Abigail Rose

Happy Birthday Abigail

2010-10-19T00:39:00.000-07:00

In less than an hour it will be October 19, 2010--one year later. One year after the birth of baby Abigail Rose. I will forever measure moments by their distance from that day. We’ve looked forward to this day for a long time--partly because a first birthday is a watershed moment in one’s life, and partly because October 19th will also be a special day, a special place to return to whenever we forget what matters.

A few weeks ago we got to reminisce (in person) about those days at Stanford, a time when our circle of concern was small and each moment of life was packed with joy and meaning.

The setting was familiar. The context was not. It was just me, Lisa, and Abby in Palo Alto. It was a similar time of year: temperature in the 70’s, college football was in full swing, our kids were in school, and grandma was in charge at home. This time, though, there was no uncertainty to our trip--other than the question of which restaurants to visit (and even then, we had already put our “favorite” Palo Alto eating establishments on the itinerary).

Lisa, Abigail, and I returned to Palo Alto in September for a weekend trip. We went under the guise of attending a NICU reunion that is held each year on the “Dean’s Lawn” at Stanford. I use the word “guise” primarily because the NICU reunion was really our “excuse” for going--that extra little motivation needed to justify a weekend escape from an otherwise over-programmed and over-committed life; it was our excuse to spend time together with our baby--time we really haven’t spent since leaving Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital (LPCH) last year. Perhaps "spent time” is the wrong choice of words. We’ve spent plenty of time since last year. We just haven’t created enough opportunity to invest our time. And weekends like this are investments of time whose returns compound over time and yield very fruitful returns; they are deposits into the safest investment accounts that result in what every stock broker wishes he could always deliver for his clients: consistent and predictable returns that still yield exponential returns; the one stock that can be both safe and very lucrative.

Lisa and Abby back for a second visit to Leslie Neumarker's English-garden backyard.

So, the NICU reunion was the excuse behind our investment, but despite telling everyone that we were going to Stanford to attend the reunion, we knew that we weren’t really going for that event. We went there mainly because the Stanford community is a “happy place” for us, and we wanted to relive the memory of our unique and beautiful stay there just over 11 months prior.

We left Orem on a Thursday after work, and returned late that Sunday night. As we left our house, I hugged Emma, our eight year old--the child who used to be our baby; the child whom we figured would forever be our baby before the surprise of Abigail. Emma, a sensitive and affectionate girl, squeezed a little longer than normal. As I loosened my grip around her body, I placed my big “daddy” hands on each side of her face, and without premeditation said, “This goodbye is a lot different from the last time Mom, Abby, and I rushed off to California, isn’t it?”

Just after I asked that rhetorical question to Emma, I suddenly felt like part of me had experienced some type of time-warp back to the past. I felt it again. Though not nearly as intense, I felt a tinge of the emotion that Lisa and I experienced last October when we hurriedly kissed and hugged our children goodbye, as the Life Flight team whisked Mom, Dad, and the encased Abigail out of the NICU at Primary Children’s en route to board a Life Flight to Stanford. Just as smells, music, and sounds can flood a soul with very real and poignant memories bulging with emotion, every time I see a Life Flight helicopter pass overhead (our house lies very near its path between Salt Lake and Utah Valley Regional Medical center), I pause, and part of that emotion returns. I hope that a helicopter always stimulates that emotion. It’s good to pause and remember.

The walls of my throat thickened as I pulled away from Emma. As Lisa we walked through our mudroom and into the garage, I said, as my voice teetered and cracked, “That was hard.”

Lisa and Abby at Stanford

There were several moments that brought back sweet memories during the trip. Another was Lisa nursing Abby on the plane. Abby has been an on-again, off-again nurser, and the in-flight nursing wasn’t much different. She didn’t want to nurse for too long, but I watched with amusement as Lisa patiently endured the following. Abby followed a familiar pattern of latching on, then pulling off and looking up and smiling at Mom while she gurgled out baby speak, trying to carry on a conversation with Mom, as if she were at “afternoon tea,” then latching back on only to pull off a few minutes later, and so forth. The scene caused me to remember those first tenuous days of nursing--the anxiety we felt about whether she would eat enough to gain sufficient weight to be released from the hospital, the challenge of latching on to the breast after a month of being fed by a tube, and the concern that she may, like many heart-patients, never learn to nurse.

Abby has nursed in waves. She has nursed everyday, but sometimes her patience seems to wane, and she opts for the easy approach--the bottle. Other than the occasional two-week hiatus where Abby nurses sufficiently to fill her up, Lisa has dutifully pumped just about everyday since Abby was born. That pump was a good investment, and Lisa has had the patience to consistently use it so that her baby could partake of the "good stuff."

Abby, happy to be at Stanford, tube-and-worry free.

The plane ride to California this time was certainly different, with Abby standing most of the time on Mom or Dad’s legs, and wiggling constantly back and forth between the two of us. Her bedtime was long past due, as our flight was delayed by an hour out of Salt Lake. Like most babies, the later it gets, the louder and more volatile she becomes. I am quite certain that our fellow passengers were thrilled to have the flight come to an end. By the time we got our rental car in Oakland, Abigail was down for the count.

Our trip to the delightful town of Palo Alto was fantastic. We visited the Farmer’s Market, Stanford Campus, and made multiple stops at our favorite Super Market, Andronicos, for a pastry, some cheese, and soup. We spent some time with our gracious host, Leslie Neumarker, with whom we stayed for the three weeks that we were at Stanford. We also spent a day in San Francisco, and rented bikes (mine came equipped with a baby seat) and rode through the Presidio District, like I had done with the kids the November before.

The NICU reunion was what we thought it would be--balloons, punch, cookies, a clown, about 150 people that we hadn't ever met nor probably would ever see again. Unfortunately, no doctors or nurses that we knew were there, nor were there fellow NICU parents from the year before. But that was okay. Our visit wasn't about the reunion. It was about returning to a happy place. Stanford is a happy place for us, just as Primary Children’s will always be. And it is good to return--not only physically but spiritually and mentally.

On a bike ride in the Presidio District in San Francisco

On our way to dinner with Leslie Neumarker

So, as I sit here on the eve of Abigial’s birthday in a familiar spot--in a comfortable chair with my computer in my lap late in the evening--my thoughts return to that day almost a year ago. Lisa is dozing off to sleep, and I am writing. Those days seemed to last forever. In fact, the month in the hospital with Abby seems like a longer span of time than the 11 months that have followed it. As my mind and heart return to that day on October 19, 2009, I get contemplative and quiet. I want to slow down and remember.

I try to remember a good friend who spent his night with me at Primary Children’s, a friend who had the ware withal to ask questions to doctors that I was in too big a of a fog to ask. I think of a cardiologist who stood up for me, and got the NICU to break their rules and let that friend give my baby a blessing that night when they wouldn’t let me and my “swine flu” near the NICU. I think how grateful I am that the cardiologist was worthy to hold the priesthood, and ready and willing to volunteer to assist.

I try to remember grandparents, who put their lives on hold for four weeks to play parents to our children. I try to remember a social worker at Primary Children’s who arranged for my children to see their sister before she was whisked off to California, and who made the Life Flight staff be patient enough to wait for the kids to have sufficient time with her.

I try to remember NICU parents, who struggled with far greater trials than we faced, who reached out to us, and were kind and solicitous. I try to remember the admissions clerk at Lucile Packard, a man I referred to as the benevolent “Steve,” who volunteered an hour a day after worke to spend time with a four year-old, terminally ill girl, whose parents weren’t able to visit all that often. I try to remember when I think about Steve how good, despite its many evils, this world still is.

I try to remember the pediatric heart surgeons at Primary Children’s who had the humility to send Abby elsewhere, as I think of a neighbor of Abby’s in the CVICU whose first surgeon in Phoenix wasn’t so humble, and whose first surgery was botched just prior to him being shipped to Stanford for someone else to clean up the mess. I try to remember the United States Air Force who volunteered to fly that baby from Phoenix in a cargo plan because the life support equipment to which he was attached was so extensive that the baby couldn’t possibly be transported with Life Flight. I try to remember how lucky I am to live in a country that values life enough to do such things, and that spends so much money to save babies.

I try to remember what it was like to travel through so much uncertainty in those early hours and days following Abby’s birth, and yet to feel so much peace. I try to remember leaving Timpanogos Hospital to update our kids on Abigail‘s condition, wondering if I would get “the call” from Lisa, telling me that Abby hadn’t made it.

I try to remember myself sitting alone in the cafeteria of Primary Children’s, and for the first time a long time completely and unequivocally surrendering to God, telling him that I would accept and embrace with any outcome. And interestingly, I really meant it. There was no superficiality nor contrivance to that statement--there was no “sense of duty” to compel me to say that God, or no “this-is-how-I-should-feel-so-I-better-say it” feeling. I try to remember how liberating that was, how much peace that gave me, and how much happiness that brought me.

Sadly, I too often forget all of that. And so every once in a while, when a birthday rolls around, or a Life Flight helicopter soars overhead, something tells me to remember. And whenever I do, I feel happy. Happy Birthday, baby Abigail.

Dear Abby

2010-01-03T22:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Abby,

Today we blessed you--a tradition in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, where a priesthood holder (typically the father of the newborn) presents his child before God and before his congregation, and states the name by which the child shall be known upon the records of the Church and then proceeds to pronounce a blessing on the child. It's a beautiful and tender thing. By the time you are able to read this post, you will have witnessed many such blessings.

Big sister, Emma, holding Abigail at home after church

And though I am quite certain that your spirit comprehended the experience and the goings-on of the day, I wanted to record some of my thoughts from the day so that someday you'll know what happened. And while there were no (visible) heavenly manifestions during or after the blessing, I suspect that when you read about this someday that you will receive the subtly powerful confirmation that the priesthood is a real power.

I looked forward to today with some angst. We hadn't decided to take you to church yet, as we are trying to desperately to keep you away from large crowds. If we can make it through this winter without you catching the flue, we're home free. We're still afraid that you're recovering body may not take well to a bout of RSV or the flue. But even though we were nervous about taking you to church, we wanted to perfrom this blessing before you started walking. We thought about just doing it at home, but somehow that didn't feel right. We wanted to share this experience with our congregation, the Hillcrest 8th Ward, who had exercised so much faith in your behalf.

So we decided to bring you to church today, the first Sunday of the month--the Sunday where such blessings typically occur. Our plan was to keep you safely cocooned in your car seat, then take you just before the blessing, and have Mom leave with you just after the meeting.

Do you think Abigail gets enough love in our house?

I didn't expect the emotion I felt as I stepped foot into our church building today. It hit me. There I was in a building where a fast for you had been consummated, a building where I have spent almost every Sunday for the last 13 years, a building that for a bit of time, I wasn't totally sure you would ever see. My throat suddenly seemed to swell, and my eyes started to moisten, just as they did when we left your siblings in the hallway at Primary Children's or when we walked beside you at Lucile Packard, as the surgical team rolled you and your bed from the NICU to the operating room.

On both of those occassions I tried to conceal those emotions as best I could, trying to not look anyone in the eye, and just marching toward an open pew. I struggled through the opening hymn, after which I leaned over to your Mom and said, "I am not going to be able to make it through this." I'm going to be a blubbering, bawling idiot up there.

However, they were happy tears. They were grateful tears. They were humble tears.

After the opening hymn and prayer and the obligatory announcements and ward business, we were invited to begin the blessing. Mom had already taken you out of your car seat, and had handed you to me. There you were in your simple and elegant white dress, a whiteness that symbolizes the purity that defines you. I took all nine pounds of you from Mom, cradled you carefully, and walked up to the front of the chapel, where several members of the family met us to assist in the blessing.

Abby was excited to be at church today as well.

As you will have seen by now, when we bless a baby the father or person giving the blessing stands in a circle of people (typically with family and/or friends). Each member of the circle rests his left hand upon the shoulder of the person next to him, and with his right hand he joins the other members of the circle in holding the baby. That circle and the physical unity of its members has symbolic significance, just as most elements that make up such ordinances do. Today that circle represented lots of things: the love that your uncles, cousins and grandpas have for you; the fact that many people will join hands to bear you up and lift you throughout your life; and the fact that many loved ones will unify their faith and their prayers that you might become the person that God wants you to become.

Standing next to me in the circle was your older (and only) brother Jeffrey. Though Jeffrey isn't old enough to hold the Melchizedek Priestood, he stood in the circle to hold the microphone so that Dad's voice could be amplified to the congregagtion. By the time that you undergo your next priesthood ordinance--baptism at the age of eight--Jeffrey will likely be serving an mission somewhere in the world, and he won't be there. I am grateful that Jeffrey, who loves you with a tenderness and a maturity that is not typical of a 12-year old boy, got to participate.

As is typically of your father who is burdened with a mild speech impedement--a blessing for which I will always be grateful (it keeps me more humble than I would otherwise be)--I began the blessing with a bit of a stammer, but as it progressed, and as the spirit grew thicker, that stammer disappeared. Every time I give a public blessing or a talk, I worry about that stammer beforehand. I worry how bad it will be; I worry about whether it will get in the way of me being able to communicate what needs to be said. I worried about that this week, and I prayed that it wouldn't get in the way. And it didn't.

Nothing like those big blues. You should see her eyelashes as well.

I spoke about your heart--a heart that has been repaired both because of the expertise of skilled surgeons, nurses, and doctors, and because of the faith of many. I blessed you that your heart would not only remain physically strong, but that it would be spiritually strong, and that it would a receptacle of purity throughout your life. I reminded you that your life so far has inspired others to be better, and I blessed you that your future actions, words, and thoughts would continue to inspire people to become more like Christ. Finally, I blessed you that someday that you would be able to find a companion like I have in your Mom, someone with whom you can kneel across the altar of the Temple, and with a pure heart and clean hands, be married for eternity.

Abigail, there was something else that I didn't mention in your blessing that I would like to close this letter with. There are three women that I hope you will emulate. The first is your mother. I hope you will always look into her eyes with that same gaze of love, wonder, and trust with which you now shower upon her. Your mother is a beautiful person on every level. Your mother doesn't appreciate or even understand the depth of character that she has given your siblings and is giving you know. She is a compassionate, caring, and selfless person. Yes, she isn't perfect. She will probably even teach you a few bad habits like your father and all parents do. But she will teach you an infinitely greater amount more of good habits. Most importantly, your mother will love you unconditionally and will serve you unconditionally. You will feel that. Please continue to love her back.

We continue to be proud parents

There are two other women that I want you emulate--both of whom you were named after. The first is Abigail Adams, who is not only one of the greatest American women, but one of the greatest Americans. Abigail loved her husband passionately, but she also loved true principles passionately. She loved her country. She understood the concept of duty, and she understood that doing what is right is not always convenient and that it is sometimes expensive. Primarily self-educated, she never stopped learning, reading, or writing. She enjoyed discussing big ideas and was never afraid tangle with the brightest of her age. She knew who she was and the confidence that came from knowing who she was made her a powerful women. I pray that you too, Abigail, will learn who you are. You are a miracle.

Finally, you are also named after your great-great-great Aunt, Anna Rosenkilde, affectionally referred to by the patients and staff of Primary Children's Hospital as "Mama Rose." I don't know enough yet about Mama Rose, and I intend to study more about her. But what I do know about Mama Rose is that she served people passionately. I believe she actually lived at the hospital for a good period of time. She committed her life to the care of others. She understands what all truly happy people understand--that happiness is found when you stop thinking so much about your own happiness and worry about the happiness of others.

I love you, Abigail. Though I gave the blessing today, I have received far greater blessings because of your life. Good night.

Check out these new pics of Abigail

2009-12-08T12:17:00.000-08:00

My cousin, Larry Reeves, who is a professional photographer (Weddings, Kids, Family Portraits, Nature, etc) took these photos of Abigail on Saturday. Check them out on his blog. They're precious, and much better than all those I've taken with my cheap digital camera: http://larryreeves.info/

After you read a paragrpah on Larry, scroll down to the heading Baby Abigail/Utah Infant Photography. Larry didn't ask me to say this, but if you're looking for a photographer with a great bedside manner, he's your man. He isn't quite as good looking as his cousin from Orem, Utah, but he's a close second!

Larry is from the Mesa, AZ. I'm not sure how much work he does in Utah, but I'll let him comment on that in the comments.

Lessons Inspired by Rivalry Week

2009-11-29T21:12:00.000-08:00

Abby, in her rivalry week garb

Five BYU fans on their way to the game

Both of Abby's teams, BYU and Stanford, won in heroic fashion last night. Both victories came down to the last play with each teams' fans rushing the field following last minute victories. As fun as the BYU victory was, I couldn't help but reflect on the post-game ugliness on both sides. This post does have something to do with Abby, so hang on as I develop this.

First there was Max Hall's post-game interview where he revealed how much he hated Utah, its players, its fans, its university, and its entire "classless" organization, and stated in an ironically classless way that Utah "deserved to lose that game" (Really, Max? They deserved to lose? They just held you to about 130 yards passing and forced you to throw more incomplete balls than you've ever thrown in a game. Did Utah really deserve to lose?)

Then there was the 40-year old male, Utah fan, who, as my 14-year teenage daughter was passing by him on a crowded post-game stadium stairs, ripped her BYU hat from her head and threw into a crowd of people, where it wasn't to be recovered.

About that same time, the wife of Utah coach Kyle Whittingham, was getting punched by a BYU fan in another scuffle.

Prior to all of that ugliness, I was sitting in the stands next to my older brother, David, and I asked him, "Is it bad to be so caught up in who wins this game?" The hour before the game, I couldn't eat anything, as my nerves made my stomach queasy. I continued, "I've been nervous all week, as I've thought about his game for much of it. Is that good or bad?"

Dave responded, "I don't think it's good. I've been trying to temper my emotions too, and it hasn't worked."

"However," I said, "the rivalry is fun. It's fun to care so much that your knees are week, as mine are right now. It's fun to want to win; it's fun to want to beat a team so badly that you have a hard time eating before the game. I guess the big question is: what does the game do to your soul? Do we feel hatred? Does losing ruin the rest of our year? The hatred, the post-game loathing of the other team, and even the loathing of the defeated self is not good. So, if I don't feel that way, I guess it's okay to be nervous and to get caught up in winning this game."

Of course, even "getting caught up in winning games" was so trivial just a few weeks ago. Let me touch on two memories.

The first was the 10-minute drive that we would make every day from Leslie Neumarker's home in Menlo Park to Lucile Packard Children's Hospital. We made that drive in Leslie's Nissan Pathfinder. The first time I sat behind the wheel, I noticed that the radio dial in the Pathfinder was set to KDFC 102.1, a Bay Area classical music station. Despite being a AM Sports and Political talk-radio junkie, I didn't change the station from Classical until well into our third week in town. I remember distinctly thinking, as we made the drive to and from the hospital each day, how much I enjoyed the soothing sounds of that classical music. Prior to the surgery, while uncertainty was at its peak, the music complemented The Spirit that was so deeply touching our lives. We wanted nothing to distract from the peace that we were feeling. Talk Radio would have. And in the immediate days following the surgery where we felt that strange mixture of gratitude for the blessing of what the surgeon called a "complete repair" and the melancholic feeling of being humbled by the fact that not everyone receives the same blessing, the things of The Spirit continued to weigh heavily on us and the classical music of KDFC again did not distract from that but complemented it. I was involved in holy things, and I craved holy things, and I didn't want anything to get in the way.

The second memory is of my experience with the BYU-TCU football game that I didn't get to see. This game was played four days prior to Abigail's surgery, and one day after our arrival at Lucile Packard. I had waited 12 months for this game, a chance to avenge last year's humiliating blow out in Fort Worth. Of all the games that I wanted to be at this year, the TCU game was it. The fact that ESPN's College Game Day's broadcast was coming to Provo for the game made it that much more important to me. Even the national media was caught up in this game.

