unable to have their own children.  When I met Diane, she had adopted one boy, Eli, and I had Dani.  Through the years our families spent a few holidays together, camped, hiked, fished and went to church together.  I shared in their joy as they adopted Noah and then were able to give birth to a baby boy.  They in turn shared in our joy when we adopted Jared. 

Brad was genuinely interested in my new venture.   He explained there was a 14 day camping limit. We would have to pack up camp every couple of weeks and move.  He did have an idea though.  I could be a camp host.  I’d be able to stay in one spot for the entire summer and get paid.   Brad gave me a few phone numbers and I immediately began my escape plan. I called a company that had a contract with the federal government to manage several camp sites throughout the state.  They had an opening that sounded perfect.  It was at the very top of the south side of the Uinta Mountains which was only 45 minutes from where we lived.  It was so high in the mountains they were only open two months of the year—July and August.  It was closed the rest of the year due to snow.  The little campground was called Wolf Creek.  It had three individual camp sites and two group camp sites.  This would be the first year the site would have a camp host.  My duties would include picking up trash, cleaning out the fire pits, collecting money, and yes, cleaning the outhouses.  I didn’t mind hard work, but cleaning the stinky toilets made me cringe. I accepted the job and began my preparations. 

It was mid June so I only had about two weeks to get everything figured out.  I called Laura and let her know of my plan.  She thought I was crazy, but knowing there was no talking sense into me, she hooked me up with a friend of hers who had a 5^th wheel trailer for sale.  It was a little dated but her friend, Jerry, had taken immaculate care of it.  Since Jerry and his wife had previously lived in the trailer for six months while they served a mission for their church it was all set up. There were extra solar panels, a TV, and larger than normal water tanks.  It was 26 feet long with a pop out in the kitchen and living room area which slid out with the push of a button.  The carpet was a nice sea foam green color and in excellent condition.  There were large windows in the living room and kitchen.  I could already imagine seeing the trees and beautiful mountain scenery.  It was perfect!  After we agreed on a price, Jerry showed Chad all the ins and outs of the trailer.  It took Jerry over an hour to explain everything.  It was far more complicated than either of us realized. 

After purchasing the trailer, we rented a storage unit to store everything we couldn’t take with us.  We planned on getting rid of a lot of stuff so we rented a small 10X20 unit to put everything in from our 2500 square foot home and two-car garage. The unit seemed so big when it was empty, but it didn’t take long before the thing would be crammed full all the way to the ceiling with not one inch left to spare.  The few things that didn’t fit would have to be stored at Laura’s house.  I called it stuff. She called it crap, but after a long weekend moving everything.  I called it crap too. 

I gave each of my kids a small plastic storage container and told them they could only bring what would fit into the box.  Jared was only four at the time and Danielle was soon to be nine.   As I was trying to figure out how to fit all my stuff into the trailer, the kids kept bringing things to me and pleading, “Can’t we just bring this too?”  “Just this one? ”   First it was big things like the Barbie jeep & the doll house from Danielle and the tike, and train set from Jared.  I really wanted to say yes because I knew how much they loved those toys.  I loved them too. I loved watching them play with their friends and with each other, and I loved playing with them as well.   But, we just couldn’t.  There was no way.  My reply was always, “Does it fit in the box?”   You would have thought they would have given up after the first several times or even after 10 times, but they just kept coming, and became more persistent after the box was full.  There were a few times I raised my voice, “No, I said No.”  But that still didn’t stop them.  They kept coming.  I guess they wouldn’t be kids if they didn’t.  Jared’s box contained mostly cars and balls.  He filled it to the brim and then tried to balance a huge plastic blue ball on top that was bigger than the opening of the box. Danielle had taken great care to organize her box carefully.  She emptied it out several times and reorganized it so that she could fit just one more Barbie or one more toy until it was impossible to fit anything at all no matter how hard she tried.  She had even sneaked a few toys in Jared’s box.  He was too young and too easy going to mind.   When Danielle finished she showed me how well she had organized her box as she stood there with pride.  She had a little toy pony in her precious hands.  As my eyes moved from the box to the pony, she quickly replied, “I’ll just hold this one.”  