Naturally, the game's significance for me all but disappeared about 6:30 p.m. on October 19 when Abigail was ushered into the NICU. But by the time game-time rolled around, we were settled in at Lucile Packard with a clear picture of what was in store for Abigail, and I was curious to watch or listen to the game, though my passion for it was appropriately tempered.

I stepped out of the NICU just before game time, and tried to find the game on the TV in the Parent's Lounge. Because BYU games are broadcast on obscure cable channels, the game was not on the lineup offered by the hospital's cable feed, so I pulled up KSL on the internet, stuck my earphones into my laptop, and listened to Greg Wrubell call the game. I recall being interested in the game, and hoping that BYU would win, but not being a tenth as emotionally invested as I was at last night's Utah game.

As TCU proceeded to methodically dissect BYU's offense and defense en route to a 38-7 win, I recall a another curious emotion. I was disappointed, as I wanted to believe that BYU's team was better than they were showing. However, I distinctly remember that despite a little bit of disappointment, I just didn't care too much about the loss.

These were sacred moments at Lucile Packard, moments that classical music complemented and moments that were not enriched by getting too worked up about a football game.

Yet, slowly the world and its cares butted its way into my life. I recall the first time I was angry after Abby's birth. It came about four days after surgery. I had read an email from work, and some issue angered me. About an hour later, I was driving in the car on the main highway, El Camino, that runs through Menlo Park and Palo Alto. Another driver did something that angered me and I felt justified (for about 10 seconds) in getting mad. On both occasions, I remember feeling shocked by my anger--a feeling of shock that I wouldn't have had a few weeks prior.

Those of you who know me well, know that I am not a naturally patient person. Whether it be at work or on the tennis court, I tend to erupt quickly. I am a reactor. I react angrily when things don't go well. Fortunately, those eruptions are usually short-lived, and I often come to my senses quickly, "chill-out" and get to the business of solving the problem in a more emotionally stable way. I rarely stay mad for longer than a few minutes, and rarely let anger boil within me.

But still, my life prior to Abigial's birth was filled with many moments of quick outbursts of impatience and anger. Thus, the fact that I found myself shocked at those outbursts was in and of itself shocking. Since when have I have been surprised at being angry?? But I had gone probably two weeks without any anger, which I attribute to the Spirit, and a re-emergence of the few priorities in life that really matter.

I realized after those first two outbursts that I had entered a new phase of this experience--the phase where I began to step foot in the "real world" where I would have the challenge of maintaining the spirit as I dealt with the necessary cares of the world. At some point I had to go back to work. At some point, I would have to respond to the big kids who wouldn't always make the right decisions. At some point, I would be at another football game, faced with the choice to either appreciate the good things about a rivalry or to hate the rival.

Of all the lessons learned from our journey with Abigail, I have pondered this one the most: how do I keep one foot in heaven and one foot in the real world?

I have often wondered why it is that we spend nearly one third of our lives--30% of our probationary period--working, and being consumed with the things of this world. I spend 30% of my life trying to earn money--something that the scriptures tells us must be a lower priority. So, if the pursuit of money must be a low priority, why do we have to spend 30% of our lives working? Because it is precisely in work-type environments where we learn who we really are, and where we are prove our worthiness or lack thereof.

It's easy to be a nice person in a Children's hospital. It's easy to think good thoughts, to say nice things, to have your priorities in line, and to be genuinely concerned about the welfare and trials of others when your child is in the NICU. It's easy to be Christlike when you're faced with matters of life or death, when you are compelled to rely on mercy of God for the health of your child. It's easy to feel the spirit when you have no other choice. Saints aren't made in Children's Hospitals; saints are merely inspired by Children's Hospitals--but they prove their worth and pass their tests when they're back in the real world.

Unfortunately, I've failed several of those tests since entering the real world after Abigail's surgery. The first failure was my first Sunday home. I had looked so forward to getting home, and savoring the Big Four; I had plans of being the greatest, most patient, most invested father ever. I was going to love them like I never had.

That lasted about twelve hours.

Twelve hours after our celebratory homecoming we found ourselves in Sacrament Meeting. Lisa was at home with the baby, and I sat with the Big Four in the overflow in cultural hall on the metal chairs that are stored under the stage. The speakers at the service were a missionary who just leaving for Brazil, and another missionary returning from Spain. The missionary who was leaving was prepared, and the missionary who was coming home had obviously served a dedicated mission. I wanted my kids to participate in the spirit of that meeting. Unfortunately, to put it mildly, they didn't share that same desire.

At one point, Sami had Jeffrey in something resembling a headlock, and Daphne and Emma appeared to be in a contest of who could speak the loudest. The first five or six times I asked the kids to be more reverent, I did so kindly, and with patience. But with each ignored request for reverence, my patience was growing exponentially more thin. Before too long, I had forgotten all the intentions I had for their spiritual enlightenment from the meeting, and was now set on just getting to be quiet. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, my motivation for helping kids be more reverent turned from a concern for their welfare to my concern about those around us might think of my parenting: I quickly became more concerned about how my kids' noise was affecting those around us, and I was now embarrassed at what I imagined they were thinking: Why haven't the Reeves taught their kids how to behave? You know that you're no longer in tune to the spirit when your motivation for being good or for teaching your children to be good is based on a desire to "look good" for the neighbors.

Not surprisingly, the more I worried about our neighbors' opinion of me, the more angry I got, until my anger climaxed with a tight squeeze of Daphne's bare arm, a squeeze that was intended to inflict sufficient pain to stop to the talking. I then threw a verbal dagger at Sami and Jeffrey, as I whispered, "You two should be proud of yourselves. You've succeeded in ruining this meeting not only for yourselves, but for all those around you. Nice work, you two." Not one syllable of that verbal reproof was spoken in a spirit of love.

As I finished with Sami and Jeffrey, I glanced at Daphne, who was inspecting her father's fingernail prints in her bare arm. I had failed. Twelve hours after our celebratory homecoming, I had momentarily forgotten everything I had learned in the last month; I had forgotten all the promises I had made about how great of a father I was going to become; I had forgotten how my heart had changed.

When sacrament meeting ended, I said goodbye to my kids, as they went their separate ways to Sunday School and Primary. I stood in the cultural hall, watching my kids disappear, a bit distraught that I was the same old Jeff that I was before Abigail was born. As I stood in the cultural hall, I began to reflect on an email that I had sent to a friend while I was at Lucile Packard.

My friend had emailed to me thank me for writing the blog, and for sharing this experience with him. He then shared this:

I know this sounds retarded because I would never want to go through what you guys have been going through, but a little part of me is jealous of the experience. Times like this really do help remind you of what is important, and I know I certainly need that reminder from time to time.

I replied with the following thought that returned to be as I stood alone in the cultural hall:

Yeah, I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but then again I would in a minute. So hard yet so beautiful. Your time will come in some way--it may not be the illness or death of a child or spouse, but it will be something that will try your faith and cause you to completely surrender.

The challenge for all of us who emerge from such a trial is to not forget what we've felt. When you go through something like this you lose all desire for things that aren't holy, and then slowly, as your troubles fade, your interest in unholy things returns. I can only hope that this feeling lasts, and that if I tend to forget it, that I can return to it when I need strength. My father wrote me a letter when I was a missionary and he said the following, which has some application here: "Make sure to keep a journal; it will be a reservoir of spiritual experiences from which you can drink in times of spiritual drought."

I hope that the pages I have written will be a reservoir for me when I'm in a drought sometime in the future. That drought will come--it always does. The question is--will I remember which reservoir to turn to?

At that moment I thought of the reservoir of spiritual experiences that we had filled for four weeks; I thought of how my heart had changed, and the tender prayers we had offered; I thought of the perspective I had gained and the love I had felt. I was in a drought, so I drank from that reservoir; I was back in the real world, so I put one more foot back in Heaven.

That is the challenge that we all face. We all have to spend most of our time in the real world. We work. We go to rivalry games. We make dinner. We clean the house. And in all those experiences, we are tried. At work, a vendor, a customer, or a co-worker angers us. At home, we clean the house, only to see the kids mess it up within minutes. At the game, an opposing fan gets in our face. This is the real world that we always have at least one foot in. Our challenge is to remember in those day to day moments what we have felt when the spirit was with us, when God provided us a flood of light and Heaven; to keep one foot in Heaven and to return to the reservoir when the real world tries us.

It has been two weeks since that first failure. It disturbed me so much that I used it as leverage to change. I have had a few more failure since then, but I am pleased to say that I have had more successes than failures. I have been a little more slower to react, a little slower to forget, and lot quicker to remember and to return to my reservoir. And each time I resist the urge to jump back into the world with both feet by returning to my reservoir, I gain additional patience and additional light. Sure, I continue to fail daily, but I tend to run back to that reservoir faster; I tend to want to repent faster.

As I said in an earlier post,we never arrive. We will continue to fail, but if we are humble enough and willing enough to return constantly to that reservoir our path to Heaven--though full of ups and downs--will trend gradually upward. Good night.

Another Answered Prayer

2009-11-27T09:10:00.000-08:00

Above is a photo of an all-too familiar Abigail with plastic all over her body. No worries. Nothing is wrong. This photo was taken last Friday at her first follow-up appointment at Primary Children's. All of this plastic was the various leads to monitor her vitals, all of which came back perfectly normal.

Seeing her, though, with all this "stuff" attached to her body brings back vivid memories of the recent past. It brings back one memory in particular--the memory of Lisa and I kneeling nightly at the side of our bed in Menlo Park, an antique bed frame with a thick box spring and mattress so tall that our arms rested on the same plane as our shoulders as we knelt. We would pray each night that our children at home would be touched by the goings-on of Abigail, that the spirit that we were feeling would touch their hearts too, and that the lessons that we were learning would be taught to them as well. We learned yesterday that those prayers were answered.

The setting was thanksgiving dinner at Grandma and Grandpa Reeves' house. All of my siblings and their families except for Marc and his family, who live in Seattle, were present. Sometime after dinner we all met in Grandma's living room to discuss and share the things for which we were grateful. Grandma Reeves had handed to everyone in the room at sheet of paper titled "My Gratitude List." Underneath the title were about 20, numbered, blank lines upon which we were to write the things for which we were grateful.

After we had each taken the time to write, everyone in the room shared the top five items on their list. Samantha was the first in our family to share. Her first item was Abigail: "I'm thankful for Abigail. She has changed all of our thinking," which is Samantha's way of saying, she has changed our hearts. Of all our children, Samantha, who is 14 and the most independent of them all, was somewhat aloof to the idea of us having a baby. Throughout the pregnancy, she seemed to be the least excited about the prospect of having another addition to the family. She was respectful, but we could sense that Sam wondered if her parents were simply too old to have another child. And though Samantha usually refers to Abigail as "The Child," we sense that heart warms each day to her sister.

Sam usually keeps her emotions and faith close to her vest. She's a deep thinker, who doesn't like to show emotion. But I have sensed lately that like Enos in the Book of Mormon that the words of her father often sink deep into heart--despite her not wanting you to know that. Apparently, that had happened during our journey with Abigial.

A few moments later Jeffrey, our 12 year old, spoke. He too began with Abigail: "I am thankful for Abigail. She has brought our family closer to Christ."

Then Daphne, our 9 year old: "I am grateful for Abigail. She has given me us a testimony."

Those few words spoken by our three oldest children were worth every moment of anxiety and worth every dollar spent in Abigail's behalf. Today, I am grateful for yet one more answered prayer .

Lucky--First Full Post By Lisa

2009-11-24T20:58:00.000-08:00

Jeff often says that I am the best sell he ever made. He then proudly goes on to tell about how we met. A little embarrassed by the attention, I quietly sit by and wish I could express how much I love him as beautifully as he does. I definitely got more than I bargained for. He is far better than I ever expected. I often wonder how I got so lucky.

I sit here with baby sleeping nearby and Jeff at work. And again, wish that somehow I could pay tribute to the man who exceeds my wildest dreams! Jeff went to work for his first full day yesterday. I miss him! It was a wonderful blessing to have him by my side for almost 4 weeks! While being 800 or so miles away from our "Big Four" and having our child in critical care was very difficult, in a way it was a blessing, as it allowed Jeff and I to be on one continuous date for a month straight. We got to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together everyday--just the two of us. We got to sit by the bedside of our infant, talking, laughing, and sometimes crying. The only thing that mattered was us, our family, our friends and our faith--everything else was pushed to the side. That month together was in some ways the most romantic time we've ever spent together--a long overdue second honeymoon 15 years into our marriage.

Jeff is very passionate about his work. He is a wonderful provider, but he dropped it entirely to focus on us. I was so appreciative to have his undivided support and attention. He was an amazing strength and blessing. Jeff was has been so compassionate and concerned about my recovery.

He has supported me, protected me and spoiled me- washing out pump parts in the middle of the night, taking freshly pumped milk down to the freezer (also in the middle of the night), dropping me off right at the door and picking me up everywhere we went, parking the car and making a solitary walk a zillion times to the hospital, staying with Abigail while I slept, running countless errands, handling all the logistics and headache of hotels/airline flights/ insurance, making a heroic effort to make sure that all my pumped milk made it on the airplane instead of being dumped down the hospital sink, getting me a massage, arranging for our kids to visit and then spending time with them while I stayed at the hospital etc.

Jeff was definitely a father bear watching out for Abby. He was so on top of everything that was happening with Abigail in the hospital: asking questions, pushing for things to be done, taking countless pictures, blogging etc. Abigail was a daddy’s girl from day one. Even in her tiny and sedated state she would recognize and respond to his voice.

Jeff loves his little Abigail as he does Samantha, Jeffrey, Daphne, and Emma. He is so tender with Abigail and I love to watch him. In the middle of the night a few nights ago, Jeff was feeding Abigail- at time that most people are not happy to be awake- he made the comment, “I love having a baby.” How blessed am I, and how blessed are my children to have a husband and father like Jeff. We love you!

Abigail Update:

We went to the pediatrician yesterday, and she's on the right track. She had even gained a half pound since Friday; of course, who really knows--it was a different scale. Weight gain really is the last major milestone Abby must meet. The Stanford doctors had been fortifying my breast milk with formula to add calories to it. They called for us to continue to do so for the time being.

But there's a tiny bit of rebelliousness in us, and we chucked the formula just after we left the hospital. We've never been big formula fans, and synthetic stuff can never come close to real thing. However, when she weighed in less at Primary's on Friday than when she left Stanford, we started to wonder if our disobedience was going to come back to bite us. We were grateful to see some gain on Monday!

The pediatrician wants to see us in a week to check her weight gain. If it doesn't increase by enough, then we may be back on the formula fortification plan. As her nursing increases, however, formula fortification will only get in the way of that.

Well, I'm heading off to pump--yet again. Abigail hasn't caught up with my milk supply, so I continue to pump to keep the supply up. I spend most of day nursing, pumping, and feeding her a bottle. And I'm loving every moment of it (okay, so I'm sick of pumping, and I now know what those dairy cows feel like--but everything else Abby-related is wonderful).

Thoughts on President Eyring and an Abigail Update

2009-11-22T11:08:00.000-08:00

A few Sundays ago I received several emails and a phone call regarding a regional conference in Utah, were President Henry B. Eyring spoke. Sometime during his talk he referenced a recent experience where he had gone to Primary Children's to give a blessing to an infant with a serious heart condition. The timing of his talk led those who heard it to believe that he was referring to his blessing of Abigail. His comments have inspired today's post.

I was not there, and so it is likely that some of what I say is in accurate, but I believe that I grasp the spirit of his point. President Eyring was apparently speaking about purity, and of our need to become more pure. He then referenced his experience with what was likely Abigail. He said that he had two impressions as he left his office to minister to this baby. The first was a sense of reverence for how pure this child was. The second was that as he reflected on her purity he began to hope that he might be someday be like her. It is that second statement by President Erying that I wish to discuss today.

Here's a man that most of us would consider pure. Whether you believe, as I do, that he is a prophet, it is impossible for one to listen to President Eyring speak and not consider him a pure and holy man. Here is a man who has spent a lifetime trying to keep himself pure enough to be receptive to the spirit. And here is a man who has made and kept thousands and thousands of small commitments to do what is right--despite how inconvenient those commitments must have been at times. This is a man that is pure and that, from our perspective, should just be able to "coast" into heaven. What more must he do?

Yet, in the moment that he is called upon to give a blessing, his thoughts are not on his own righteousness and purity, but in contrast, he marvels at the purity of a newborn, and hopes (and surely prays) that me might someday be this pure. That is spectacular. President Eyring apparently doesn't believe he has "arrived." And if he doesn't believe that he has "arrived" then none of us should be resting on our laurels either.

It is a natural law that no living thing ever stays the same--we're never in neutral. We are either progressing or digressing. Just as our muscles atrophy if we stop working them, our spirit does the same. Such is the nature of all eternal and living things.

Some of us might feel weighed down by the fact that we never "arrive" and that we have to keep pushing forward, trying to be more pure and more holy. Some are burdened by that. I don't believe that such a feeling comes from Heavenly Father. I don't think that President Eyring is burdened by his need to continue to progress and to reach higher. I suspect that he finds joy and peace in the process of trying to progress. He finds that same joy and peace as he repents of whatever small sins he commits. "Enduring to the end" is such an ominous phrase, and it implies to some a certain kind of agony that those walking the path of righteousness must put up with. I don't believe that is true.

Even though life will contain its fair share of agony, I believe that "enduring to the end" is can be a process mostly full of joy, light, and happiness. After all, we are promised that "he who doeth the works of righteousness shall receive his reward, even peace in this world, and eternal life in the world to come" (DC 59:23, italics added). Note that the reward for righteous strivings is not just a big fat prize at the end, but is the reward of peace right now. I only hope that I will have the courage to continue to hope for purity like President Eyring so that I can always have the peace we've had since Abigail's birth.

Update on Abigail

Abigail is still as dainty as ever. Most have commented when they see her for the first time that she is smaller than her pictures online suggest. She is still tiny, and according to the scale at Primary Children's on Friday, she is still under her birth weight. Check out her bird leg below:

Those who are familiar with our babies know that this bird leg is a typical sight.

Apparently, she has lost a little weight since leaving Lucile Packard, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense, as she has been chugging milk like it's about to go extinct. I was a little nervous as I was reading the blog of a fellow heart patient parent (www.cooperandmadison.blogspot.com--a darling girl that is a twin). Madison's mom said that one of the things that alerted them to the seriousness of Madison's heart condition was the fact that she wasn't gaining much weight.

However, Dr. Mack, the cardiologist we saw on Friday, wasn't terribly concerned about the weight because she isn't exhibiting all of the other signs that typically accompany a condition like Madison has--excess sweating, over exertion when eating, a heart beating extra fast. Abigail has shown none of that. Dr. Mack chalked up the lack of weight gain to the fact that every hospital has a different scale. He said that the only scale we should use as a benchmark should be that of her pediatrician where she will visit most often. I am chalking the weight loss up to (1) the scale and (2) all of the cords attached to Abigail at Lucile Packard (that the nurses claim are somehow excluded from the weighing process) that gave Abigail a wrong measurement.

Other than the lack of weight gain, Abigail's vitals seem to be functioning perfectly: oxygen saturation is at 99 to 100%, her heart is pumping at a good, solid, consistent speed. Her breathing is consistent with that of an infant. She eats without laboring. Amazingly, she takes to the bottle AND the breast equally well. When bottle feeding, she consumes about 3 ounces of milk at a feeding (4 yesterday). So far so good.

In the meantime, we continue to love and spoil this little miracle. Below is a picture of Jeffrey holding his sister just after he woke up yesterday (12 year old boys usually don't wear shirts when they sleep!). Is this not sweet? There is nothing better than to see your children love their siblings.

Big brother getting a little "skin to skin" with baby sister.

Quick Abigail Update

2009-11-20T07:33:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to give you a quick Abigail update before we headed off to Primary Children's for her first follow-up visit with her cardiologist. I never thought one of my children would have their own cardiologist. Don't only old people have a cardiologist?

This will be one of many visits up through adulthood that she will likely have at Primary Children's. Apparently, a lot of 40 year old people continue to frequent Primary Children's hospital for follow-up visits because the complex nature of their heart problems is something that the physicians there are used to dealing with. They are problems that most cardiologists don't see. And that makes sense. That is probably due to the fact those children that don't have their complex heart problem diagnosed and treated as a child don't make it into adulthood.

Home life is becoming more normal. It's been so fun to the kids dote over their sister. Our 12-year boy, Jeffrey, has been perhaps the most affectionate and tender with her. He's crazy about her, volunteering to do anything she needs, including diaper changes (we'll see how long that lasts).

She is starting to sleep better, waking up only once during the night. She also is starting to nurse again. Just over a week ago, we committed to the bottle just so that we could get her fattened up so that she could leave the hosptial. The bottle was easier, and therefore, she could take in more calories in one sitting without getting too tired and/or expending too many calories in trying to eat.

We were afraid that too much bottle in the beginning would make the breast unappealing, but even after we came home from the hospital we were afraid to nurse because we didn't want the good eating habits to take a turn for the worse. She was still slightly under her birth weight when we brought her home, so weight gain was still a high priority. At home, she was taking so well to the bottle, as she increasingly would drink more ounces by the day. Beyond that, it is complicated for Lisa to nurse and pump, as the baby can't possibly keep up with the milk production that Lisa is currently putting out. That means that you have to nurse as long as Abby can stand it, and then pump afterward.

Thus, it was with some trepidation that we introduced the breast again, so we did so slowly. A little here and a little there. And so far the results have very good--despite the fact that she is also getting simultaneously bottle fed.

I want to say a few things about her nursing, including the fact that her being literally tongue tied (another small defect that I haven't mentioned that I'll develop later) has not seemed to affect her ability to latch-on and nurse well, as it usually does. But we're going to be late for her appointment if I don't quit typing. I should have time to bang out a couple of posts this weekend that I've really wanted to get to. One of those includes some lessons I learned from some comments that President Eyring made in a recent conference regarding a baby that he just blessed at Primary Children's.

I'll leave you with a few photos Abigail's first bath at home--the traditional first bath by grandma:

A Lesson from Steve, the Front Desk Guy

2009-11-18T22:16:00.000-08:00

I don't know his name, but I'll call him Steve for now. Steve is one of the heroes that I referred to in my last post, one of the reasons that four weeks in two children's hospitals renewed my faith in humankind. Steve manages the admissions front desk at Lucile Packard Children's hospital.

Two or three times a day Lisa would sit near Steve's desk that was just off the lobby as she waited for me to bring the car from the parking lot to the unloading zone just outside the entry to the hospital (I tried my best to allow her some time to recover from labor and delivery by not having her make the trek to the car every time we left the hospital. Lisa and Steve became casual friends and, at a minimum, would exchange friendly gestures, and would often lightly converse, as she waited for me.

One night, she overheard Steve talking to a security guard stationed nearby. The following is Lisa's recollection of that conversation (and her first post, by the way, on the blog!):

"I got in trouble last night," Steve told the guard.

"What'd you do this time?" the guard asked.

"I was late . . . Then I had to suction her out."

I thought to myself, what in the world? He also suctions people at the hospital? Economic hard times must have hit the hospital as well if they're asking their front desk people to suction patients!

I so was so curious about him suctioning people that I butted into the conversation: "You suction people out too?" I asked.

"Yeah, my girlfriend," Steve said with a curious smile.

His girlfriend is in the hospital and he suctions her out???

He stepped forward, flipped open his phone and showed me her picture, which was the wallpaper on his screen. Steve's girlfriend was four. A precious dark haired four year old.

He explained that this little girl was in the hospital for hospice care--she was sent to the hospital to receive care while she slowly died. If her age didn't make the subject of death hard enough to swallow, the following fact made the thought almost unbearable. For reasons that Steve refused to judge, his "girlfriend's" parents were only able to visit for an hour every few months. Steve saw a need.

Steve learned about this girl's situation because of his duties at the front desk, and he quickly took an interest in her. He decided to undergo training to serve as a volunteer (after-hours and unpaid) to spend time with his girlfriend and lessen her burden. Part of his training was to learn how to suction, something that she apparently needed often. I didn't ask what he was suctioning, but I suspect it has to do with fluid in her lungs.

Apparently, his girlfriend got so worked up about Steve being late (could this be another person who is abandoning me, she might have thought) that the trauma caused her to build up excess fluid somewhere, which is why Steve had to suction her.

Every day Steve spends an hour or more with his girlfriend. He takes her on walks, reads to her, plays with her, and suctions when necessary. So after a long day at work, he has his "date" with his girl--a little girl who craves the love and attention of someone like Steve, someone who sacrifices the things of the world to give of himself to a precious child. His companionship has seemed to prolong not only her life but has given her added energy--enough energy that she is now able to attend the pre-school held at the hospital (something she couldn't do just a short time ago).

I told him what a blessing it was for him to visit her, to which he replied, "Oh, no, she is the blessing. I get so much in return from her. I am the one who is blessed."

Gordon B. Hinckley said that world continues to grow more evil, but at the same time it continues to grow more righteous at the same time. He was right. For every bit of evil, there is good. For every rotten apple, there is a ripe one. For every self consumed narcissist, there is a Steve. We met lots of Steves on our journey with Abigail. It reminded that the world is also good.

The Reunion

2009-11-17T11:43:00.000-08:00

It’s 3:00 a.m. Abigail’s lungs are proving to be fully recovered, as she shrieks for food or comfort—which one, at this point, we're no loner certain. In a semi-conscious state of delerium, we reach for the nurse’s call button . . . yet no one comes . . .

Shouldn't hospitals offer the following special? For every $100,000 you spend with them, you get one week free of night-shift nursing. What a perfect way to help the parents of NICU patients to recover? I think we would sign it into law with all of the healthcare reform that's going on right now :). Would someone get President Obama on the line?

Such is the story of our first three nights at home. We’re now in the newborn phase—you know, the part that Abigail skipped, sedated and hooked up to machines for four weeks. Lisa and I take turns sleeping. We both handled Saturday night, then I took Sunday, and she took Monday. I forgot how much fun this part of child-rearing was. Having said that, we seem to be more patient than we were the previous four times we went through this phase—actually, the previous three times we went through this. Daphne slept through the first night she was born and never looked back. Lisa woke up the first monring after Daphne’s birth, surprisingly rested yet panicked, wondering where her baby was, and what might possibly be wrong. “Where’s my baby? Is there anything wrong?” Lisa asked the nurse over the intercom attached to her hospital bed.

“She’s still asleep in the nursery. Hasn’t made a peep since we put her in here, so we figured we wouldn’t bother you,” said the nurse. Despite some of the physical resemblances to Daphne, Abigail's sleep habits bear no resemblance to our third child.

Even with the sleepless nights, we are thrilled to be at home, and to be able to acclimate the baby to a normal, tubeless, monitor beeping-less environment. Allow me to share some of the reunion details.

As I mentioned in my last post, no one except for Lisa's parents knew in advance of our surprise arrival. With the speed and various mediums for the flow of information these days and the risk of the news leaking out to the kids, we were afraid tell anyone other than our kids' primary care-giver for the last four weeks (Lisa's Mom, LaRae) and the chauffeur who needed to pick us up from the airport (Lisa's Dad, Darrell). I did call my parents while we we were at that airport and told them, and asked them to join us for the reunion.

On the way home from the airport, Lisa got a somewhat indignant text from Samantha, "Mom, Grandma Stoddard won't let us sleep over with Grandma Reeves tonight!" The kids had gone over to watch the BYU and then the Utah football games with my side of the family at my sister's house. During the games, Grandma Reeves asked the kids if they wanted to sleep over with her that night (at this point, even Grandma Reeves didn't know that we were coming home). Poor Grandma Stoddard had to play the mean grandma and reject the request of Grandma Reeves to make sure that the kids were home, as she made up some story about her needing the kids' help that night. I'm sure Grandma Reeves thought, "You need their help on Saturday night at 9:00 p.m.??" but she was kind enough not to say anything. Lisa texted Samantha back, telling her it was ok, and that she needed to do whatever grandma thought was best.

We beat the kids home by five minutes. During that five minutes, I was frantically searching the hard drive of my video camera for footage that I didn't want. I had finally consumed all of its memory with about 400 pictures of Abigail and several hours of video from the morning we went to the hospital for delivery to the time that we loaded Abigail into the car at Lucile Packard. I was now completely out of memory, and needed to clear up about five minutes worth of space to shoot both their surprised faces as they walked through the door as well as each of their first holding of the baby. I was erasing the last unwanted scene as they walked through the door.

Some of you are familiar with our house. The kids walked in the front door with Grandma and Grandpa Reeves. There is a wall that separates the entry way from the family room, where Lisa and I were with the baby. Abigail was making "baby sounds" and a slight whimper was just becoming a faint cry, as the kids walked in. I heard Grandma Reeves ask the kids, "What's that sound?" A moment later, Jeffrey, followed by his sisters, entered the family room and saw their sister for the first time--that is, they saw her unobstructed for the first time, detached from tubes and without the protective plastic casing of a life flight transport bed. They were able to really hold her this time, touch her face, kiss her, and feel her tiny, infant body swaddled in blankets. A tender moment for sure. In fact, emotions bubble to the surface a bit as I write this.

Ahh, together at last!

Candi, our teacup poodle, finally has someone she can pick on

Just a few minutes after the kids were reintroduced to their sister, they insisted that mom drop everything and come to the nursery, "Mom, stop talking to Grandma. You have to come see the nursery." All of us filed into the 10X10 nursery. I had some inkling that it had been redecorated by our close friend, Jana Lynn Kofford, who had called me privately a few weeks ago to aske me to send her some pictures of the baby's hands, feet, and face.

Time out for a commercial. Just as I was typing that last sentence, Abby made it clear that she was ready for a diaper change. If there is one thing that she will not put up with it is messy pants. So I left the keyboard and took into the nursery to commence with my duty to clean up her "duty." Just as I was holding her frog legs into the air with one hand, while I wiped some of her bottom with the "unscathed" section of her messy diaper in preparation for the final clean with the wet wipes, Abigail started to pee as if her bladder was at twice its normal capacity. I quickly open the messy diaper and inserted it more fully underneath her, as I tried to catch the clear urine as it left her body like the gushing water just after the Teton Dam broke.

It kept flowing and flowing. Before long, my attempt to protect her surroundings from getting wet were completely in vain as the pee was quickly outpacing the already saturated daiper's ability to soak it all in. And even if the diaper would have had the material sufficient to retain it all, it wouldn't have mattered. Before long, Abigail's pee had projected straight up and out--something that I had only experienced with my little boy, Jeffrey Jr, and something I didn't think was possible for a little girl to pull off. I can her hear thoughts now: Anything boys can do, girls can do better! Yeah, I guess so.

The projectile pee was splattering all over the BYU sweatshirt (at shoulder level, mind you) that I was wearing (in fact, that I am still wearing--you lose all pride quickly as a parent, and you're not going to waste a load of laundry on a little pee or spit-up that winds up on your clothing, right?). Now, before all those Utah-fan friends of mine start gloating at the desecration of my beloved Cougar sweatshirt, know that Abby's retaliation against BYU has nothing to do her allegiance to the Utes. Her team is the Stanford Cardinal, an entirely different shade of red.

Abigail's rather significant discharge of urine must have something to do with the Lasix, a diuretic that she continues to take at the doctor's orders. Apparently, the Lasix helps her body to rid itself of swelling and excess fluids. I believe that it also has some blood-thinning qualities to it (but don't quote me on that).

Ok, back to the nursery. I knew that Jana was up to something but I couldn't have imagined the scale of it. The picture below doesn't do it justice. Let's just say that it is far and away the most elegant room in our house. I walk by the nursery several times a day and I just . . . stop and look. It is so beautiful. Yes,those curtains are made from raw silk, a material that normally costs nearly $150 a yard. Jana, a frugal shopper, found a drapery outfit, Johnson Drapery in Provo (yes, that's a plug), that gave her the material for pennies on the dollar and tailored it to fit our room for not much more. Apparently, the fabric was ordered by mistake or had been rejected by another customer who had changed her mind.

Anyway, the drapery, three pictures of Abigail (a foot, a hand, a close-up of the face), stenciling on the wall, lamps, a chandelier, a new comfy chair with ottoman for mom to nurse (or pump) in, decorative plates on the wall, wicker baskets for laundry and baby supplies, and an end table that belonged in the nursery of her son, Cooper, make this room a showcase suitable for a Better Homes and Gardens photo shoot. It's a far cry from the nursery that our first, Samantha, slept in: a cinder-block room at the Rabbit Hutches, otherwise known as Wymount Terrace, complete a single piece of furniture: an old crib that had been donated to us by Lisa's brother Paul. I guess that's why Sami is so practical! Abigail, on the other hand, may grow up thinking that all bedrooms look this way (I pity her future husband).

As you can imagine, Lisa shed a few tears as she beheld the sight of her remodeled nursery--a nursery that represents all of the elegance that money can buy, but more importantly, the love of a dear friend who gave a piece of herself in providing Lisa with the perfect "Welcome Home" gift.

The world is full of such people. My next post will highlight another one of those people--another hero we met during our journey with Abigail. I've decided to stretch out my concluding thoughts that I've been promising into a few different posts, as you and I don't have the time to write and read all of this in one sitting. Good day.

Video: Thank You

2009-11-16T17:42:00.000-08:00

I still want to you tell you about the reunion and share some final thoughts on the experience, but for some reason, I don't have as much time as I've had over the last four weeks! Sometime before this time tomorrow, I'll post some concluding thoughts.

Four weeks ago today, this journey started. In fact, four weeks from this very hour, it started to get a little scary. What a miracle. Enjoy the video below.

A Surprise Visit to Home

2009-11-15T11:16:00.000-08:00

Mission Accomplished

I’m tired. A good, satisfied, peaceful tired. After we barely made our plane (more on that below), and I was seated cozily next to two of the five most important women in my life, Abigail Rose and Lisa Marie, the exhaustion finally started to settle in. We had nothing left to accomplish, no milestones to reach, and no more procedures to get through. We were on the runway in Oakland, aboard a tiny Sky West plane, waiting for takeoff, and it hit me: I’m tired. The kind of tired you feel after you’ve accomplished something really special, or worked hard to get (not that I done anything, because I haven’t, but I get to share in the accomplishment of so many skilled people who have fixed Abigail’s broken heart). So I set here tired--but a little giddy at the same time.

In about three hours we will walk through the front door of our home and surprise our four kids, who think that we’re coming home either Sunday or Monday. Lisa will be holding the baby and I’ll be videotaping (yes, there may be yet one more blog entry to show you that ). I grin as I think about the looks that will be on their faces. By the time you read this post, we will be home, and we will have celebrated with the kids until none of us can stay awake any longer. Tonight there will be no bed time. We’re just going to let it all happen the way it wants to. We might even order in dessert or a late night snack. All caution to the wind. Break open the Martinelli’s! I might even call in a massage for Grandma Stoddard, who filled in for Mom and Dad for four straight weeks (without, of course, a complaint or thought of pity for herself), and who slept on the living room couch for four straight weeks because she was afraid that she would contaminate our bed with the cold she had--anything to protect Abigail, she must have thought.

We purposely have told no one--expect Grandma Stoddard, who will make sure the kids are home, and Grandpa Stoddard, who is picking us up at the airport. We didn’t want to risk any word being leaked to “the press.”

We were officially discharged from Lucile Packard at about noon. We didn’t know until 9:00 a.m. that we would be leaving for sure today. The conditions for discharge were that she had to continue to gain or at least keep her same weight and one more chest x-ray had to reveal more progress on the upper left lobe of her bruised lung.

Appropriately clad in her Stanford outfit, Abby will forever be a fan of the Cardinal (or at least her Dad will)

Mom's a fan too--notice her outfit

We were told yesterday that the odds for a Saturday discharged look good, but not to book a flight because “these things often change.”

I ignored the instruction not to book a flight, and booked one yesterday anyway. I had been watching the open seats on various flights throughout the week, and by Friday I could tell that most of our good options for flying home were dwindling. So I rolled the dice, and bought two tickets for home.

We had planned to go First Class (something I’ve never been willing to spend money on) but we figured that the extra room and lack of people next to Abigail (who can’t afford to catch anyone’s cold or flu) would be worth paying the extra money for. But as of Friday morning, all of the First Class seats on the flights that made sense were gone, and coach was filling up fast. I specifically chose a Sky West flight because I knew that the plane would have four seats per row, separated by an aisle, so that there would be no chance of a sick person sitting next to the baby. I’m on the aisle and Lisa sits next to the window with baby, protected from the coughs of fellow passengers.

Hold on a moment while I check Abigail’s pulse. Ok, she’s breathing. Funny what you think about when you’re transporting your heart-patient infant back home.

Back to the discharge and the moments leading up to it. Lisa slept with Abigail last night (her upgraded room at 3 West also had a couch/bed for the parents). Yes, I did take my turn the night before, and I wanted to take it again last night, but Lisa wouldn’t let me.

I went home to Menlo Park, slept by myself, and got up at 6:30 to get everything packed up in time to be at the hospital by 8:30 to make sure that I was there when the doctor in charge of discharge made his rounds. By 9:30, the attending cardiologist came in an announced that she was going home! He chuckled as he said that she seemed to have no further problems gaining weight--she had gained more than 100 grams (more than 3 ounces) on Friday. The left lobe of her lung was not perfect, but improving, and there was really no reason to keep her.

I felt a little sheepish asking the next question, “I went ahead and booked a flight--refundable, of course, in case she wasn’t ready to go (I had to add that disclaimer to justify my disobedience). Our plane leaves Oakland at 4:30. Do you think we can be out of here by noon or so?” Fingers crossed. Please tell me we can make that flight?

“Yes, no problem.” With the exception of the statement, “The surgery went perfectly,” those three words were the best I had heard in the last four weeks. We had yet two things to accomplish, and our mission would be a success: figure out how to take 250 bottles of breast milk home, and make our flight.

“Holy Cow--No Pun Intended.”

Those were the exact words uttered (again, no pun intended) by the nurse that went to retrieve Lisa's breast milk from the deep freeze in our unit. Apparently, Lisa was a little more prolific than most mothers there. "And this isn't the last of it," I smiled, "we have about half this much in the freezer at the home we're staying at."

Lisa and I very much wanted to take the milk with us for a few reasons: (1) we have a bunch of the really good stuff from the first two weeks of milk production that is power-packed with calories, vitamins, minerals, and all kinds of immune system-enhancing stuff; (2) that production represented a whole lot of work--every three hours, night or day, rain or shine, tired or not, Lisa would hook up to the machine; (3) the hospital would just throw the milk away if we left it there.

Now, that's a milk truck. Arin Strom, fellow NICU parent, hauls the milk to our car.

After we got the final word that we were leaving, I left the hospital to figure out how we were going to get the milk home. It had been one of the primary subjects on our minds for a few days. We looked into Fedex, which would have required a priority overnight shipping, and to ship that amount of weight overnight would have cost well over $400. We were initially told that we couldn't bring it on the plane with us because we had to keep the milk frozen (once it thaws, you must use it within 48 hours or dispose of it), which required dry ice. Wet Ice wouldn't keep them milk frozen because milk apparently thaws at a faster rate than most liquids.

Because dry ice is often used in amerture bomb production, we had been told that we couldn't tote it onto a plane. However, after doing a little research, we learned that we could take it on the plane, but that the package could not contain more than 5.5 lbs of dry ice. So, we had planned since the middle of the week to just take it with us (and pay for extra baggage, which was a lot cheaper than shipping it Fedex). Late on Friday evening, I called the airlines to ask another follow up question on the dry ice issue (as I was afraid of showing up at the airport with 250 bottles of milk, only to learn that we had to leave it in Oakland). It was then that I learned that that the package which contained the dry ice had to be vented. Vented? How on earth was I going to find a vented cooler? Who sells a vented cooler? And if I do find a vented cooler, will those vents cause the dry ice to vaporize.