Going through all my stuff and getting rid of things was hard for me as well.  When we first moved into our home, we moved from a 900 square foot rental into our 2500 square foot home.  After nine years you just accumulate things.  It didn’t take long before every nook and cranny of the house was filled with stuff—with crap.  As I went through my stuff, I had to decide what to keep, what to take, and what to get rid of knowing that the “what to get rid of pile” had to be the biggest.  Of course it was easy for me to look at my husbands pile and say, “Are you really going to keep this?”  Like this odd exercise wheel I had only seen him use a handful of times in the 12 years of our marriage.   “Yeah,” he replied defensively as he looked at my stuff and picked from my pile a cream colored pillow with a lace doily on the front of it.  It was old and tattered.  Chad mocking said, “Are you really going to keep this old thing?”  The pillow had followed me from place to place with each of our 8 moves.  My heart sank seeing it in my husband’s hands looming over the get rid of pile. My grandmother had made.  It was the only monetary possession I had to remind me of her.  She was the one constant in my life when my father, her son, had passed away.  “My grandmother made that.”  I said in a soft sullen voice. Chad knew how much my grandmother meant to me. “I’m sorry,” he replied earnestly and handed me the pillow.  That was the end of that; we both stayed away from each others piles from then on. 

The kitchen was the largest area and would take the most time.  How on earth was I going to have enough room in the trailer for what I needed?  I opened each drawer and made an assessment: A pastry cutter—very useful but not mandatory,  A metal spatula and a plastic one—I liked them both for different things but only one would go, two whisks—only one,   several knives of different sizes and blades—narrowed down from 10 to 5. This went on until every item was scrutinized, evaluated, and sorted.  As I began to put the items in the trailer, I was like Danielle with her little box.  I organized the drawers over and over again to try to make things fit, but there just wasn’t enough room.  I had to reevaluate and make a second cut, like selecting a sports team.  Narrowed down to the very best and then narrowed down again in the second cut.  This was the second cut.  I loved my whisk.  I used it all the time, but it had to go. Five knives got cut to three; four serving spoons all got cut; four mixing bowls down to only two.   The toaster also got cut—the blender didn’t make it past the first round. 

Clearing out the kitchen was monumental, but it was not the hardest.  The hardest was the sentimental stuff, like the decorative wreath a cherished friend made for me, the MVP trophy I received from my coach in the 9^th grade, and the crochet rug I made with my sister.  Getting rid of that stuff broke my heart.   I had to remind myself it was only stuff and that giving these items away did not take these people from my heart nor did it belittle their memory.  I’m sure my grandmother would not have wanted me to tote that pillow everywhere. 

After several days of sorting through mountains of stuff, I soon began chucking things with ease.  Why had I hung on to all this crap in the first place?  All the wasted time spent storing, cleaning, and moving them from place to place.   With each item that went into the give away pile, I felt energized and powerful.  I was freeing myself and it felt good.  I remembered back to the first time I moved into my first apartment at college.  Everything I owned fit into my car.  Everything I thought was making my life easier was robbing me of my time and my energy.  Not only did it take up physical space, but it took up emotional space as well.   All this stuff was just that—Stuff.  I still had my kids, my health, my faith, and my husband—other than that, what really mattered? 

With the last item put in storage and the last room cleaned, the house seemed so big and so empty.  As I studied the empty living room, it reminded me of when we first moved in.  The room was now like it had been then: a blank canvas waiting for me to write my story.  Memories flooded my mind. I remembered the first time we ate dinner in our new home.  We sat on the floor with our legs crossed next to empty paint cans and ate on paper plates right in the middle of the floor.  We were so full of hopes and dreams of what the future held for us. We spent years creating memories in this house. The house had become a home.  My boy was born here, my daughter learned how to ride a bike here, tears were shed, laughter filled the rooms, love was built, and conflicts were resolved.  Now with the home empty it held only memories. The emptiness was a sting that reminded me this was no longer my home.  The blank canvas before me this time was not filled with hopes or dreams. It was filled with loss, sadness, and regret.