I had bought two large coolers at Target earlier, which suddenly weren't going to work. At that point, our plans to take the milk seemed to be in jeopardy. We then began to ask questions about whether we could donate the milk to a milk bank, but that was shot down quickly as we learned that that was a bureaucratic process that would take days that we didn't have time for. We also asked if we could just give it to some fellow NICU friends who haven't been able to produce as much milk as Lisa. But that isn't allowed--Lisa's milk could have an infection or other ailment that could harm another, they said. Tragic, really. We were about to throw away 250+ bottles of perfect "Mormon" breast milk that could be of such value to another--no nicotine, no alcohol, not even caffeine in that milk, produced from a women with no tattoos and a perfect history of monogamy, not to mention a woman who rarely takes any medicine. Probably can't find purer milk on the market. Did you know, by the way, that human breast milk sells for about $3.00 an ounce? Each of those bottles contains two ounces, which means that we were also about to throw away $1,500 worth of Lisa's hard earned labor.

Thankfully, another Timpview grad came to the rescue (man, these Timpview people just come out of the woodwork). A family friend, Mckay Winkel, Jr, who happens to live in Menlo Park, dropped by the hospital on Friday evening to see if he could do anything for us. I took him up on the offer on Saturday morning. As I mentioned earlier, I left the hospital after I learned of Abby's discharge to find some type of vented cooler. I also left to take the car we had used to the car wash to get a mini-detail as a way to express our thanks to our wonderful hostess for opening up her home and her cars to us.

Mckay picked me up from the car wash (as the detail was going to take about 90 minutes of precious time I couldn't afford to lose). I don't know why it took me so long to think of this, but I found our vented cooler. Mckay and I went to Target, returned my previously purchased Coleman coolers, and bought three styrofoam coolers, which we planned to drill two 1/4" holes into for venting. We then headed to a U-haul store to pick up packing boxes (to house and protect the styrofoam cooler) and styrofoam peanuts to insulate and hold the styrofoam cooler in place. Finally, we went to Mckay's apartment to grab a drill with which to drill venting holes into the coolers and the surrounding boxes. I couldn't have pulled this off without that lift from Mckay--yet one more person who has come to our aid in the last four weeks.

Will We Make the Plane?

Even though we were officially discharged at around noon, we didn't get out of the hospital till just before 1:00--we had to say goodbye to friends, parade our baby around to a few of the nurses, and pack up the car. On the way to Leslie's house in Menlo Park, we stopped by Safeway to get the dry ice. I don't know what happened to the time, but by the time we took pictures with Leslie, packed the coolers with the milk, taped them all up, found newspaper in the house to further insulate the coolers inside their U-Haul boxes (I didn't buy enough peanuts), went online to find the mandatory dry ice label that I had to put on the boxes (and dealt with printing issues), it was 3:15 before we pulled out of Leslie's drive way. Oakland with traffic was 45 minutes away, and our plane took off at 4:30. We were in Leslie's car with me driving, Leslie in the passenger seat, and Lisa in back with the baby.

Leslie Neumarker, our gracious hostess for three weeks, holds Abigail.

I was now officially worried that we weren't going to make it, or that if we did, our luggage wouldn't, and our milk would go to waste, having to wait another day to arrive. As we drove to Oakland and encountered unexpected traffic, I started to panic a bit. I then started thinking about the possible delays at the airport, as the Delta representatives at check-in wouldn't know how to deal with they dry ice issue (every time I called them I got a different answer about it). I also commented how unhelpful most airline employees are, and figured they would get in the way of us making it. Oh ye of little faith!

Leslie commented that today the Delta Representatives were going to be especially helpful and kind, and that we had nothing to worry about. When she said that, I thought to myself, "She's probably right. Every single thing has worked out--on time and on schedule and in the best way possible way--for this entire experience. The airline just has to be helpful and efficient," I concluded.

And they were. After rushing into the terminal with four boxes, four carry-ons, and a car seat, huffing and puffing as I walked up the ticket counter, we were greeted by the most pleasant Delta Representatives I've met. We told them where we were going, what was in those boxes, and how desperately we needed to make sure we all made it. One of the representatives called someone from baggage over to her desk, and said, "See those boxes right there, they have to get on the plane."

So, here we are. Aboard the plane, exhaustion settling in. Mission accomplished. What a mission it has been--a very humbling and spiritually rich four weeks. And strangely, we feel a small sense of loss for the experience we are leaving behind. More on that in a final post tomorrow.

It's now tomorrow. We are home. The homecoming was glorious. Daphne just whispered to me, "Dad, I wish Abigail would never sleep. I just want to keep holding her." The surprise worked, and Mom and Dad shed a few tears. I'll post one last entry tonight that will contain a few concluding thoughts, pics of the homecoming, and a final video.

Video: Abigail Trying to Wake Up

2009-11-13T17:45:00.000-08:00

Before Abigail was born I committed that I was going to slow down with this one, and savor more of her early days. I, of course, had no idea what I was committing to, or how much of her first month I would get to savor. What a joy it has been to watch most of the waking moments of her life: the arches of her back as she stretches in the morning; the gaping yawns; her attempts at latching onto the bottle or the breast; the lower lip that protrudes just as her cry is mounting; her searching, blue eyes that project so much trust and sense of wonder. It's been a beautiful month

I can't wait to get home to savor the Big Four like I never have before.

A Move Back to the East Side

2009-11-13T14:18:00.000-08:00

We've been singing the theme song from the 80's sitcom, "The Jefferson's", ever since yesterday afternoon:

"Well we're movin on up,
To the east side.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Movin on up,
To the east side.
We finally got a piece of the pie."

If you're over 35, you probably have that tune in your head right now, and sadly, you may be singing it all day long. I've been singing it since yesterday when whey they moved us from the Supply Closet to a posh "studio apartment"--a single room at 3rd West, complete with private bathroom, bed, recliner, flatscreen, DVD Player, and get this, a Sony Play Station (not that I would even know how to use it, but it's cool to say that we have one). This place makes the CVICU look like the Motel 6.

3rd West--the less intensive care unit at Lucile Packard--discharged a whole bunch of patients yesterday, and this great room opened up. So, we're feeling comfortable and relaxed.

Our comfort is augmented by the fact that Abigail had a fantastic day feeding yesterday, and she gained 78 grams in the last 24 hours. The good eating continues today, so we're less worried. In addition, in a few moments they will pull the pacer wires that are still attached to her heart. Again, they just pull those out through the skin. This whole process still amazes me. Within recent memory, Abigail's heart condition was a death sentence, and today they can do what they are calling a "full-repair" of her heart. I wonder what they'll be doing in 50 years?

Always contemplative, Abigail ponders the

benefits of gaining weight.

Weight Watchers, Move Over: Abigail's Diet Plan

2009-11-12T12:46:00.000-08:00

I wonder what is worse: sitting by the bed of your heart-patient infant, without be able to do anything to be of assistance, or to finally be in a position when you can do something, but not quite sure what you can do to help her, after you've tried all you think of? We had the latter problem yesterday with the baby's eating.

We came in this morning to the news that Abigail had lost weight compared to yesterday,which really wasn't a surprise based on her lack of eating yesterday. However, it was still disheartening. Apparently, Abigail is already concerned about her weight, and has decided to go on a diet. Do you think Oprah would pay big bucks for Abigail's secret?

We were present during the doctors "rounds" this morning, and when the nurse practitioner suggested that we should still be good for a Saturday discharge, I was watching the attending physician's body language,which seemed to suggest that Saturday was up in the air at this point. In fact, he even added the disclaimer to the nurse's statement--"probably." Ugh.

Now we have the fun dilemma of trying to figure out when to book a flight. One option is to wait till we know when we're being discharged, but that might mean that (A) we will get creamed on price by the airlines, whose mission is to take advantage of their customers whenever possible, or (B) that there won't be any room on the direct flights the day (or day after we get discharged). The other option would be to schedule a flight a few days after the expected discharge date, but that seems agonizing--like telling your kids on Christmas morning that you're going to wait till New Year's Day to open presents: just keep these presents in your room, and don't open them for another week. Throw in the concerns we already have about putting her on a plane with everyone's swine flu and RSV floating in the air, and you can imagine that we have some anxiety about getting back to Utah. (Of course, driving isn't a good alternative either, as the thought of driving in snow through the middle of nowhere for a very long time with a hospital nowhere in sight, while Abigail labors in a car seat for more than 12 hours is not a feasible alternative). The insurance company has unequivocally stated that they will not pay for return transport aboard any kind of air ambulance--which I can understand (they're reeling at this point).

They also did another EKG this morning (they did one one yesterday as well) to look at her heart again. They reassured us that there was nothing to be concerned about, but that they just wanted to double check the condition of her coronary arteries. As you will recall, the placement of the coronaries were one thing that made her surgery a little scary to Primary Children's, and was one of the reasons she was shipped here. This morning the attending physician reminded us of that fact, and said they had to perform a "special procedure" to remove and re-attach those arteries without damaging them. I, of course, am probably reading too much into it, but it seemed like the additional EKG was more than just a precaution, as if there was something to be mildly concerned about. Then again, doctors are trained to think in worst case scenarios (especially here) and they would rather double and triple check something rather than miss it.

I'm sure that for quite some time Lisa and I will worry about every sneeze Abigail makes. In fact, one of the nurses at Primary Children's, who had a child in the NICU for a while, warned me that I would be over protective of this one, and would tend to shed too much attention and provide extra leniency to Abigail--a fact that Abigail (and the other kids) would pick up on. If you're not careful, he said, your little NICU patient will take advantage of that, and the other four will resent it. Throw in the fact that she is now "the baby" of the family by seven years and we may have a spoiled one our hands.

So, we'll keep that in mind for the future, but for right now, we have a bunch of people, including four siblings, who are dying to spoil her. Picture of the day below.

Not much baby fat on this body: skin and bones!

All bundled up

One Step Forward, One Step Backward

2009-11-11T23:51:00.000-08:00

I sit her typing, trying to pass the time as Lisa attempts once again to get Abigail to eat. Today has been a frustrating day, as Abigail has decided that she no longer likes to eat for longer than three minutes at a time. Or, when she does try to eat, it's as if she's forgotten everything she's learned about latching on. It's strange. She'll have one great day of nursing, and the next is a trial. One step forward; one step backward.

This nursing roller-coaster, of course, gives us great anxiety, as her gaining weight (she's the daintiest non-premie baby I've seen here) is one of the milestones we must pass to get out of her. I've actually pondered rigging the scales! As great as this place is, sometimes it feels like a jail cell--that is, a jail cell that happens to be on very expensive real estate with all kinds of great restaurants surrounding it! So, no, we don't have it too bad. Of all the places to be locked up in, Palo Alto places first on the list of the Ten Best Places to Serve Time. Then again, it's not home, and we yearn for home. Until that time comes, I'll keep typing and Lisa will keep trying to feed our sweet little Abby (just a minute ago, she started feeding her with a syringe). Good night.

Thank heavens for laptops and wireless internet

Milk Face Moves to the "Other Side of the Tracks"

2009-11-11T12:52:00.000-08:00

I've renamed Abigail "Milk Face" for the time being. She's enjoying the messy part of breast feeding. Check out the raised pinkie--the hand motions are part of all great thinking. Here she is waxing philosophic on the benefits of organic, raw, non-pasteurized or processed milk.

It's dripping everywhere. Lips and cheeks puckered, she's ready for even more.

Milk Face moved yesterday evening from her posh studio apartment (her own room with private nurse) in the CVICU to "other side of the tracks," 3 West--the place where they send kids who are getting ready to go home and don't need the same level of care or observation. Her room resembles a supply closet with four beds stuffed into it (do we get a discount for this?). However, the care is still superb and we're excited to have graduated from ICU into "regular" care as we prepare for home.

As of right now, the docs are predicting a Saturday discharge. They are still watching the left lobe of her lung that was traumatized a bit during surgery. Her lungs are functioning perfectly but they want to see the "haziness" that they are seeing via X-ray disappear. Fortunately, the haziness has been gradually improving by the day. They also want to see her gain more weight. I keep trying to tell them that Reeves' babies just don't gain weight very fast, and that her bird arms and legs are here to stay until adulthood (or until she's 37 and starts ballooning like her father, who, after eating out for a month straight, may be admitted to the fat farm any day now).

Video: Big Kids Come to CA

2009-11-10T14:49:00.000-08:00

A Prayer for Rocindy and Keeyondra

2009-11-10T00:42:00.000-08:00

I've been working on a blog for a woman in the CVICU that Lisa initially befriended (of course, Lisa befriended her--she has a knack for finding people who need friends). This woman is here with here 2-month old baby, alone and without a camera. Her husband couldn't afford to make the trip with her. She has been here for two months. She sleeps at the hospital. No car either. And as I drive my hostess' PT cruiser home to the three million dollar home I get to sleep in, I do wonder why justice is sometimes delayed in this world. Life just isn't fair.

Anyway, her name is Rocindy, and her baby's name is Keeyondra. She is going in for an all-day surgery (the first of many) tomorrow. I took some pictures and video of her sweet, little girl and made the first video yesterday. Today, I lent her my i-phone and she took a 6-minute video (which I've been uploading for the last hour via my wireless internet connection here in Menlo Park). Go check out her blog, make a comment, and keep them both in your prayers: http://www.keeyondra.blogspot.com/

Three More Tubes Gone, More Nursing, and a High School Reunion

2009-11-09T18:08:00.000-08:00

Abigail Update

The nurse commented this morning that it is a rare thing to see a nursing baby in the CVICU who also happens to have no feeding-tube and no nasal-cannula free (the nasal cannula is the apparatus that emits oxygen through the nose). Yes, three more tubes bit the dust today. We walked into her room this morning to the pleasant surprise that they had removed three tubes: (1) her nasal cannula, (2) the feeding tube that ran from her nose to her stomach, and (3) her last drainage tube that they had stuck into her side at the first of last week when they noticed a pocket of air that was impeding her lungs a bit.

Now, there are still a few strings attached (literally). She has her heart monitor, respiratory monitor, and oxygen saturation monitor attached--all of which show a perfectly healthy baby. It is still somewhat shocking to say that, especially after her condition was serious and complex enough to have her shipped away from Primary Children's, a more than competent facility.

She also still has two wires that protrude from the skin that are attached to her heart--her emergency pace-maker wires that they have never used. Those will come off just prior to discharge. I believe that they are lightly sown into the pericardium, the protective sack around the heart, and that they literally yank them out when they are through with them.

So, you might be asking why we are still here? They will likely check us out of the CVICU tomorrow and put us up on the third floor, where the parents--under the light supervision of a nurse who manages four children at a time)--become the primary caretakers of their child. At this stage in the game, they want to make sure that the baby is consistently eating and is gaining weight. If all continues to go well, we may likely be discharged at the end of the week.

I mentioned in my last post that we were lobbying for a feeding schedule that was more in line with Abby's schedule. The staff was very receptive to our opinion and agreed to let this mother of five ad lib nurse Abby whenever the baby was hungry. Because Abby would never consumer large amounts of milk during a feeding, they would supplement her feeding during the night hours when we weren't here with the feeding tube in her nose.

Nursing took a turn for the better yesterday. Prior to that, it was an exercise in frustration for the first four days. Lisa commented that it was like nursing a baby for the first time EVERYDAY. Cardiac kids generally struggle with nursing, and some never take to the breast if they haven't nursed prior to surgery. Abigail's sucking motion was good, but she was a having a hard time latching on and staying on.

Thanks to both the Lisa's patience and perseverance, and the breast shield Abigail took a major step forward yesterday, and has been nursing like a regular baby since yesterday. I have talked to few other moms of cardiac kids, who have spent 3 to 6 months trying before truly succeeding with breast feeding. I cannot image having what kind of a commitment that would take, but after only four rough days, Lisa and I take our hats off to such amazing women.

Mama burping Abigail after a feeding. I must say that there are few things more beautiful to me than a nursing baby. Nature at its best. Another example of our amazing bodies. Isn't it tragic that the formula companies in the 50's had--through lots of marketing dollars--convinced the public that breast milk wasn't good enough for their babies. Rule number one of nature: you can never truly copy the real thing.

Abigail with ZERO plastic (other than this binkie) on her face. First time in three weeks (since birth).

A Wrap Up of our Visit with the Kids

I'll be posting some beautiful pictures of our last day in San Francisco a bit later. I have to go eat, so I'll save my comments on it as well till later tonight when I post the pictures (and possibly a video).

Timpview Reunion in Palo Alto

My 20-year reunion isn’t until this summer, but we’ve had a bit of a Timpview High School reunion at Lucile Packard these last seven days. One of the treats of being here has been the unexpected visits of old friends (and cousins) from high school who happen to live in the Bay Area.

The Doxey Clan

One night the Doxey’s (Dan and his wife Julie Call Doxey) packed up the kids in the minivan and drove the pj-clad kids late on a Sunday night.

Brigitta (Grimmer) Hair

A few days later, my junior prom date, Brigitta (Grimmer) Hair traveled a similar distance to see us.

Uncle David and Cousin Susan (Hobson) Smith

Yesterday my uncle David and cousin Suzanne (Hobson) Smith came by to visit.

Each visit was delightful and good for Lisa and I who are missing our Provo connections. Remind me when this is over to be better about visiting friends and family in the hospital. It was great to catch up, and share this tender time with old friends and family.

Video: Abigail Takes a Bath

2009-11-08T14:47:00.000-08:00

San Francisco and Feeding

2009-11-07T01:57:00.000-08:00

By my third wrong left turn in San Francisco, I had had it. The rain had already ruined my plans for the morning, and now I was heading--on accident--away from the city on the Bay Bridge to Oakland, and there was no way to flip a quick U-turn. As I was doing my best to not say bad words, I heard my youngest kids in the back seat of the van saying, “This is awesome. This bridge is long!” At that moment I decided that if the kids were happy with the erroneous left turn onto the Bay Bridge then I should be too.

Of course, as every conscientious father would do, I made a point to help my children understand the various risks associated with crossing this particular bridge. Just after telling them that the bridge had collapsed during the last great earth quake to hit the Bay Area in the late 80’s, I mentioned nonchalantly that just last week large, heavy pieces of metal had fallen from the overhead lane, smashing a few cars (fortunately no one was killed), which had caused the bridge to be closed for several days. I reassured them that the nearly bankrupted California Department of Transportation had enough resources to fix the troubled bridge, and that they had nothing to worry about. Just in case, however, I asked them to lie on the floor of the van under their seats in the event that wayward pieces of bridge just happened to collapse the roof our van. You can never be too cautious, right?

We finally made it to San Francisco, while Lisa remained at Lucile Packard with Abigail. While mine and the kids day consisted of looking at tropical fish and butterflies (California Academy of Science) and riding bicycles along the bay, Lisa spent her day, haggling with doctors about how often they were going to let her nurse Abigail. On top of that she got to sit in a cubicle in the Pump Room for who knows how many minutes of the day. Dad's have it easy, and get to do all the fun stuff.

But then again, she did get to spend a substantial amount of time with the baby, and I didn’t. I’m actually going through Abigail withdrawals. Odd. I’ve never felt that before. I now get a sense for why most mothers--including my wife--hesitate to leave their kids for a vacation. Such a thing has never been difficult for me because I haven’t spent--until two weeks ago--every waking moment at their service. With Abigail, I have done just that. And after two days without her, I miss her.

Having said that, spending the last two days with the “big” kids has been an absolute pleasure. For a week, we stewed over the decision on whether to bring them. Will it cost too much money? Could Sami and Jeffrey miss school? Are we going to be able to entertain them while we trying to look after Abigail’s well-being? Our practical side told us, ”they’re resilient; they can handle another week,” but our gut told us that we needed some face time. Thankfully, we listened to our gut. And once again, the gut turned out to be correct.

Emma has spontaneously hugged me, thanked me for bringing her to California, and told me that she loves me at least 50 times in the last two days. The kids have been kind to each other, have enjoyed each other’s company, and I have enjoyed them thoroughly. I think I’ve enjoyed them more these last few days than I ever have--another blessing of this experience.

I spoke earlier this week to a friend from Provo, Kathy (Shields) Shumway, whose 3 year old son was born with essentially half a heart. He’s made remarkable progress considering his condition, but the long term prognosis is still somewhat uncertain, according to Kathy. One of the blessings of his life and the uncertainty about his future, she said, was that she has learned to savor every moment of his life, which in turn has helped her savor and love her other children that much more. Lisa and I have felt the same way, and I hope that we will do whatever it takes to keep that feeling.

This idea has been on my mind the last few days--the idea of how to maintain this spirit that we’ve had in our marriage and family after things return to normal, and the trauma and the emotion of this experience winds down. How do we step back into reality yet maintain the love and the spirit of the last few weeks? How do we keep, as Plato suggested, one foot in the real world and one foot in the ideal plane? Those are key questions that all of us must continue to ask ourselves, and I have a few answers, but it will take far too long to develop right now, and I have to get to bed. So, perhaps on Sunday afternoon, after I’ve dropped the kids off at the airport, I’ll tackle this one. I’m sure you’ll be waiting with baited breath . . . .(I’ll make sure to appropriately title that entry so you’ll know to skip it).

Update on Abigail

Her white blood count came down today, which suggested that her “infection” has subsided. We’ll get the official results tomorrow on the cultures taken yesterday. For now they continue to treat her with antibiotics.

Lisa got permission to nurse Abigail for the first time today. At first, they were only going to allow her to nurse twice a day, and the rest of the time have her bottle fed. Their concern with introducing nursing too quickly is that she will expend too much energy suckng which could lead to other problems. If you ask me, they play it a little on the cautious side, but I supposed you can’t blame them. No one gets sued for being too cautious.

However, Abby has shown promise with the bottle, and according to Lisa, a mother who has nursed four others, she could sense that there was no reason to continue to put off nursing. She met with a lactation specialist at the hospital (there’s a specialist for everything in a hospital) who was able to lobby the doctors to allow her to nurse Abigail at every feeding. The lobbying worked and the docs agreed to allow that--as long as he baby doesn’t spend more than 20 minutes laboring to nurse.

The problem is that Abby doesn’t really labor to eat. When she is interested in sucking and is hungry, she gulps down her bottle. Unfortunately, the hospital has her on “their” schedule for feeding--every three hours like clockwork, and most of the time, she is woken up to eat, which means that she usually isn’t hungry when they want to feed her. So, she sucks a little, and then goes back to sleep or play. We wake her up, she sucks some more, and then she starts playing with the nipple of the bottle, or looking up at us with her big blues, while milk runs down her little, pointy chin, down her neck and onto her chest. She typically takes about half her bottle (about 25 ml of the 50 ml in the bottle), and then she’s done. By this time, 20 minutes has gone by, and the nurse then hooks up her nose tube (which runs to her stomach) to the mechanism that dispenses the remaining milk over the course of a 30 minute period. Two hours later we repeat the same process.

I was a little irritated tonight as I went to pick up Lisa at the hospital at 9:45, and saw Abby crying and in a good mood for nursing, but nursing time had come and gone--Abby‘s allotted 20 minutes had expired. I told Abigail’s nurse, “I’m a little concerned with the feeding process right now. I feel like we’re in a bad pattern, a pattern that will keep the baby from making progress on feeding. She nursed at 9:00, and then at 9:30 we are forced to stop. By 9:45 Abby is actually really hungry, wants food, but we can’t nurse her again. So you hook her up to the feeding machine, which dispenses food over the next 45 minutes, fills up her tummy, and then 90 minutes from that point, it will time to feed her again. She’s not going to be hungry, so you’re going to give up on the breast or the bottle, and then feed her through the machine. It’s sort of a never ending cycle. I want to get her on a more natural cycle of eating when she wants to eat, not when it’s convenient for the hospital’s cycle.”

To her credit (and almost all the care givers here are open minded and willing to take input from the parents), the nurse said that she was going to space her feedings as much as she could so that by the time Lisa go there in the morning, Abigail might be more naturally ready to eat.

Abigail, After Nursing for the Second Time

Our goal for tomorrow is to get the staff to be comfortable with us feeding her on her natural cycle. She has a good suck (the occupational therapist--yes, another specialist--was much impressed with her sucking motion, which was quite strong for a cardiac patient). We need to convince them that she is not expending too much energy sucking, and that we just simply need to let her be a baby. Let her eat when she’s hungry. Cross your fingers.

Recap of the Day in San Francisco

Before I call it a night, I’ll recap the day with the kids in San Francisco. After the wrong turn onto the Bay Bridge, I was able to finally get off I-80, flip around, and head back to San Francisco. Oakland, after all, has never held any interest for me (my apologies to my friends who attended Berkley).

I had planned on renting bikes first thing in the morning, and riding around the bike paths of the Presidio district. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes from the city, the rain started falling, so I had to quickly change plans. My plan B was a visit to the California Academy of Sciences, a large museum containing an aquarium, a micro rain forest, a planetarium, and several other exhibits. The price of admission is a bit steep (I spent nearly $100 to get the five of us in), and the food is even more ridiculous. Unfortunately, we were famished when we arrived (all those detours did us in), so we were forced to eat the overpriced museum food. See picture and comments below.

Outside the California Academy of Sciences

A Photo of What Cost Me $61 at the Museum.

However, the museum is first-rate, as each of my children from our 14 year old to our 7 year old thoroughly enjoyed it.

After the museum, we headed to the Presidio district, and rented some bicycles (thanks to a tip from our good friends, Robbie and Edy Buss). We rode along the bay, stopping at the beach to see how cold the water was, to pick up shells, and check out sea urchins. We watched seals pop up and down out of the water, and saw what looked like Pelicans dive repeatedly into the Bay after their prey. We took our time, as Dad wasn’t trying to hurry anyone along. We rode our bikes to the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, and watched some surfers catch some fairly good sized waves.

The bridge was completely shrouded in fog, and we could only see its silhouette, though it was only a hundred or so yards away from us.

After our we returned our bikes to the rental place, Dad got lost in San Francisco again (this time, I had my i-phone battery to blame, which cost me my navigation system).

Another fabulous day with the kids, and another reminder that our best days are spent together. Good night. Below are pictures of the family bike ride:

Nail Clippers, Infections, and Kiddos

2009-11-05T18:36:00.000-08:00

No Nail Clippers Here

Irony. It’s one of my favorite aspects of life. Yesterday one of the great ironies of our experience revealed itself. Abigail was born with fingernails that needed to be cut from day one. They’re long, pointy, and sharp. The more she has gained consciousness, the more the more she is scratching herself with them. That makes for all kinds of ouchy marks on her face and tummy.

So the other day we asked the nurse for a pair of fingernail clippers. She responded that they weren’t allowed to cut their patients’ fingernails. When I heard that, I thought what you are probably thinking right now: “Huh??” Yes, the hospital does not allow their nurses to cur their patients fingernails, because it is, well, too risky. I’m chuckling as a I write this. Absurd, isn’t it? And certainly ironic. Considering all of the needles, tubes, and drugs that these nurses poke into our children, one might think that the potential harm caused by a nick to the finger by a nail clip gone awry would not be on the top of the list of risks the hospital doesn’t consider taking. They can perform miracles by moving arteries and patch holes in the heart, but they are not allowed to cut our daughter’s fingernails! I really was not too critical about the policy; I just found it highly ironic.

Now, as any responsible parent would do, I made a trip to Walmart yesterday to pick up some infant-sized nail clippers so that we could cut Abigail’s fingernails ourselves. In the evening, after Abigail had dozed off, Lisa grabbed the nail clippers to begin the trimming. Just as Lisa grabbed Abigail’s hand to cut the first nail, one of the nurses nearby discovered what Lisa was about to do, and before Lisa could squeeze off the first clipping, a nurse flew in to prevent it. “Oh, you can’t do that without doctor’s orders,” the nurse said, gravely. Lisa, who by nature is not a rule-breaker, quickly recoiled, but not before another nurse jumped in to confirm the policy. There will be no nail cutting at Lucile Packard! Based on the nurses’ reaction, you would have thought that Lisa had been caught red-handed with a scalpel in hand, as she attempted to re-open Abigail’s chest wound.

We were later informed that the hospital is afraid that nail clipping snafus could lead to open wounds that get infected.

Look closely and you'll see those pointy, dangerous nails

An Infection (not caused by nail clipping)

Speaking of infection, Abigail has one. After seven steady days of progress, Abigail took a small step backward today. Her white blood count came back a little low this morning, which suggested a possible infection somewhere in the body (an infection--I want it to be known--that was not caused by her parents cutting her index finger with a nail clipper!). This means that her progressed has stalled a bit, she is back on antibiotic, and will remain in the cardiac ICU (CVICU) until they are confident there is no more infection.

Just yesterday, Abigail was on the fast track out of here. She was eating increasing amounts of breast milk from a bottle, only had one “pre-cautionary IV“ (which probably gave her the infection), and her oxygen saturation levels and heart beats were perfect (as if she never had a heart defect). The staff was suggesting that we would leave the CVICU today, and head to the third floor--a kind of “hotel” with minimal nurse support, where parents get acclimated to taking care of their newborn under the light supervision of the medical staff in preparation for departure. There was talk of us leaving at the first of next week. And then the infection ambushed us.

Oh well, we really can’t be too disappointed. I believe this is the first “setback” we’ve had so far, and if this is as bad as the setbacks get, then we’ve come out of this deal smelling like roses. I was actually feeling guilty yesterday because our lot had been so easy. That’ll be the last time I do that!

Dad doing his turn on the feeding.

The Kids Arrive

Thanks to Aunt Cynthia, who allowed us to use some sky miles, we flew Abigail’s siblings to California to spend Thursday through Sunday with Mom and Dad. We were going on three weeks without the “big” kids, and we thought it we be good for all of our psyches to spend some time together.

Grandpa Stoddard put them on a plan in Salt Lake, and they flew unaccompanied to Oakland, where I picked them up this morning. The reunion was sweet and there is love flying in all directions. I’ve noticed a little less bickering than normal (of course, that could be due to the new surroundings) so good karma still exists in the Reeves family.

We decided not to burden our hostess, Leslie Neumarker, with four more house guests so we booked a few days at a Residence Inn in the next town south of Palo Alto. After a quick reunion with the kids, we took Mom to the hospital, and the kids and I went to lunch at Andronico's. We then walked around the spectacularly beautiful Stanford campus, including ascending the historic bell tower for a panoramic view of the bay area. The sky was clear so we could see the skyscrapers in San Francisco as well as the bay. Afterward we stopped at a picnic table in a grove of trees on campus, and played a game with a quarter, whose name has escaped me. Afterward, we checked in at the hotel, went for a swim, and played tennis on the hotel’s sport court.

Phenomenal day. We had a blast. Simple pleasures. No roller-coasters. No movie. No entertainment. Just time with Dad and Kids, as we walked, posed for pictures next to a few Rodin statues on campus, played games, and enjoyed each other’s company. No fights. No screaming. A success. This whole ordeal has reminded me to embrace these simple pleasures.

Good night. More on Abigail’s condition tomorrow. For now, a few pictures from the day:

The kids made their first solo flight today. Amelia, move over!

Steps at Stanford

Peek-a-boo, I see you!

A lovely couple, aren't they?

Atop the Bell Tower at Stanford?

Does it get any better than this?

Tennis, Anyone?

Tubes are Dropping Like Flies

2009-11-04T14:06:00.000-08:00

Things seem to be picking up speed with tubes and IVs dropping like flies. This morning, they took out Abigail's last chest drainage tube, the IV that was inserted in an uncomfortable spot where the neck meets the shoulder, and an IV in her right wrist. She still has the nasal oxygen tube on only as a precaution (standard procedure) with minimal oxygen being fed to her. She looks great, and as of right now, appears to be recovering at light speed. Here are some photos from this morning:

A View of the Incision

Notice the incision. It actually looks more scary than it really it is--most of the drama of the shot comes from the stitches that are still in her. One of the benefits of the scar that will remain is that we probably won't need to force Abigail to dress modestly--she probably won't want to dawn too many low-cut blouses or dresses, and she will likely only want to wear one-piece swimsuits.

A few days ago we saw the scar of an 18-month old child who had been through the same surgery last year. This boy's mother is in the ward we're attending in Menlo Park. She was in the congregation Sunday when I got up for Fast and Testimony meeting and explained why we were there. That night, she brought us a plate of cookies, a card, and her boy along with her. Among other things, she wanted to show us his scar to let us that we had little worry about. And she was right--the scar was barely visible.

I'm a Dad, so to me, such scars are kind of cool--you know, battle marks. But I'm sure Abigail will be happy about a lighter scar, the result of excellent cutting and stitching by the docs.

Resting Easy, Pacifier in Place

This picture was taken just before they removed the IV from her right wrist. As you can see, she has the sucking motion down (a concern for cardiac patients) as her binky is firmly locked in her mouth. She also got her first oral feeding since just the night before surgery. She gobbled it down, and they're going to slowly increase the amount they'll let us give her from 10 ml to 15 ml to 20 ml all the way up to 40 ml per feeding as she takes it.

The First "Real" Holding

Today was the first time we really got to hold Abigail. Prior to surgery, we were able to hold her--and all of her mattress, and about 35 cords. Today's it just blanket and baby a few cords dangling from the side. Dad got a little teary eyed as he snapped these photos and videoed the this first "real" holding of sweet Abigail. That's it for now. I'll leave you with a video of Abigail and her incision.

Another Tube Bites the Dust

2009-11-03T15:50:00.000-08:00

We're all breathing easier now (and some of us with less tubes in the way). They finally pulled the ventilator tube out Abigail's throat just a minute ago. Along with that came the feeding tube from her nose! Not to mention the catheter for her urine. She'll be tube free in no time!

Her little vocal chords are a little sore, and her cry is a whimpering rasp (video of that coming later). It's sort of sad, but good to hear some cries (as the tube doesn't allow the vocal chords to produce any sounds). I never thought I would be so happy to hear a baby cry! Will someone remind me of that four months from now? Below are some post-ventilator tube photos:

"I'm breathing easy, Baby."

Abby, "The Thinker," pondering the meaning of a tubeless life.

A stern look from Abby as she plans her revenge on all those who have been poking her these last two weeks.

A Little Abbey Road for Abby

2009-11-02T23:11:00.000-08:00

The four kids whose heads are superimposed on the bodies of four of the greatest rock 'n roll icons--John, Paul, Ringo, and George--have no clue how significant this album cover is, but my groovy sister-in-law, Debi Reeves, thought that the Beatles' Abbey Road would be the perfect backdrop and tribute to their new baby sister, Abby. So, as the Beatles would say, Come Together . . .

Abbey Road for Abby, by Debi Reeves

Two Tubes Down, Two More to Go

2009-11-02T21:39:00.000-08:00

You know, sometimes I'm a real loser. Here we are five days removed from the miracle of a perfect surgery, and I'm already complaining. If I were an Israelite in the time of Moses, I would have been one of the people complaining about the sand between my toes and as I ran across the floor of the Red Sea. Or if I were with Lehi's band, I might have been perfectly happy hanging with Laman and Lemuel.

My complaining early today was centered on the fact that I wasn't happy that the medical staff wanted to play it safe and keep Abby's ventilator tube in one more day--just to make sure the lungs had fully recovered from being out of commission during surgery. I, of course, was focusing on all the negative aspects of the tube: (1) the gag reflex that it causes sometimes; (2) the sedation it requires (which can counteract the recovery process); (3) the fact that it is prolongs pushes back the eating process by yet another day. So, when Dr. Jeff was told this morning that they weren't going to extubate--the medical term for yanking the tube out of one's throat--I wasn't too happy about it, and started wondering if our highly-trained, cardiovascular specialists were making a mistake. Funny thing is, I actually had myself convinced of just that for about two hours (of course, just ask my 14-year old, Samantha, and she will attest that he father always thinks he's right).

Then I came to my senses. After all, these people had just moved Abigail's transposed Great Arteries, patched several holes in her heart, and fixed the coarctation of her aorta (spliced her aorta to make it wider). I figure they probably ought to be trusted to know when it's time to remove the ventilator tube from her mouth and windpipe. So, I stopped complaining. Consequently, I'm much happier. Funny how that works . . .

The pictures above show Abigail with (1) her chest closed up (with gauze over the stitching); (2) and two of her three drainage tubes removed. Even though we were disappointed to learn the ventilator tube wasn't coming out, we were thrilled that sometime early in the morning they took out two of the three drainage tubes protruding from her chest. Those tubes are there help the body get rid of the excess blood and fluid that build up during and after surgery. So, two major tubes out, and two more to go. Cross your fingers (just don't complain).

Gotta Love Skype

2009-11-02T18:44:00.000-08:00

Below is a snapshot I took this morning of Daphne and Emma while we were doing a Video Call with the girls--via the Skype. It's a great and free way to stay close with the kids while we're 800 miles away. All you need is a PC and high speed internet, which we have wirelessly at our "home" in Menlo Park and at the hospital.

We're going on two weeks away from the the "Utah Kids." We're getting lots of quality time with our "California Kid" at the expense of the Utah Kids. But they're troopers, holding up good, and in the great hands of grandmas, grandpas, uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends. Thank you all.

Sometime later tonight I'll post today's update on our California Kid.

Fashion Show At Lucile Packard

2009-11-02T16:35:00.000-08:00

They had a fashion show today at Lucile Packard. Our little model was the first down the runway.

Video: Abigail's First Dental Appointment

2009-11-01T15:30:00.001-08:00

Post Chest-Closing Photo

2009-11-01T15:30:00.000-08:00

"Man, It's tough being 12 days. I'm pooped. This surgery stuff is hard work!"

Our Testimony to the Hillcrest 8th Ward

2009-11-01T14:53:00.000-08:00

Last night we sent the following testimony to our friend, Quinn Kofford, and asked him to give it to the Bishop of our Ward to read during fast and testimony meeting today. On one hand, we felt a bit sheepish about giving something to the Bishop to read over the pulpit--that is usually reserved for letters from much more important people than us. But, as we were physically away from our Ward, we felt like we needed to take the chance to thank its members for their faith and to bear testimony to them of the reality of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I wanted to share it with you because the letter discusses the post-operation slight feeling of melancholy that we had.

Dear Ward Family:

The words “ward family” have taken on new meaning to us over the last 12 days, for you have truly treated us like your family. We realize that some of you are fasting for the third time in seven days today. And if you’re anything like us, you don’t naturally love to fast. We thank you for your sacrifice, for your prayers, and for your faith. We know now more than ever that those prayers work.

We wish we could be there with you on this fast and testimony Sunday, because we would love to both bear our testimony of the reality and the power of the gospel of Jesus Christ and to express the deep gratitude that we feel for you and for our Heavenly Father.

Now that Abigail appears to be on the road to a complete recovery from a complicated surgery--a surgery that will likely allow her to run and jump as much as any in our primary--our thoughts continue to be tender, because in some ways we feel unworthy of the blessing. Within hours of the completion of the surgery, Lisa and I felt a strange and unexpected emotion: we felt a touch of melancholy as we reflected on the fact that our child was spared. In the face of our elation over the success of her surgery were the images of friends and strangers who haven’t received that same blessing--whose child’s heart surgery didn’t fix the problem, whose child walks the halls of this hospital with terminal cancer, whose child is taken in an instant before his parents were able to kiss him goodbye.

I said that those parents didn’t receive the same blessing. I choose those words--same blessing--carefully. This week has taught us that Heavenly Father is much closer than we often give him credit for, and that the details of our lives are much less random than we think. He knows us better than we can possibly know ourselves, and he gives us various blessings in the form of enduring or short trials. For us, the trial will be relatively short. For others, it will linger for a long time. We were humbled by the fact that our trial was taken from us so quickly, while for others it remains.