We had one more memory to leave in our house and that was my daughter’s birthday.  She was going to be nine on June 20th.  I had always made a big deal of my kids’ birthdays with a party that included lots of friends, food, cake and a piñata—always a piñata.   One time we hung it from the swing set, another time we hung it over the balcony into the living room. We even hung it in the garage. It was always my daughter’s favorite part of the party.  Kids are always told not to hit and to be polite.  This was their chance to take a bat and whack the crap out of some innocent colorful figure—like a unicorn, Barney, or a rainbow.  All the kids anxiously waited for the big moment and each one hoped they would be the hero who was strong enough to break open the treasure for everyone.    But this year would be different.   Because I had been so preoccupied with everything that was going on and consumed with my own worries, I didn’t have much time, energy, or money to make this birthday anything spectacular.   There were no friends, or fancy food, and no piñata. 

We sat in the empty living room on the floor opened a few presents, sang happy birthday, and had a little cake.   As a mom, it’s my responsibility to make sure each holiday and every birthday is perfect in every way.  I don’t know why it’s like that or where that notion came from because my own mother never made a big deal of my birthdays, but that was just the way it was for me.  Perhaps it’s part of some female physique or my ingrain nature to nurture.    This birthday however would serve as a one of those bad mommy memories—where you fee like you’ve failed…again.  I have decided there are just way too many ways to feel guilty as a mother.

Chapter 3 -- Content

Chapter 3 Content

I lived in Northern Utah at the base of the Rocky Mountains for most of my life.  It was beautiful there with the splendor of the four seasons—the amazing green summers, the spectacular fall colors, the beauty of the valley covered with a fresh white blanket of snow, and the crisp fresh spring air. Spring was my favorite time of year. Everywhere there were signs of life—trees budding and flowers breaking through the dark fresh soil.  It smelled so wonderful especially after it rained.  The Timpanogos Mountain towered over the valley like a watchman keeping our little community safe.  And of course, I never really appreciated any of it until I moved away.  All I could think of was getting out of that small town.

I moved to Las Vegas when I was 21.  Las Vegas had a population of one million at the time which was more than the whole state of Utah.  I was excited to live in a big city.   My Aunt and Uncle invited me to come live with them because Utah’s economy was in a slump and I was having a hard time finding a decent paying job.  Within a few weeks I found a job at a doctor’s office.  The pay was good and they offered health insurance and paid vacations.  I didn’t mind the hot Vegas weather.  It wasn’t uncommon to be 95 degrees in the evening. I loved coming out of the cold movie theatre being instantly warmed.  I definitely preferred the heat over the cold.  The brutal winters of northern Utah lasted six long months.  I had a hard time getting warm.  Some said it was because I was so thin, but I thought it was probably due to my low blood pressure or poor circulation.  

Five years after I moved to Vegas I met Chad.  We were both 26 years old when we got married which is old by some standards—especially in Utah which is home for me.  In my church, we were taught not to put off marriage for school or careers.  We were also encouraged not to put off having a family.   A lot of my friends were married right out of high school and had a few kids by the time they reached 20.  It wasn’t just my church.  It was the small town culture and the era I was born.   I almost felt like an old maid when I first got married at 21.  It was an abusive relationship that lasted three long miserable years.  I had no kids in that marriage, so it was easy to pretend like never happened.   Chad was so different than my fist husband.  I felt comfortable and safe with him.  He had a kind and gentle way about him.      

Chad was born and raised in Vegas.  His family grew up there.  His grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all worked and lived there.   Chad made good money in Vegas working construction.  He was the foreman of his own crew.  He didn’t appreciate Vegas’ weather, the great economy, or leaving near his family.  All he could think about was getting out of that big city.  He often visited the small towns in Northern Utah and he loved it there.   He loved the outdoors—hunting, camping, mountain biking, and especially rock climbing. 

We got out our maps closed our eyes and threw a dart at the map.   It wasn’t quite that random but almost.  We spent several months visiting small towns in Colorado, Oregon, Washington, and Utah. We didn’t check the economy, the schools, the crime or anything.  We just went there to see if we liked the look of the place.  We were looking for something small, cute, and quaint.  It wasn’t an educated or well thought decision at all.  We put an offer on some property in Utah and in Colorado.  The property in Utah came through first so that was where we headed—Heber City, Utah.   

Heber City, Utah, is a small cold town nestled in the Wasatch Mountains of northern Utah on the back side of the mountain that had watched over me as I grew up.   The population was a mere 10,000 including surrounding areas.  My dreams for a big city life had somehow changed with the dreams of a family, and now this small quaint town seemed just right.  We built our little dream home in a quiet neighborhood near the local church and the elementary school.  Within minutes, there was camping, water skiing, snow skiing, and just out my back door I often witnessed the most incredible sunrises and sunsets that set the entire valley on fire and would leave me breathless.

The summers were gorgeous but short, and sometimes right in the middle of summer, winter would sneak back in without any warning and then leave without a trace as abruptly as it came.  That is how northern Utah is, but Heber was even a little more extreme. My daughter’s birthday is June 20^th and as usual, we had planned a water party.  When it snowed the day before the party, several of the mothers called and asked if we were going to cancel.  I said, “Let’s wait.”  And sure enough, the next day the kids were in their swim suits running through the sprinklers and splashing around in the small blow-up pool we had purchased from the local store.   

The winters were equally amazing but long.   For the first few winters, deer would come right to the back deck.  Park City ski resort was just minutes away, and the Wasatch Mountains offered the largest snowmobile area in the state.  My personal favorite was sledding, and making snow angles with my kids. A winter never went by without a snowman in the front yard.  Heber was definitely the outdoor enthusiast’s paradise.  The air was clear and the nights were crisp and cool.  It was charming and friendly a place where neighbors waved to each other in passing and visited in the streets.   I hoped to live there for the rest of my life.

Not only was I content with where I lived, but I was blessed with two beautiful and perfect children we adopted at birth—first a baby girl followed by a baby boy.   I couldn’t have planned it better myself.  It seemed like an eternity waiting for them to become a part of our lives.  After years of tears, surgeries, and pleading with God, my prayers were answered just after my 29^th birthday when Danielle was born.  

Yes, I had prayed, pleaded, even begged for years that I would be able to give birth to a child of my own—that God would somehow heal my body through my faith like I had read in the bible.  Jesus healed the blind man, and the leaper; He caused the lame to walk.  Surely, He could heal me if I just had enough faith.  But, He had a better plan for me—one that I could not conceive and one that would bring more happiness and joy than I could ever have imagined. 

 I had been married for three years when I found out that I was pregnant. The doctors had told me there was no way that could happen without medical intervention.  I thought God had answered my prayers and given me my miracle.  Then two months later I ended up in the hospital in emergency surgery. 

Chad was so sick with the flu that he couldn’t even get out of bed, so I had my sister, Laura, drop me off at the hospital.  I arrived at the hospital alone, scared, and two months pregnant.  After checking in, the nurse gave me a blue gown and directed me to the cold sterile room where I changed and sat on the mobile hospital bed.   When the doctor came into the room, he explained that they would go in with a scope to see what was going on.  If everything was OK, I’d go home shortly after the surgery. However, if it was a tubal pregnancy, the surgery would be like a hysterectomy, and I’d be in the hospital for four to five days and off work for six weeks, and the pregnancy would be terminated. There was just no way to move the embryo from the fallopian tube to the uterus without destroying it.  I asked if we should wait and see what happens.  He explained how serious a tubal pregnancy is.  If the tube burst, I could die.  I was almost willing to take the chance.