As Lisa and I pondered why it is that our trial was short lived compared to what so many others endure, we did not come to any solid conclusion as to why that is so. We simply don’t know why. However, Heavenly Father did clearly whisper the following thought to us: You can’t possibly understand fully why and how I give others weaknesses and trials. All you can do is commit to do more for them; to have a bigger heart; to suspend self-interest to serve and love those who suffer. That answer was conclusive, and that is an answer that we can understand. That is an answer that we can apply.

We have been amazed at how many of you have done just that--you have dropped everything and put your arms around our family in our time of need. We pray that we will do the same for you when the time arises. We pray that we won’t be quick to forget. We know that the essence of our first covenant of baptism is to “bear one another’s burdens, that they might be light.”

God lives. He knows us and he is in the details of our lives. Jesus Christ understands to the core every pain and trial we suffer. He is our example in compassion and love. May we pray to have that love so that we can help each other in times of trial.

We say this in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

The Closing of the Chest

2009-10-31T19:41:00.000-07:00

Of all the things that we thought we would be doing 12 days after the birth of our fifth child, eating Turkish food (last night) and perusing the Farmer’s Market in Palo Alto (this morning) was not on our list. It has been said that the only constant in life is change and surprises, and the last two weeks have certainly been just that for the Reeves Family.

Lisa at the Farmer's Market in Palo Alto

We got another good surprise today. We had been hoping that they would close Abby’s chest as early as Friday, but by Friday morning they had pushed it off till Saturday. Though all of her vitals were stable and improving, she was retaining a little more fluid than they would like, and her skin looked a little puffy. They don’t like to close the chest until the body gets rid of the excess fluid that has been built up during and after surgery. Once they close the chest, it actually puts greater pressure on the lungs because they now sit in a tighter, more enclosed space. If there is excess fluid in the chest cavity then that can apply even more pressure, which makes it harder for her to breathe.

On Friday morning they gave Abigail a diuretic to help her pee more off the excess fluid. Since that time, she’s been peeing like a champion, and much of the fluid has left her body. Unfortunately, last night the attending physician thought (as a precautionary measure) that it might be best to give her yet another day to rid herself of fluid, and that they were most likely going to bump her chest closing procedure to Sunday. I was disappointed to say the least to learn that. I am so anxious for her to get rid of the ventilator tube but that cannot happen until at least 24 hours from the moment they close the chest. They keep the tube in after they close the chest, because patients usually take a step backward in breathing because of the added pressure that is introduced to the lungs by the closing of the chest. Until the tube is removed, she has to remain somewhat sedated (otherwise they would go insane with all the plastic in their throat). That sedation unfortunately counteracts the healing process and it prolongs the date that she can begin eating and then breastfeeding.

We left the hospital last night disappointed that we were going into the weekend without her chest being closed. Lisa and I prayed last night that if her body was ready for it that the doctors would not wait for the procedure. We had the same prayer in our hearts throughout the morning.

We arrived at the hospital late today after a stroll through the Farmer’s Market in Palo Alto. When we arrived, our nurse told us as we walked into Abigail’s room (in the CVICU you get your own room) that they were going to close the chest tomorrow. About an hour later, one of the cardiologists entered the room and told us the same thing. More disappointment, but I was trying to temper that feeling, as I had some guilt for feeling sorry for myself after we have received blessing after blessing for 12 straight days. So, we were ready for another’s day wait. Then, the surprise came.

Dr. Reddy burst into the room an hour later, looked at a few of her numbers on the various monitors above her bed, walked over to Abigail, lifted the gauze from her chest, peered into the hole for about 3 seconds, and then announced, in his confident, definitive way, “She’s ready. Let’s close her. Start preparing the room.” The nurses and technicians exchanged confused glances, as if to say, “But I thought that ten other people had already told us that we were waiting.”

The minute Dr. Reddy made the announcement, the staff started moving at an accelerated pace. He’s obviously THE man here, the highest of all authorities in the CVICU. If he says it, no one argues, and they all get to work. One of the physicians who had told us that we were waiting told me after Dr. Reddy left the room, “I guess I’m not the boss here. Sorry for telling you a different story.”

The procedure takes about an hour to perform, much of which is “set-up” time. They actually perform it bedside in the CVICU. All of the rooms in the CVICU are surgery-ready, and they just take care of such things right there. To close the chest, they have to bind the sternum, which has been cut in half from top to bottom. The bring it back together with wire that they wrap around the sternum. Once wrapped around the sternum, they actually twist the wires, which brings together both halves of the sternum. And then in about five days, the bone is mostly fused back together. Amazing. I suppose it takes longer for the bone to completely heal, as we won’t be able to lift her by the armpits for at least six weeks, because this particular hold will cause quite a bit of pain. But most of the healing is done within days of the procedure.

So, here I sit, content and satisfied yet again by another small miracle in the life of Abigail Rose Reeves. My pessimistic side (which granted isn't much) is beginning to wonder at what point this is going to take a turn for the worse, for we really haven’t had any “turn for the worse” days except for the first 12 hours following the birth.

Today's little miracle caused me to think about how our prayers may have affected today's outcome. I have thought quite a bit over the last 12 days about the power of faith and prayer--especially the collective power of faith and prayers when hundreds of people join in unison in a common goal for their faith, as they did for Abigail.

One of my worries during the early stages of this experience was for people’s faith. My greatest fear--as odd it may seem--was not necessarily that Abigail was going to die (though that certainly was a significant fear), but instead was centered on the effect it might have on people’s faith if she did indeed die. I have learned over the years that sometimes our faith and prayers don’t always seem to affect the outcome of certain events in the way that we want them to. I knew that we had more than a ward’s worth of people fasting (including many children in the junior primary under the age of 8). In addition to that, I had co-workers, cousins, friends, and people we’ve never met before earnestly praying and exercising their faith, fasting, and praying for Abigail and our family.

I desperately wanted that faith to be rewarded--or at least rewarded in the most obvious way (faith never truly goes unrewarded). I didn’t want people to be disappointed that their faith “may not have been enough.”

I remember going through that thought process at Primary Children’s and feeling some anxiety about it. I recall sitting alone in the Cafeteria at Primary Children’s, thinking about this subject, and feeling the anxiety that I’ve described, when suddenly, I had this thought, “Jeff, if you will just surrender, you and everyone else fasting and praying will have peace regardless of the outcome. If you are really willing to trust me, your faith will be rewarded.” As that thought came, my anxiety left, and for the first time since her diagnosis I was willing to accept any outcome, and knew that no matter what happened, that our faith was going to be rewarded in His way. I will be the first to admit that the pendulum of my willingness to trust Him completely and to surrender completely during this process swung back and forth throughout the process. But, such is the case with our faith--we often take two steps forward and one step backward (and sadly, sometimes two or three steps backward).

Abigail’s chest closure today was another answer to a prayer, another little miracle, another reward of faith. After Dr. Reddy changed the direction of the day on a dime, I thought again about how faith affects the outcome of the good things that we desire. As I was mulling over the subject for the umpteenth time since Abby was born, I had the following, sort of conclusive thought on the subject: if the outcome that we are fasting for is what God wants then our faith can expedite the miracles we are fasting for. Let me try to develop that idea further.

One might ask, “If God’s will is going to be done regardless, why bother exercising faith?” I have two possible answers. One is that praying is for the prayer and fasting is for the faster. But while it is certainly true that the person praying often benefits the most from the prayer, I believe that answer is incomplete. The scriptures and my personal experience (especially in the last few days) is full of examples of how prayer actually, physically alters events and changes outcomes. Therefore, the second reason that God want us to exercise faith in a specific cause is that His will can better be accomplished when coupled with the faith of righteous people. Now, I realize that I’m treading on thin ice when I talk about God having any need for our faith. Additionally, know this disclaimer--this is the gospel according to Jeff, and nothing more. But here are my thoughts on the subject. God wants lots of things that don’t happen. He wants His children to obey His commandments. He wants them to listen to His prophets so that they can stay far to the right of the line of safety. He wants so much for us, if we will only exercise the faith sufficient to accomplish His will. But unfortunately we don't, and so His will for us sometimes doesn't come to pass.

One final thought on the subject and I’ll stop blabbering on. As we were uncertain about the outcome for Abigail, and as we prayed for the outcome that we wanted, we had to consider the possibility that what we wanted wasn’t necessarily what her Heavenly Father wanted. I wondered during that time of uncertainty why it is that God wants us to pray for things that may not necessarily be His will. Why doesn’t He just tell us what His will is upfront so that we know what to pray for? I realize that he will reveal His will up-front on some occasions, but on many occasions he doesn’t. I believe that is because he wants us to pray for good things, regardless of whether it is His will or not. And praying for Abigail’s recovery was a good thing. It made a difference in the quality of people’s lives. And regardless of the outcome, the effort--if people would allow it to--would make a very positive difference in the lives of those who prayed for her.

There is so much to be learned from praying, fasting, and exercising faith when you are uncertain about the outcome of the thing you’re praying for. I believe that God purposely lets us be in the dark as to the outcome of such things because he wants to teach us how to trust Him. I trust him now more than I did 12 days ago. Hopefully, I won’t forget that 12 days from now, as we frail humans tend to do.

Good night and Happy Halloween. This the first Halloween that we haven’t trick or treated for quite some time. Our spirits our high, but we miss our four little trick or treaters back home. If you see them, hug them for us (and tell them not to eat it all in one night).

Jeff, eating yet another fruit tart at Andronico's. So much for the diet!

But how else is a guy supposed to deal with all the stress? (i.e. any way to justify indulgence)

Video: Abigail, Awake After Surgery

2009-10-30T16:32:00.000-07:00

I actually got this video done sooner than I expected. Enjoy.

Sixth Update from Jeff

2009-10-30T15:47:00.000-07:00

We are almost 48 hours since surgery ended, and Abigail is stable and doing well. Her chest remains open, and will not be closed until tomorrow, Halloween. This wasn’t exactly the Halloween Party we had planned, but we’ll take it. Although she won’t be able to wear that cute orange and black Halloween tutu that we had bought her that sits at home in her empty nursery, we are grateful that this Halloween party at Lucile Packard will be about her continued recovery. The sooner they can close the chest, the sooner she can get the ventilator and other tubes out of her body. That sooner that happens, the sooner she can begin to eat.

One of the concerns with infants who go through this kind of an ordeal is that they often won’t breastfeed after the experience. The longer they go without having to exercise the sucking motion, the less likely they are to expend the energy to get mama’s milk later. The various tubes in her mouth and nose can irritate and make the throat sore, which makes eating unattractive to many infants in similar situations. Dr. Reddy was relieved that Abigail did seem to take the bottle and pacifier between birth and surgery. She wasn’t ever allowed to drink much milk at any given time, so we still don’t know how well she’ll take to eating, particularly breastfeeding, but we’re crossing our fingers.

Below is a picture of Dr. Reddy and me. Apparently, he gets embarrassed in front of a camera, and when I asked him if I could get a picture for Abby’s scrapbook he began to object, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying through his thick Indian accent, so I basically ignored the objections and continued to grab my camera out of its bag. He said, “We’ll do this when all the tubes are out,” which I thought meant, “You can take a picture of Abigail when all the tubes are out.”

“No, it’s okay,” I "reassured" him, “I want a picture of you, not the baby.” He kept objecting but I ignored him, confident that I didn’t need his permission to take a picture of my baby. I grabbed the camera, then handed it to the nurse, and told this world-renowned Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery at Stanford exactly where I wanted him to stand for the picture: excuse me, Doctor, would you turn your head slightly to the left?

By this point, he had surrendered, probably realizing that resistance was futile. It wasn’t until after he left the room that the nurse, smiling, told me that Dr. Reddy gets embarrassed in front of a camera, and that he was trying to communciate that he would like to take the picture when “he is prepared for it” and when he can hold Abigail for a pose in front of the camera. I’ve been chuckling ever since, which, of course, makes this photo all the more memorable for Abigail’s scrapbook.

I’ll update you tomorrow with details on the closing of the chest. I may throw up a new video tonight of Abigail awake in the her home at the CVICU, which I've decided to rename the HICU (the Heart Intensive Care Unit as opposed to the Cardio Vascular ICU) as it's much easier to say like the NICU. I also may elaborate later on an unexpected and strange feeling of melancholy that Lisa and I had following the surgery.

The amount of equipment needed to take care of one baby

Mom, Why Are They Doing This to Me?

2009-10-29T18:05:00.000-07:00

Is this not the most pitiful photo you've seen so far? Abigail has been heavily sedated, but they're slowly pulling her off of it, as they try to balance the necessary amount of sedation, because in some ways it counteracts the healing process. She is not in pain, but she is somewhere between awake and unconscious. At this moment, her eyes are open, and she seems to be asking, "Mom, why are they doing this to me?"

Surgery Day Recap

2009-10-29T01:30:00.000-07:00

Wow! Where do I begin? How about with the present. After that we’ll rewind the day and share with you how things unfolded today.

I sit in a comfortable chair in our second story bedroom in this cozy yet well-sized English Tudor in lovely Menlo Park, CA, looking at my beautiful wife who just barely gave up for the night. She is resting peacefully--I think--in an antique bed with a thick down comforter atop and a mattress that I believe tops all mattresses. My friend, whose mother’s home this is, calls this bed a “drug” and now I know why. I suppose you could also chalk it up to sheer exhaustion, but we have slept well since we first arrived. Lisa’s hasn’t slept more than four hours at a time, and I probably haven’t slept more than six, but those four or six hour increments have been characterized by deep sleep.

I am so happy that Lisa is sleeping. About 6:15, she hit the wall. Adrenaline, anticipation, the spirit--all of that has given us energy since last week. As soon as we got the good news today, the adrenaline started wearing off, and Lisa’s body said, “Ok, now it’s my turn. I’m shutting down.” I was happy to see that.

An Early Departure to Hold our Baby

That was at about 6:15, as we sat just outside the Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU), while a team of about 10 people got Abigail situated into her new home. Exhaustion had set in, and Lisa was just about down for the count; however, she knew that she still had one feat to accomplish before she completely called it a night, and that feat was to go see her baby--post major surgery, which, for any mother who has beheld her child just after open-heart surgery will attest, is a feat that requires significant energy. So, she flipped the tank to reserve, and garnered enough energy to make it through that experience--an experience I will get to momentarily. First, let me lay out the chronology and thoughts of the day.

We pulled out of the driveway while the stars were still out--about 5:20 a.m.--so that we could have ample time to be with Abigail before surgery. Some of you have seen the video of Lisa and I holding her and her bundle of blanket, pad, and cords. I wish that I could properly express what that felt like. It was really the first time that either of us had held her. Lisa hadn’t really held her in the delivery room; the concerned nurse had just held the baby up to Lisa’s cheek for about 30 seconds, and then whisked her away.

I promised myself as I held her that I would never forget what this felt like, and that four months from now when she awakes in the middle of the night, screaming, and mother’s milk won’t calm her that I would be patient and hold her with that same love. I also thought about Samantha, Jeffrey, Daphne, and Emma and vowed that I would hold them with the same kind of love (although, somehow I don’t know if the teenagers would appreciate that, but at least Daphne and Emma will).

At 7:30, they rolled Abigail in her NICU bed to operating room, an experience I described in a previous post. I also described how the day went, and that we had met Dr. Reddy for the first time this morning. It may seem odd to some that we would meet the surgeon of our daughter’s heart 15 minutes before surgery but you must remember that we had consulted with multiple cardiologists at Primary Children’s, and that all of the diagnostic work took place there, and that we asked and receive answers to all of our questions regarding Abigail’s surgery in Salt Lake. There were no surprises once we got here, and we felt no need to consume any of this terribly busy man’s time.

Heroes and Friends We Met Today

I have already described our feelings while we waited. Strange, really. The hours moved by quickly and peacefully. That was partly due to the fact that we met some of the most pleasant and caring people while we sat in the Family Waiting Room. One mother, whose son was in for eye surgery, had written down her home and cell phones numbers within three minutes of learning why we were there. She asked us to call her if we just needed to talk, or needed a nice meal, or just wanted to sip coffee together (no, I didn’t get into the word of wisdom discussion).

We met another kind woman who was sitting across the room from us, and seemingly out of nowhere asked, “Are you Abigail’s parents?”

We nodded, a little taken aback. “Yes,” we responded curiously.

“I was just reading your blog, saw your pictures, looked up and there you are!” she said. She was in with her son, 21-month Owen Simmons (www.owensheart.com--check out her blog; this kid is perhaps the cutest boy you’ll ever see). Owen is much more sick than Abigail, and was born with essentially half a heart. After multiple surgeries, his heart continues to fail, kept alive by medicine and by a permanent oxygen tank that his mom totes around. He hopes to get a heart transplant soon before his heart fails.

Owen’s mother, Andrea, had heard about us from another “Heart Mom”(a community I didn’t know existed 10 days ago) who is a neighbor of my business partner. This Heart Mom is Summer Strickland of Highland, Utah, whose boy, “Miracle” Mason, finds himself in the same fight for a transplant as Owen (miraclemason.blogspot.com).

These two families have dealt with far greater anxiety and uncertainty than we probably ever will with Abigail’s condition, and yet they continue on, probably incurring debts that may take a lifetime to repay, hopeful for a miracle, savoring every breath of life their sweet boys take. Andrea’s doctor advised her to abort Owen when they learned pre-natally that he had half a heart. He told her, “You can always have more kids.” She didn’t abort.

I asked Andrea if the uncertainty and the possibility of losing Owen was worth the price they paid each day, as they sacrificed almost everything trying to find a way to heal him. I knew the answer before I asked it, but for some reason I wanted to hear her say it. I needed to hear her testimony. She responded as honestly and sincerely as one can, “Absolutely. I wouldn’t trade these last 21 months for anything. Yes, it’s worth it. No question. It does get harder the more he grows, but I wouldn’t trade those moments for all the world.”

I had asked myself the same questions a few times during the last 9 days. What if Abby dies? Would it have been better if she hadn’t been born? Are these few days worth the pain that will linger far longer than a few days? Yes. Yes. And yes.

Each time we kissed her head or her belly, or rubbed our hands over her perfectly smooth, clean, unblemished, baby skin, or stared back into her blue, searching eyes, I knew it was worth it. Every time I saw her binky (pacifier) bob up and down as she sucked away, or every time I heard her raspy cry, I knew it was worth it. I am grateful tonight that it appears that I won’t have to ask “whether it was worth it” but even still, had we drawn a different straw, I know it would have been.

Before I complete this thought, let me say that hospitals bring out the best in most people. We ought to get all the tyrants, dictators, presidents, and terrorists together for a week’s stay at a Children’s Hospital. We just might solve the world’s problems that way. My heart has grown three sizes this week (watch out, Grinch) as I have been the recipient of so much kindness, and as I have learned of the stories and illnesses that so many other families face. I’ve had a crash course in what matters: love, genuine concern for others, service. Everything else is secondary.

Post Surgery: The Smile That Said it All

About 3:00, we received a page from the Family Surgery Waiting Room, signifying that the surgery was soon to be completed, and that we were to return to waiting room to await a consultation with surgeon. When we arrived, we were told to wait in the Consultation Room, a room where families learn of the failure or success of a surgery. I can only imagine how many payers have been said in this room, how many tears have been shed, or how many embraces have occurred in this room.

Now the nerves started. Even though we had received an update about three hours earlier from the operating room that “things were going well” we still waited with anxiety. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest, hoping and praying that Abigail’s was thumping as well.

Just after 3:30 p.m. one of the members of the surgical team poked their head into the consulting room. She was smiling. Suddenly, “the moment” I had thought would send me into a panic, didn’t. It happened too fast. We didn’t have to watch the surgeon approach, as we tried to read his facial expression. Lisa and I had joked throughout the last few days, in anticipation of “the moment”, that we were going to ask the surgeon to just text us “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” and be done with it.