It wasn’t long after the nurse inserted the IV that I faded effortlessly into unconsciousness.   Being under anesthesia is like some weird black hole.  Time passes and things happen, but it’s like everything is lost in some obscure emptiness.  Four hours had gone by, but for me nothing had happened—no dreams, no thoughts, nothing.  It felt as if I had just barely closed my eyes and drifted off, when only moments later I was trying to shake off the grogginess.   The only clue I had that something had happened was the pain I felt in my stomach as I tried to raise myself from the pillow.  The worry that was in my mind before I went into surgery was the first thought as I awoke.  “Am I still pregnant?”   It was the only thing on my mind.  I should have known the answer from the look on the doctor’s face or by the way he reluctantly paused, but I didn’t want to believe it.  I kept looking at him in disbelief hoping the expression on his face would change. My eyes met his, pleading for another answer, but nothing could change the facts.  It was a tubal pregnancy.  His voice was soft and solemn, “I’m sorry” he said.  As the words came from his mouth, I just wanted him to stop.  I wanted him to take the words back, take it all back.  I was not ready to hear it.   The tears rolled from my eyes and my stomach tightened which I never realized happened when I cried but now I was very aware as sharp pains shot through my stomach, but it was the pain in my heart that hurt the most.   

I spent three long days in the maternity ward of the hospital listening to the new born babies cry and watching the new mothers, tired and in pain, as they walked past my room. I wished it was me.  At times I could hear the nurses’ whisper outside my room and sigh in pity.  Each baby’s cry and each mother I saw was a dagger to my heart.  I just couldn’t stand it any longer.  With tears in my eyes, I turned away from the doctor and stared out the window as I asked in a trembling voice if I could go home early.  He reluctantly agreed and got the paperwork ready for me to go home. 

I regretted my decision almost as soon as I walked in the door.  The torment I felt wasn’t eased by being home either.  The small old house we rented was shabby and cluttered.   The old brown shag carpet had burn holes in places.  The walls were painted a soft green color that was outdated.  When we moved in, my sister and I had tried to make the kitchen as homey as possible by scouring the place and adding a wallpaper border, but the cabinets and appliances were old and worn.  The place was even more intolerable now.   Chad was still very sick with the flu and couldn’t get out of bed.  So the place was a wreck, and we were a wreck, and neither of us could do a thing about it.

It was a very dark time for me, and I began to question myself.  I thought my prayers went unheard.  In trying to make sense of the whole thing, I wondered if I was unworthy to be a mother, or perhaps God was somehow punishing me for the foolish mistakes I had made when I was younger.  If only I knew what lay ahead, there would have been no tears, no sadness, but I did not know. 

*******

I loved her even before she was even born, and I’ll never forget the first time I saw her behind the nursery window at the hospital.  I stood there hand in hand with my husband as we scanned each little bed looking at each little face, reading every name, searching for our baby.  Two dark haired babies with thick black hair slept peacefully in beds next to each other.  They looked like twins.  Another baby with a light complexion was quietly sucking on a pacifier.  Anxiously, our eyes continued scanning the room.  Each baby was wrapped snugly in blue and white hospital receiving blankets.  A few babies were fussing but most were fast asleep probably worn out from the trauma of their first few days of life. 

Then we spotted her “Baby Girl Dennett” the sign read.  She was screaming with fierce determination at the top of her lungs as she protested her cold new environment.  Her body twisted and squirmed; her face was blotchy and turning redder by the minute.    Her head was slightly pointed and mostly bald except for a few soft light colored wisps of hair.  I don’t know exactly how it happened, but at that moment I immediately became her mother.  It was a spiritual moment: I knew she was mine, and I was hers.

I did not see a crying baby with a blotchy red face or a slightly pointed head.  I saw my little girl.  I squeezed my husband’s hand with excitement and smiled, “She is the most beautiful baby in the world!” I whispered with true conviction.   Then with astonishment I realized what day it was.  It was June 20^th—Father’s day. My heart was overwhelmed with love and gratitude because I knew God made it all possible.  At that moment He let me know that He had never forgotten me.  My heart was filled with His love and I knew that He was there. 