The smile gave it away, and suddenly my heart felt lighter. “She’s off the bypass machine, her heart is beating strongly, and everything went perfectly.” Joy. Pure Joy. Relief. Gratitude. Humility. Those words describe the emotions we felt after we heard those words. She continued, “Dr. Reddy is just finishing a few things on the surgery and he’ll be in to see you in about 45 minutes or so.”

She left. We closed the door. I knelt as Lisa sat (kneeling isn’t kind to recovering mothers). I thanked Heavenly Father for saving Abigail’s life, for providing such competent care, for allowing medicine to advance the way it has. I also prayed for our children at home. I prayed that they would understand the significance of this; I prayed that they would feel the Holy Ghost tonight.

Post Surgery: Dr. Reddy

Dr. Reddy came in about an hour later. We didn’t mind the delay. We had plenty of people to text and call with the news. He walked into the room, also smiling. He’s personable but efficient in his communication. He exudes the confidence that his work has given him. Yes, he is the Michael Jordan that isn’t afraid to take the last shot.

Prior to the surgery, he told us that the most tricky part was going to be to patch the various holes in the septum (the “wall” that separates the left and right atriums and ventricles). The fact that there were numerous holes was a bit of a surprise to me. I had only thought that there was the major one in the ventricles along with the one they had ‘created’ through the catheterization.

Dr. Reddy reported that he patched all of them, with the exception of a few microscopic holes that will fix themselves as the septum grows and thickens. Moving the Aorta and the Pulmonary Arteries was no problem, and fixing the narrowing in the Aorta was easy, he said. Easy isn’t a word that I would use to describe it, but then again, I haven’t operated on a heart the size of a grape in a 1.5 pound baby.

He commented on the fact that her valves were “very strong” as they had been watching the heart pump for nearly two hours at that point, and the valves were working beautifully.

I had written down a list of questions I was going to ask him to ensure that we left the hospital tonight with every relevant and important question answered. He answered most questions before I could ask them. On my mind were the following questions.

He told us that he left the chest bone open to allow for the heart, which may swell from the surgery, and need ample room to recover. Apparently, I had miscommunicated the process here. They do not sew the skin back together if the chest cavity is still open, as I described last night. They actually just leave it open with a protective covering over it. So, as we speak, Abigail’s insides remain open to the world. They will likely close the chest on Friday or Saturday.

He said that if all goes well, recovery will likely take two weeks. Two weeks. Amazing how fast the body can heal itself form such an invasive surgery. He said that after discharge, they like patients to “stick around” for a 3-4 days just in case, and to be close in case complication arise.

Dr. Reddy said that the odds of Abigail needing another surgery are about five percent. Sometimes the pulmonary artery doesn’t expand the way it should after such a procedure, and that would cause one to fall within the 5% group needing additional surgery. I like those odds.

A Visit to Abigail

Finally, I return to our visit to Abigail. Andrea, the mother of Owen, the heart patient I discussed earlier, has warned us that we would likely be horrified at the sight of our daughter after surgery. As you can see in the picture below, Abigail finds herself covered in cords. She has multiple tubes going in and out of her body. Some are measuring her blood pressure both in the heart itself and it other parts of the body. Another is taking her temperature, while another feeds her. And yet another give her nutrition.

The sight was a little much for Mama to witness. I was fascinated and energized by it all. The tubes and machines were an example of the miracle of modern medicine at work. On the other hand, Lisa had a hard time getting past the tubes protruding form her chest cavity, draining fluids form her body. Or the pace-maker wires sticking out of her chest--just in case they needed to provide the heart with a little electricity. For mothers who love their kids more than a father could ever imagine, the sight was too much. For the first time in nine days, Lisa was anxious to leave Abigail’s bedside.

As I mentioned earlier, her chest cavity is still open. Some type of plastic with a mesh structure sewn into it, along with a bunch of “dressing” are protecting the insides of her body from infection. A large piece of gauze rests on her chest, hiding the hole. The nurse removed the gauze, and I could see the small portion of the heart--beating away! I thought about taking a picture of the open chest, and then decided that I wasn’t that calloused.

She rests perfectly still, sedated with the ventilator tube back in her throat by design so that hey can do all the breathing for her and take any extra strain off the heart.

Lisa’s Body and Spirit Had Enough for the Day

As I mentioned, Lisa couldn’t witness the sight of her daughter, tubes coming and going from virtually every direction. I took her home (that’s how comfortable our accommodations are--we are calling it home), and tried to get her to go right to bed. She pumped, and then ate some soup and bread that our hostess had prepared for us, and then went to bed, where she rests comfortably now. I hope she is dreaming happy dreams, and that her last image of Abigail is not on her mind. Her body is overdue for rest.

What Now?

I don’t really know other than that the next step is for them to close her chest this coming Friday or Saturday. We will now sit by her bedside and watch her young, strong, female body recover like a champion. Another miracle. I will continue to post updates as interesting events occur. Good night.

Success!

2009-10-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

We just heard from one of the doctors on the surgical team that Abigail is off the bypass machine, her heart is beating strong, and everything went perfectly! Dr. Reddy is just finishing up the surgery and will be visiting with us in about 45 minutes. More details of our meeting sometime late tonight. Break out the glasses. Seven-up on me!

Waiting Game

2009-10-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

It is 12:00 p.m. at Lucile Packard. At 7:30 this morning, they rolled Abigail from the NICU to the operating room. We walked with her and the anaesthesiology team to just outside the door of the operating corridor, where we were lead in one direction, and Abby continued on in another direction.

The walk from NICU was brutal. I tried to be a tough male and hold back the tears, but that didn't last too long. I tried to not look at Abigail or Lisa, because both faces would bring me to tears. However, I couldn't help it--the pull was too strong.

Abigail was peaceful and awake as she was rolled to surgery. Her eyes were open, searching, as she seemed to take it all in. After we parted, they checked us into the Family Waiting Room, gave us a pager, took our cell phone number, and told us to get comfortable.

Dr. Reddy went into surgery at about 9:00 a.m. It has been three hours now. The surgery is supposed to take five to six hours.

We met Dr. Reddy for the first time just before 9:00 a.m.. He's a pleasant and warm man. He seemed confident and eager to perform the surgery. As I met with Dr. Reddy, I had the same feeling of peace that I have had after and during every single consultation with a physician going back to our time at Primary Children's. I continue to be amazed by that.

Dr. Reddy said that the odds of a sucessful surgery were 95%. I like those odds. We were just given an update as I type this post. Surgery called the waiting room to report that things were going well. How kind of them to take time to do that. I have been so impressed that at Lucile Packard and at Primary Children's the care-givers have been so sensitive to the parents.

So, here we sit, waiting for more information. It is such a surreal feeling. Lisa and I had looked to this moment with some terror. Prior to today, the thought of sitting here, waiting--particularly "the moment" the Surgeon comes to report on the outcome of the surgery--seemed simply agonizing. I'm sure "the moment" will still be agonizing, but for now we are at peace, which we know is the result of hundreds of prayers and fasts in ours and Abby's behalf. We love you all for that.

Present to Abigail

2009-10-28T11:55:00.000-07:00

One of Abigail's siblings made this beautiful doll house for her.

Video: Mom & Dad Hold Abigail for First Time

2009-10-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

Final Thoughts Prior to Surgery

2009-10-27T22:03:00.000-07:00

Quiet Day for Abigail

I’m sitting here at Abigail’s bedside. She’s has had the quietest “all-natural” day yet. By all natural, I mean the quietest day while not under some kind of sedation. Of course, it’s 8:18 pst, and she’ll likely be up for the evening in about an hour. It’s quite funny, actually. We have had the sweetest nurse, Bridget, a mother of three who you can tell has had years of doing this. She just has the touch. She keeps volunteering to take care of Abigail each day, and she’s been on duty for the last three days. But curiously, we haven’t had anyone volunteer for two consecutive night shifts with Abby! Apparently, the drugged babies are much easier to take care of as opposed to the un-sedated, hungry babies.

They are giving Abby about 10 Ccs of milk every 3 hours. She is receiving most of her nutrition from the IV that is inserted into her belly button. The doctors understand the benefits of breast milk (so much so that mothers who pump receive a meal voucher for the cafeteria as an incentive to pump), so they have been slowly introducing the milk into Abigail’s diet. However, they don’t want to give her too much because they are afraid that having to digest too much food will consume valuable oxygen. She, of course, can’t nurse for the same reason--too much hard work!

A Description of Tomorrow’s Surgery

The faint of heart may not want to read the following entry. But for everyone else, you may find this fascinating. We met tonight with the surgeon’s assistant (we haven’t yet met Dr. Reddy, which to me is a good sign--if he were terribly concerned about the outcome, perhaps he would want to meet us prior to the surgery). His assistant explained the procedure. I will give you my English-major, mortgage-banker, laymen’s version of it. For anyone with a real grasp of the vocabulary and anatomy of the heart, please feel free to correct me (or just don’t tell me and let me go on thinking that I’m smart--after all, I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night).

They will begin my making an incision into the skin which will expose the sternum. They then take a saw and cut down the middle of the sternum (I assume from top to bottom). I also assume that they do this so that they can open the rib cage to gain access to the heart.

The first thing they will do in relation to the heart is the open the protective sack around the heart, the pericardium. Once inside, their first objective is to remove the blood from the heart and stop it from beating. What?? Are they crazy? They are going to stop her heart from beating? It actually never dawned on me before three ago that they would need turn the heart off to fix it. I guess not doing so would be analogous to an auto mechanic trying to repair an engine while the car’s on.

They call that a heart-bypass, a term I’ve heard for years, but have never took a second to understand what it really means. They will hook a machine up to the valve in her heart that lets new blood in from the brain and body. That machine will then take the blood before it gets a chance to enter the heart, and then run it through a mechanism that oxygenates the blood, replicating what the lungs do. This heart and lung bypass machine essentially takes the place of the heart and lungs during the surgery.

Once the blood is removed from the heart, they will then actually give the heart some type of tranquilizer that stops it from beating. Abigail will forever be able to say that her heart has skipped a few beats!

With most of the blood, pumping, and beating out of the way, they can they begin their tedious work of moving the aorta, pulmonary artery, and the more complicated, delicate, and risky procedure of moving the coronary arteries--without which the heart would not receive its supply of blood to keep it alive.

They will use pieces of the pericardium--that protective sack around the heart--to patch the two holes in her heart. At the end of the surgery they will likely sew in (very lightly) some temporary, tiny pace-makers into the pericardium. They do this as a precaution because sometimes the electrical systems of the heart are damaged during surgery, and they would use those pacemakers to stimulate the proper electrical flow in the heart after surgery in case of an emergency. Those pacemakers actually protrude through the skin and once they are sure that they won’t have to stimulate electrical flow in the heart, they will “simply” pull these tiny pacemakers through the skin and dispose of them. Amazing.

They may also leave the sternum “open” for a few days after surgery as a precaution. That means that they purposely won’t “put it back together” which allows the heart more room to heal, and makes it more conducive to re-entering for surgery if they go have go back in due to an emergency. In this case, they would just sew the skin back up, watch things for a while, and then--usually bedside in the NICU--they would open the skin back up and fix the sternum. They do that by binding it together with some type of wire, which allows the bone to fuse back into one piece. Again, amazing.

I find these details fascinating. Even though I am as protective a father as they come (boys, I know what you’re thinking, so stay away if you value your lives). I don’t want anyone to harm a hair of my daughters’ or son’s heads. But tonight I am grateful for what might seem on the surface as a violent act with the saws, machines, and scissors. I am grateful tonight for modern medicine and for doctors, nurses and surgeons who sacrifice much to take care of my little girl.

Musings from Palo Alto

2009-10-27T16:37:00.000-07:00

The Consent

So far we are still on the schedule for tomorrow. We should be meeting with the surgeon some time today to sign the consent form. I’m suddenly getting nervous as I write this. I wonder why. Perhaps the magnitude of the consent is hitting me: “Here you go, Doc; her life is completely in your hands. Please don’t play any sports tonight, stay up too late, or take one too many drinks. And please measure twice before you cut. If you’d like, I’d be happy to pay for a hand massage sometime tonight. And thank you for not cracking your knuckles like I have for 30 years (isn’t that supposed to give you arthritis?).”

We know we’re in great hands--physically and spiritually--and it will be a pleasure to sign the consent.

Is there anything better than a cacooned infant?

A Tribute to a NICU Mom

Ok, I’ve said it before, and I‘ve thought I’ve mean it before, but I had no idea what love meant until I’ve witnessed how Lisa has handled this whole deal. Perhaps it’s the fact that such an experience forces you to break life down to its simplest elements. The periphery disappears, and the meat and potatoes of life emerges. As I have focused my thoughts, faith, and prayers on this baby, on our four children at home, and on dear friends that are enduring their own trials, I have learned to appreciate Lisa with such greater depth. Our talks are more free, more open, more contemplative, more patient.

We went to Walmart today, and for the first time that I can ever remember, I enjoyed being at Walmart. At this moment I am out in the hallway typing this post, and she is in the NICU with Abby, and I miss her.

Let me give you an idea of what it’s like to be a NICU Mom. You have just endured 9 months of discomfort, and pushed a 7 pound baby from the womb, only to have 30 seconds (if that) of time to hold the fruit of your labor (pun intended). You don’t get to hold your baby because there is an IV and another tube inserted into her belly. In fact, despite your motherly instincts, and even though you have manhandled four other infants, you are somewhat hesitant to touch her, and for the first while you always look to the nurse for approval.

Every three hours you head into a cubicle, and hook both breasts up to a machine that pumps your milk into little plastic bottles, which you then label by date and time and stick into a freezer. You do this eight times a day, and through the night, setting your cell phone timer at three hour intervals. During the night you try to do all of this in the dark so that you don’t wake your snoring, slumbering husband, who has worked half as hard as you have.

Despite the fact that you have been up two or three times during the night (depending on whether you went to bed before or after midnight) for periods of 30 minutes at a time, you wake up your husband early so that you can get to the hospital in time for the doctors to make their rounds. You want the doctors to know that you’re anxiously awaiting their care, and you want them to know that you care.

During the day--when you should be lounging at home in bed or on the couch--you sit at your baby’s bedside, while your ankles remain swollen from childbirth and from the lack of having your feet appropriately raised. You sing that baby lullabies, whisper baby talk into her hears, place your hand firmly on her head, and kiss her belly every now and then. When the baby cries, your instincts tell you to pick her up, hold her close, and nurse her. But for now, you follow the nurse’s lead in sitting her up, patting her bare back, and feeding her the “appropriate amount” of your milk only at certain intervals. At times, you wander over to other parents across the room to strike up a conversation, to learn about their child, and to make sure they’re doing okay.

During the day you sneak in a nap at the hospital or back at the lovely home of your hostess, but the naps are not totally restful because your baby is ten minutes away.

Late at night your husband pulls you away, telling you that the best thing you can do for your baby is to get the appropriate rest and nutrition. Your heart sinks because this baby is a night owl, and she has always--from the time she first started kicking the inside of your tummy--woken up at about 10:00. It kills you to leave your baby while she’s awake with her blue eyes searching for her Mommy. You know she’ll be hungry soon, and you wish you could calm her cry.

And yet somehow, despite all of this, your body seems to miraculously heal itself, and your post-delivery condition continues to improve, methodically day by day. You count this as yet another blessing of this life-altering experience, and you express even more gratitude to your heavenly father.

There you go--a day in the life of a NICU Mom. How do I love her? I can’t possibly count the ways--there are too many.

The best sale I ever made

I Could Live in Palo Alto

Yes, I could live here. I’m sure I couldn’t afford it, but I wouldn’t mind living here. Where else can you get a salad from a salad bar at Safeway that is better than what you will find at any restaurant in Utah. I suspect that it’s never too hot here, and thought it may get chilly, most jackets would provide ample warmth. The trees and greenery are thick, the homes beautiful, and the streets are windy.

Where else can you get a ready-made meal at a supermarket that actually tastes good and healthy. One of the treats that we’ve discovered is a supermarket called Andronico’s, just a minute from the hospital. It has a cheese assortment that would rival anything you would find in Paris--there must have been a hundred different kinds of fresh cheese on display. Then there’s the olive bar--yes, a bar devoted specifically to many different kinds of fresh olives. Then there’s the pastry section that would compete with any good European bakery. For the last three days, I’ve had the delightful fruit tart at Andronico‘s--which has the perfect cream (not too sweet and not to bland). Beyond all that, there is a soup bar with six different homemade soups, a deli with a dozen different kinds of Paninis, and a plethora of cheeses and meats from which they will create your own custom sandwich (which puts Subway to shame). None of this is cheap, but it sure beats Mcdonalds.

Though most of my time in Palo Alto has been spent within the walls of Lucile Packard Children’sHosptial, we’ve had enough of a taste of the area that we decided we’ve like to spend more time down there. So kids, keep studying, or working out at the track (Stanford may be a great place to go to school).

The Pastry Bar at Andronico's. With this place in town,

how do you expect me to drop the 20 pounds I'm trying to lose?

The Man in Charge

Lisa’s Dad emailed me the following picture this morning. In light of tomorrow’s surgery, I thought it would be appropriate to give credit where credit is due:

Fifth Update from Jeff: We have a Date

2009-10-26T21:59:00.000-07:00

It's Christmas early in Palo Alto. Or atleast it feels like that. No, it's not snowing--it's still a lovely 70-some odd degrees with blue skies. Our early holiday has to do with this: after a morning of sulking becuase we didn't feel like we were progressing (I know, how quickly we forget and start feeling sorry for ourselves--go ahead and slap me), we were told this evening that Abigail is slated for surgery on Wednesday! However, the physician who informed us of the good news added this disclaimer (and she repeated herself to make sure that we understood exactly what she was saying): surgeries often get postponed or bumped because of greater emergencies, the patient's condition, or because the surgeon's favorite football is playing that night (ok, I'm kidding about the football part; although, it that were the case, I would hope that the surgeon was a BYU fan because he wouldn't have any reason to watch the second half, but I digress . . .).

The announcement came as quite a shock to us, as just yesterday we were told that we wouldn't even show up on the schedule for more than 3-4 days (notice how quickly things can change in this world). Looks like the Ward fast is already working it's miracles. We don't know what time on Wednesday yet but we are at least on the schedule for Wednesday.

Our Surgeon

Dr. V Mohan Reddy from India, the Chief of Pediatric Cardiothoracic Surgery at Stanford, will likely perform the operation. We were pleased to learn the following about his bio:

"Renowned for taking up rare and challenging open-heart surgeries, Dr Reddy created history in 2005 by conducting an open-heart surgery involving an arterial switch on a three-week-old premature baby weighing 700 gm.

Surgeons called it 'miraculous' as the heart was about the 'size of a grape and the tissues were like pieces of paper'.

The youngest infant he has operated on was two hours old and the smallest, about 640 gm.

A heart the size of a grape? Surgery on two-hour old infant? Are you kidding? As you can imagine, we're feeling pretty confident about this man. It sounds like he's the kind of guy that wants to take the figurative last shot. I think he must wear a large S under his surgical gown. No pressure, V.

That's it for now. I'll leave you with a intimate photo below.

Yep, the plumbing works. Dad traditionally changes the first

diaper in our family. After 9 monthsof discomfort, that is my punishment.

Actually, it's usually a pleasure. Today it was.

Video: Priceless

2009-10-26T13:40:00.000-07:00

The Ward Fasts

2009-10-26T00:52:00.000-07:00

I forgot to thank the Hillcrest 8th Ward for the special fast they held for Abigail today. We continue to feel the effects of all of your faith. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The primary president, Jana Kofford, commented that many of the junior primary had fasted for Abby. I know that Emma was one of them.

I fasted today as well, and I will say that is the first 24 hour fast I have done in a while (I'm usually just a two meal kind of a guy, who sadly doesn't stretch himself too much in this regard). Not surprisingly, this was one easy, and I wasn't rushing to fridge when hour 24 rolled around. In fact, I kind of didn't want to eat, as I was enjoying the spirit of the day too much.