I turned to my husband.  “Happy Father’s Day,” I whispered softly.  He smiled and pulled me closer. Tears were forming in his eyes, glistening underneath the bright florescent hospital lights.   My tears had already made their way down my checks.  I felt indescribable joy as I looked at Danielle and imagined holding her and loving her.  It had seemed like forever waiting for this day, and now it was finally here.  It was something that I had yearned for for almost a lifetime.  I was a mom!

We both just stood there in silence staring through the glass trying to take it all in.  Then my mind turned to her, the young girl who had just given birth.  I ached for her.  Suddenly, the tears of joy were now mixed with tears of sorrow.  It was bittersweet, for I knew at that moment her heart was breaking.  The very act that was to bring me such joy was tearing her apart.  A young girl was making the toughest, gut-wrenching decision of her life out of unselfish, pure love for her child. 

There were so many emotions running through me, but one thing was for sure.   I was instantly bonded to that tiny beautiful baby from that very first day in the hospital and I knew that my love for her would last an eternity.  I knew right then and there that she was meant to be a part of our family.  It burned in my heart and soul, and there was no doubt in my mind that God had his hand in my life and this was the way it was always meant to be.  I don’t know why I had to go through the things I did, but I do know that going through them made me appreciate being a mother so much more.  It was something that I would never take for granted. I came to realize that none of these children are really ours.  They are God’s children and he has entrusted them to us to take care of them, to teach them, and love them.  He gave us families to find true happiness. 

  I enjoyed each new era of Danielle’s life thinking each phase was the best until the next phase came along.  I couldn’t think of anything better than simply holding Danielle in my arms and looking into her eyes.  Until she began to smile and babble and surely nothing could compare to this.  Then she began to walk and talk and say and do the cutest things.  Already, I had rolls and rolls of pictures of her. 

She had her own distinct personality, and I soon learned that her strong will was here to stay.   As she entered the terrible twos, I understood why they were called that, but they were equally terrific as well.  As Danielle discovered life, she helped me see things in a whole new wonderful way.  She was energetic and full of life.  She was never one to sit idly by and suffer any injustice without having something to say about it.  She was that way from that very first day in the hospital.  Each new experience was either filled with shrills of excitement or cries of despair, and for her, everything had to be tried and tested; she didn’t consider anything a fact unless she proved it to be one, herself. I never thought I could love her more than I did that first day, but with each passing year my love for her grew.

Her wispy hair finally grew into long blond silky hair which cascaded over her small delicate shoulders.  She was strikingly beautiful with the biggest blue eyes that sparkled with mischief.  I called her my sunrise because of her vibrant and passionate personality.  She was always up early and eager to explore her world.

It wasn’t until about three and a half years later and two more tubal pregnancies that I started to feel the longing for another child.  I contacted an adoption agency and began the arduous process of filling out the paper work.  It consisted of medical exams, background checks, and fifteen pages of essay questions for me and fifteen pages for my husband.  I almost had to tie him down to make him finish his part. It wasn’t that he didn’t want another child; it was just a tedious task.  Most of the questions were essay questions like: What was it like growing up?  “Good,” he responded.  I had to pull the answers out of him and get him to expound.  Most of the questions were soul-searching questions that took a lot of thought—“If you could change anything about your childhood, what would it be?” “Describe your hopes, goals, and aspirations.”  I worked on it kind of haphazardly for nearly a year putting if off for days, weeks and even months at a time. 

Then in October or 1997, I had a strong feeling that my baby was going to be born soon—very soon.  I know it sounds odd.  It was odd for me, too.  I didn’t hear a voice, see angels or anything like that.  But I had a burning within my heart.  I couldn’t explain nor could I ignore it.  At times I questioned myself, but the feeling that my baby was coming just wouldn’t go away.   I felt a sense of urgency that was strong and constant.  I was driven with a power beyond my own.  I worked tirelessly getting all the adoption paper work completed.  Then I moved Danielle to her new room upstairs and cleaned out her old room next to ours for the new baby.  My friends and family thought I was crazy.  They worried about me as they watched me buzzing around like a bird preparing her nest.  It was common knowledge that most couples had to wait nearly two years after putting in their paperwork before anything happened.

The final step was a home study where a licensed social worker came to your home to inspect it and make sure it was suitable for a baby.  As I showed him around the house, I paused before we entered Danielle’s old room.  I knew he would give me that look; the one everyone else had been giving me. I hesitated as I opened the door and reluctantly explained, “This is the baby’s room.”  Sure enough, he gave me the look of “you’re crazy”. He sighed and explained what I already knew and what everyone had already been telling me, “The usual waiting time is nearly two years.”  But he didn’t know what I knew.   I was tired of that sorry for me look again, so I just smiled and said, “I know.”  No one knew what I felt, and no one believed that I could know, but I did, and it was just as real as anything. I knew it and God knew it, and that was that.

On October 27^th I received a letter stating the paperwork was officially complete.  After rushing to get in the paperwork, it was weird to just wait.  Why the rush?  A week passed and then two, then a month.   And then, I received a call from the adoption agency on December 2, 1997 with the news that we were going to be parents of a baby boy—the baby was due January 7^th.  I later learned that Crystal had chosen us only two weeks after our paperwork had been submitted.  I told Chad we should wait to tell everyone until it was closer to the due date. That lasted for about two days before I called my family, a few close friends, and pretty much the whole town. 

A few days later I received a letter from the birth mother, Crystal, explaining how she had come to choose us as the family for her child.  She said that she had another family already picked out.  They were exactly what she thought she wanted:  Samoan—like the baby’s father; Chad was of French descent and I was of Danish—white as could be, college degrees—I had finished one year of college and Chad didn’t even go that far, and she wanted her baby to be the first child; Danielle was already our first child—couldn’t change that.  We were nothing of what Crystal thought she wanted for her child.   

She explained that she was quite content with her decision, but for some reason she felt she needed to take a closer look at all the files her case worker had given her.  When she came across our file she was immediately taken aback when saw the letter I had written.  It was on the same stationary she had; a paper framed with a country setting of pine trees, a moon, and some stars.  As Crystal began reading the letter, she began crying.   Something touched her heart, but this only confused her because we were nothing like what she thought she wanted for her baby. 

She needed some reassurance that what she felt was real.  She took the letter to her uncle, her mom, and her cousin.  Upon reading the letter, they immediately knew what she knew.   Her uncle, who was especially touched by the letter, had an indescribable peaceful feeling.  He instinctively pulled Crystal close and hugged her.  He gently whispered in her ear exactly what she needed to hear, that she was doing the right thing.  She relied on God to guide her, but she also desperately needed her family’s strength and approval to support her in the toughest decision of her life. 

We had been looking forward to Christmas this year with great anticipation.  Danielle was four and she had been waiting all year for Christmas.  She started telling me what she wanted in March, but now everything had changed.  Christmas kind of lost its allure with the upcoming news.  There were only a few gifts under the tree.  Nothing could compare to the gift we were going to receive—a gift from God and from a loving young woman.  Even Danielle couldn’t contain her excitement, “Mom,” she said in her childlike voice, “I don’t care about Christmas anymore.  I just can’t wait for the baby to come.  I hope he gets here soon.”  I smiled, “Me too,”

The anticipation nearly killed us all.  It was a very long month waiting for our little boy to be born.  I hoped he would come early and that would be the ultimate Christmas present for our family, but I was not in charge—God was thankfully.  I was selfishly thinking about myself and not about the young woman whom I had come to love and respect.  What would Christmas have been like for her if she had to spend it alone and empty?  God knew she needed to have a little more time and that was His gift to her.

Christmas and New Year’s Eve passed without much excitement.  January 7^th passed, the due date.   Then at 2:00 am January 14 the phone rang.  I was so tired, but when I looked at the clock, I suddenly realized who it must be.   I instantly jerked the phone to my ear.  It was Tom, our social worker from the adoption agency, “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.  Just the sound of his voice sent excitement through my whole body and I wanted to scream.   He continued without waiting for my response.  “Congratulations, you are parents to a healthy baby boy.”  I shook my husband who was already awake and exclaimed, “It’s a boy!”       

Tom told us to meet him at his office the following day at 4:00 pm to take our baby boy home.   The birth mother, by law, could not sign the paperwork until 24 hours after the baby’s birth.  That time was for the birth mother to make sure of her decision. It also would be a time for her to say her goodbyes and kiss her baby for the last time.  I knew it would be a very difficult and trying time for her and would test her resolve.  It scared me to think that she could still change her mind.  I quickly pushed the thought aside.  It was just too scary to think about.  I had already fallen in love with this little Samoan baby boy.      

   The next day Chad, Danielle, and I sat in the social worker’s office where we saw him for the first time.  The three of us stood there in awe.  None of us dared speak or even move as if something could break the spell and wake us from this dream.  Was he really ours? Could we really hold him and touch his little hands?  My husband, Danielle, and I huddled around the baby leaving no space—just our little family.  Danielle reached for his hand and he instinctively grabbed her small tender finger.  It was as if he was accepting us; pulling our hearts together as a family.  She looked at me with excitement, “Look Mom, he likes me!”  

Jared was born with a personality of his own.  He was a direct contrast to his sister in almost every way.   His dark skin complimented his dark hair and cheerful black eyes.  He was even tempered and calm; some suggested it was due to his Samoan heritage, but wherever it came from, it was truly delightful.  He enjoyed laughing and his laugh would sometimes stay with me all day and cause me to smile.   He was very trusting and innocent.  He was never upset at anything for very long.  If something upset him, it was soon forgotten and he’d quickly move on.  Life was too full to let the little things bug him.  I called him my sunset because of the peace and joy he brought to my life. 

My children were my life and I enjoyed being a stay at home mom.  I had waited so long to be a mom that I didn’t want to miss out on any of their childhood.  One time when money was tight, to the point of not being able to buy food, I thought I needed to go back to work. I really didn’t want to, but I was desperate.  I knelt by my couch in the living room and said a prayer asking my Father in Heaven what I should do.  As I opened my eyes from the prayer, I saw my daughter’s tiny hiking boots on the back of the couch.  Above her shoes was a picture of the savior with the words: “I never said it would be easy I only said it would be worth it.”  As I sat back, a thought entered my mind, “They will only be small for a short time.”  It was not my own words but a gentle whisper to my heart.  As a new mother I could not fully grasp just how quickly time really does pass, but at that moment I understood it completely.  I knew I needed to make whatever sacrifice it would take to be at home with my kids.    

When I first looked into the innocent eyes of my children I did not realize how naive I was, and that motherhood would be tougher than I ever imagined.  Some days were very trying and would leave me on the verge of insanity.  I didn’t pull my hair out; my kids did and my earrings too—plucked them right out of my ears.  There were late night feedings, crying, throwing up. There were no more silk dresses or anything that had to be dry-cleaned.  Dirty hands were wiped on my clean white pants; spit up or drool adorned each shirt I wore.  I could change five times a day and it would only be a matter of minutes before it would all be dirty again.  No more talking without interruptions, no more spontaneous trips, nor more sleeping in on Saturdays, or even sleeping all night.   

But, it’s all worth it.  A bouquet of dandelions, a big hug, and a smile would remind me what it’s all about, or when I watched them quietly sleeping at night, or when they told me how much they loved me even after I had yelled at them just five minutes earlier, or the funny things they would say and the complete trust and honesty.   I would learn more from them about love and life than they would ever learn from me. 

I was pretty content with my life: Two kids, a husband, living in a beautiful small town.  I remember thinking how lucky I was, but almost as soon as the thought entered my mind, I had a sinking feeling that something was going to change.