Lisa is a nursing mother (or shall we say, a pumping mother) who can't afford to fast, as she has to produce milk every three hours (they want her pumping at least 8 times a day). But even though her stomach wasn't into it, her heart was. Good night.

Jeff

Fourth Update from Jeff

2009-10-26T00:09:00.000-07:00

It was a quiet Sunday in Palo Alto. I went to Sacrament meeting, and Lisa stayed with the baby. After church, I took a meditative drive through Stanford Campus. What a beautiful place to go to school. Kids, keep your grades up!

While I was at church, Lisa got to meet the Attending Physician, Dr. Bennitz, who gave the first set of expectations we've received since arriving. He said, "Your daughter's heart is going to require a level of creativity that will require some time and careful planning. It it likely that you won't even be on the docket for surgery for at least 3-4 days. You'll likely be in California for 3-4 weeks." Then again, this is the neonatalogist speaking, and we haven't really spoken much with cardiology or surgical staff. So, I wouldn't start penciling in any dates.

We were already mentally prepared for a month stay at Stanford, but the words did seem a little overwhleming nonetheless. And then the ultimate question is, once we are "on the docket" how long will it be thereafter that the surgery is scheduled? I must say that I chuckled a bit with the doctor's choice of words--"your daughter's heart is going to require a level of creativity." Primary Children's had prepared us for the perspective, and that is why they have sent us here.

I am curious, though, as to how our surgeon is going to look at this. Will he be excited by the challenge, by the "creativity required" to fix our daughter's heart? Or will her heart scare him deep down inside--whether he admits it or not. Is he the competitor that wants to take the figurative last shot with his team's season on the line, or is he a superstar that wants nothing to do with the ball, down by one with ten seconds to go? I'll assume the former, primarily because I trust the physicians at Primary Children's who sent us here--and because it makes me feel better to think that he's the kind that wants to take that last shot, the who enjoys the pressure of saving the day. Because the pressure will be on him during what I hear should be a 12 hour surgery.

I'll close with a few images from the day:

Mama, elegant as ever

Daddy loves his girl

Abby is taking a pacifier nicely

Stanford Campus

Video: The Siblings Meet Abigail

2009-10-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

Third Update from Jeff

2009-10-24T18:02:00.000-07:00

We're at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital at Stanford. Baby looks great and is stable. They've removed the ventilator tube from her throat. Oh, that has got to feel good. She is also no longer on any medications either.

Our accommodations are yet another blessing. We are staying 10 minutes from the hospital in Menlo Park at the lovely home of Leslie Neumarker--the mother of a friend at work. The home is a beautiful English Tudor complete with an authentic English garden with an attention to detail that one rarely sees these days.

Lisa is doing great. My heart aches for her in having to recover from her pregnancy and delivery under such circumstances. I love her more now than I ever thought possible. And after five kids and 40 years, she is still one hot mama.

That's it for now. No new news. All is well, and we're enjoying our baby. We have no idea if we're a day, a week, or heaven forbid, a month away from surgery. We're just happy she's stable. If you see our kids, give them a hug and a kiss from their mom and dad.

Second Update from Jeff

2009-10-23T22:15:00.000-07:00

I guess you could say that we now have a taste of what it’s like to live the life of the rich and famous: at the moment we’re many thousand feet in the air in Abigail’s private jet. This is the second flight for this little jetsetter this week. One of my passions in life is travel, and I’m happy that Abby shares that passion.

Yesterday we got a hint that we might be flying out today, but no one could confirm that. In fact, until 11:00 a.m. today no one could confirm it. But by just after 1:00 we were leaving the hospital with Life-Flight on our way to the airport--the whirlwind continues. Here are a few of the details that led to today’s transport.

First Procedure a Success

Abigail had her first procedure yesterday--the catheterization whose purpose was twofold: (1) to widen the hole in the upper chambers (right atrium and left atrium) of her heart to allow for the mixing of the oxygenated blood and the oxygen-depleted blood; (2) to emit die in various places in the heart, particularly around the coronary arteries, so that the x-ray machine could show the surgeons and cardiologists exactly what was happening in the heart. The x-ray’s confirmed the placement of the coronaries in relation to the aorta, which not surprisingly in Abigail‘s case, will make the surgery that much more complex.

According to everyone involved, the procedure went perfectly. The doctor who was in charge of pulling that inflated balloon back through the hole in the wall between the left and right atrium did so with perfection--so much so that he received a standing ovation from those in the room. As predicted, that procedure has increased the oxygenation in her blood and her oxygenation saturation levels are excellent, and she does not require any oxygen right now; however, they still have the ventilator tub in her throat for transport, and I assume that they might just leave it in because they use it during surgery as well.

After the procedure they began talking about transporting her to Stanford, and suggested that we might possibly be going tomorrow, but that they could not guarantee anything, especially the time. It is odd how that kind of ambiguity hasn’t bothered Lisa or me. It just is what it is. They couldn’t tell us whether we would be flying with her. We didn’t know how and when we would get there, and we couldn’t book any flights ourselves until we knew. And even if Life-Flight were to give us a time in advance, we were advised not to book any flights because the odds of getting bumped for a greater emergency were decent. Beyond that we had no idea where we would stay in Palo Alto. But none of that really mattered; we knew it would just work out, like everything has. In a situation like this, you learn really quickly to accept your situation, and not to get too uptight about anything.

The possibility of getting Abigail to Stanford quickly was exciting (even though the prospect of the surgery is still quite frightening on one level). However, we then stated to feel to anxiety of leaving our four children for who knows how long. And even though we have hoards of people who are willing to not only take care but to love our kids right now, they still need their Mom and Dad.

The Kids Come to Visit Mom and Dad

Last night Lisa’s father ran Jeffrey, Daphne, and Emma up to see us. We got to eat in the cafeteria, show them pictures of Abigail’s heart, and hug them. I don’t think that the hospital wanted anyone in the hospital under the age of 14, but we didn’t ask--on purpose. We knew they had the swine flu long ago and weren’t at risk of infecting anyone. I, of course, was afraid that security might see the kids and require us to leave, so I walked briskly with Emma in my arms through giant circular revolving door at the north entrance of Primary Children’s. I was so anxious to get through the door and into the cafeteria immediately to the left that I moved too fast through the door, smashing Emma and I into the clear glass door, which ironically showered a lot more attention upon us than would have otherwise existed. Thankfully, security just smiled and didn’t bat an eye. Once in the cafeteria I was able to share some exciting news with the kids.

An hour earlier we had obtained permission from the hospital to allow for Abigail’s siblings to spend time with her just before transport. A kind social worker, Shelly (none of the name badges of the hospital employees have last names except for the physicians) spearheaded the effort for me, and obtained permission for our kids to come and see their sister. I am grateful that the powers-that-be at Primary Children’s were sensitive enough to put family over policy. I have nothing but tender affections for the entire staff at Primary Children’s. Every single nurse and doctor that took care of Abigail was kind, sensitive, and genuinely interested in her well being. Their bedside manners were off-the-charts. We hope that we get to spend many more hours there over the years, as Abigail will return for check-ups. They say that they have many adult former patients who still go to Primary Children’s for follow-up care because the doctor’s and nurses there are so adept at handling their complex cases.

Anyway, we had a sweet visit with the kids. After about two hours, it was time to send them home to get ready for bed. We could sense that Daphne and Emma were especially needy and clingy, and we thought momentarily about having them stay the night, but the logistics seemed too difficult, so we sent them home with grandpa. About 15 minutes after they had left, Lisa said, “We made the wrong decision; Daphne and Emma need to be with us; I don’t know how we’ll pull tomorrow off, but we just need to do this.” Lisa then called grandpa, and he very patiently got off the freeway, turned around, and brought them back. I will explain momentarily why I am so grateful for that decision. Too often we ignore those little promptings to put feelings over logistics. And before we know it, their little lives pass by, they grow up, and we look back and have no memories of logistics.

Swimsuits? Who Needs Them?

I took the girls back to the hotel while Lisa stayed with the baby. As soon as we got settled into our room, the girls asked me if they could go “see” the pool. They didn’t have a change of clothes, and they certainly didn’t have swimsuits, but because the pool is perhaps the best thing about any child’s vacation, I thought it was worth the visit. Once at the pool, they asked, “Can we dip our toes into the water?

“Sure.”

Once their toes were successfully dipped, they asked, “Can we just roll up our pants and get our legs wet.”

“Sure.” I could see where this was heading, but my defenses were down.

Then, the climax, “Can we just swim with our clothes on?”

Logistics were flashing through my mind: is the hotel staff and other bathers going to be bothered by people swimming in street clothes; is the hotel staff going to be mad when we come dripping through the lobby in a few minutes; what are they going to wear to bed; will their clothes be dry by tomorrow, and so on. Logistics, schmolistics. Let ‘em swim.

“Sure,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and smiling. Daphne did a double take: Did my Dad just tell me that I could swim with my clothes on? So, she asked again, just to make sure:

“Dad, can we swim with our clothes on?”

“Yes, Daphne, you can.”

“Really?” she asked a third time.

“Yes, really.” Before I had a chance to change my mind, she and Emma quickly submersed themselves into the water.

As they swam and showed me special tricks (“look, Dad, no hands . . .”), they would come up for air, ask a question or two about Abigail, and then go back to bouncing between the hot tub and the pool, clothed in full glory, as two sweaty, old fat guys in the hot tub observed, surely wondering if these girls’ father had lost his mind.

Are We Going to Stanford Today?

This morning Lisa agreed to rest at the hotel with the girls, who got to snuggle and be with their mom while I went and check on Abigail and tried to learn of the flight plans. I called her nurse on my way over to the hospital to find out if he had heard anything regarding transport. He hadn’t. I was concerned that we might receive 15 minutes notice prior to transport, and that we wouldn’t be able to arrange a visit with the kids, the two oldest of which were in school in Orem. I then called a friend in our ward, Sharon Peterson, whose husband, Reggie, is the director of Life Flight in Utah County.

“Sharon, does Reggie by chance have any insider access into the schedule of Life Flight to where he might be able to know if they at least have Abigail penciled in today? I just want to be prepared to get the kids up here in time to see her.”

Sharon made the phone call to Reggie, who placed multiple phone calls within his network. The first report back from Sharon was that the director of Life Flight at Primary Children’s wasn’t familiar with the name, and neither was the dispatcher, and nothing was on the schedule, but he was going to continue to make a few phone calls.

A few minutes later, Dr. Gray, one of Abby’s cardiologists, came in to check on her, and give me a report on things. After we spoke, he said that he was going to communicate with Stanford about her, which lead me to believe that we weren’t too deep into conversations with Stanford, and that perhaps that they weren’t ready for us to leave. I was about to text Lisa to tell her that we weren’t leaving today, when I decided to put it off for a few minutes, while I went to eat brunch (11:00). Before I left to the cafeteria, I spoke briefly to the nurse practitioner about my desire to have the kids come see their sister, and that if there was anyway to give us some notice about the flight, I would greatly appreciate it. She winked at me and said, “I’ve got a few connections.”

The Siblings Meet Their Sister

Within 5 minutes, I received a phone call: “Get your kids up here as soon as possible. Life Flight wants to take off at 2:00, which means they’ll be coming before 1:00 to get her ready. In the meantime, we’ll move Abigail in to the Family Visiting Room.”

I called grandma Stoddard and asked her to pick up Sami and Jeffrey as soon as humanly possibly at school. I then alerted Lisa that I was coming to pick up her and the girls.

By the time we got the little girls to the hospital, got their hands washed, and their gowns and masks on (a condition of the visit), Life Flight was in the hallway heading toward the Family Visiting Room. My heart sank. The big kids were still en route. They’re going to miss this.

The social worker who had helped to arrange the visit quickly went on the offensive with Life Flight, “This girl’s siblings are going to visit, and I need you to give them 15 minutes.” The Life Flight runs, I just learned, 1000 neonatal missions a year, and 800 other (older people) missions per year. That’s 4 point something missions per day. These people are on a tight schedule, and their sense of urgency is usually motivated by life and death. So you can imagine why they were a bit hesitant to allow to much grass to grow under their feet by waiting for a few teenagers to arrive from school.

Emma and Daphne were able to go in first, while we anxiously awaited the arrival of Sami and Jeffrey. Emma and Daphne sang primary songs to Abigail, as the Life Flight personnel prepared her transport carriage. The primary songs were too much for my weak heart, and the tears flowed freely as I filmed the girls singing to their sister. With hands in latex gloves, they touch her head, hands, and body. Emma also told her the story of the Three Little Pigs.

Meanwhile, the Life Flight carriage looked near ready, and I began to wonder if the big kids were going to miss Abby. To my relief, Life Flight was still fast at work with preparations when Sami and Jeffrey arrived. They too dawned the masks, gowns, and gloves before they were able to come in and meet their sister. Gratefully they had a good 15 minutes with her as Life Flight continue to do their thing to get her ready, including moving her from her bed into her carriage, which required the connecting and disconnecting of who knows how many cords and tubes.

Just before they closed the carriage, they told each of the kids to kiss their baby sister’s hand, which each of them did, from oldest to youngest. We then somewhat hurriedly, hugged our kids, tears flowing all around, as we followed the Life Flight Team down through a few back-door corridors and elevator, out to the ambulance which transported us to the Salt Lake City Airport.

I am so grateful that we were able to fly with her. It made everything so much easier than if we would have had to navigate a commercial flight, stood in security, and dealt with the customer no-service that defines the airline industry. Our flight to San Jose was a quick 2 hours and 20 minutes, and we took off, flew, and landed without incident. We then boarded another ambulance (our insurance company is considering chapter 11 bankruptcy at this point) and within 30 minutes we were at Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital at Stanford University--our new home for who knows how long.

Final Lessons from Primary Children’s

It is with some regret that we leave Primary Children’s. One of the blessings of being at Primary Children’s--as I’m sure it is here--is that the longer you stay there the more you realize that your problems and trials are not as tragic or large as you think they are. Whether it is passing an eight-year old girl in the hallway, who is sauntering slowly past you with a head depleted of its hair from her cancer treatments; whether it is a 13-year old boy whose head is contained in some plastic contraption and whose underdeveloped and malformed body sits limply in his wheelchair; or whether it’s a grieving mother who doesn’t have the knowledge of the plan of salvation to carry her through this trial; whether it is a myriad of trials that we don’t have, we quickly learned at Primary Children’s that we don’t have it so bad. Abigail doesn’t know she’s sick; Abigail doesn’t have to worry what others will think about her bald head; Abigail hasn’t had enough time to wonder if she’ll ever walk or run.

Yes, we could feel bad for ourselves and for our little girl, but oddly, that isn’t an emotion we have felt. We are fully cognizant of the possibility that Abigail may not make it. She is facing a major surgery--one that requires a level of expertise that very few surgeons in the world have. We are not yet sure what God’s plan is for her or for us. We know what we are praying for, and we know what you are all praying for, and we hope like we’ve never hoped for anything before that Abigail will be granted a bill of health. Yet, despite all of that uncertainty, we again feel a tremendous measure of peace and gratitude for this tremendous blessing. Good night and hug your kids tight.

Heading for Stanford!

2009-10-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

Last night's procedure went so well the surgical staff gave the physician a standing ovation as he finished.

Jeff and Lisa both were able to travel WITH Abigail on the life-flight jet to Stanford this afternoon. Emma, Daphne, and Jeffrey were hopefully able to see her for the first time just before they left for California. More updates coming soon!

It's a Girl!

2009-10-23T09:57:00.000-07:00

The last few days of uncertainty and fear have been very tender, beautiful, and filled with a peace that is hard to describe. We have been overwhelmed with an outpouring of emails, texts, and voicemails wishing us and our beautiful baby well. Those prayers have an impact so please keep them from coming.

As I am not able to call everyone back, I thought that many of you would like me to fill in the gaps regarding the last few days, and would like an update on Abigail’s condition. Some of the information and detail below may not be of interest to some of you, so I have labeled the text below with headings. I apologize for its length, as this sort of morphed into a journal entry of the first few days of Abigail’s life. Feel free to “cherry-pick” the information that you want to digest by skimming the headings first, and skipping to a section that interests you.

The Birth

Abigail Rose (there’s a story behind the name which will come later) was born at 2:08 p.m. on Monday, October 19, 2009 at Timpanogos Regional Medical Center in Orem. Somewhat ironically, this was without questions Lisa’s most pleasant and smooth delivery, thanks in large part to the surprise assistance of Kathryn (Hardy) Seamons, a close family friend who also happens to be a member of the practice of Nurse Midwives that worked with Lisa throughout her pregnancy. Kathryn just happened to be on call the day that we decided to induce Lisa (Lisa has only gone in to labor once in five tries without the aid of Pitocin, the drug that causes the Uterus to contract) and her cheery disposition was the perfect remedy to what is always an earnest affair. We arrived at the hospital at about 6:30, but we didn’t start the inducement till about 9:00. Fortunately, Lisa began contracting naturally an hour before she was given Pitocin, and she required relatively little Pitocin to set and carry the labor in motion.

By 2:30, I was texting friends various shouts of joy and exclamations of how great this experience was. As I have felt with the birth of each of my children, I was overcome Monday afternoon with a sense of wonder and awe, and a deep appreciation for the workings of God, who at times like this I think of as the greatest scientist in the universe. Abigail was seemingly physically perfect. During the pregnancy, I wondered in passing if it were possible to have yet another startlingly attractive girl—frankly, I could care less how she looks, but I didn’t want her to grow up with the pressure of having three very physically beautiful sisters and not be equally as attractive herself. Well, that concern was quickly erased, as we could immediately see that nature had been kind to this one, and that Abigail was another fine example of how well the Stoddard and Reeves genes mix.

Some Concern Following the Birth

2009-10-20T10:02:00.000-07:00

The only time Lisa was able to hold Abigail, 10 minutes after birth.

The nurse held her close to Lisa, but never let go of the baby.

The respiratory nurse and midwife were concerned that Abigail had swallowed some meconium, and after doing their initial check-up and suctioning fluids from her mouth, they whisked her off to the nursery for a little more attention—all of which seemed like a precaution to everyone involved; not necessarily an alarm that there were major health concerns. While in the nursery, Abigail’s “sats” were taken, and they measured, among other things, the oxygen saturation in her blood, which seemed lower than they would want. She was also breathing a little faster than they would like. They didn’t seem overly concerned, so I continued to videotape and snap photos of her, all the while thinking how lucky we were to have a healthy baby with no known deformities, and with five fingers and toes.

The oxygen saturation in her blood continued to be a concern, as they began to pump oxygen into her in increasing quantities. They initially hypothesized that this meant that the meconium had gotten into her lungs and was causing the air sacks in her lungs to “stick together,” not allowing her to really take deep breaths. The pediatrician on call asked for her to be put on a C-Pap machine that would blow air into her lungs and force them to expand and the “sticky” sacks to open. At that point, our level of concern climbed a little, but we were confident that she was in good hands, and the situation would be rectified soon. At Lisa’s urging, I gave Abigail her first priesthood blessing, a tender moment characterized by the profound feeling of peace that has persisted since that moment. After the blessing, they moved Abigail into a more secluded section of the nursery where they could put her on the c-pap machine.

The Diagnosis Becomes a Little More Grave

It wasn’t until 6:30 that Lisa and I were able to return to the nursery and see Abigail. Lisa had to regain sufficient strength to get into a wheelchair before I could take her to see her daughter, whom she had only held for about 30 seconds before the respiratory nurse whisked her off to the nursery. As we entered the nursery, I pointed to another infant that was housed in a plastic box-type contraption, and whispered to Lisa, “Well, at least we can be thankful that our baby doesn’t require that!”

I wheeled Lisa over to Abigail, who was enmeshed in tubes. We hadn’t been with her 30 seconds when we were introduced to the Neonatologist, a grave, serious, and very direct (but thankfully very competent) man, who minced no words in telling us immediately, “Your daughter is a very sick little girl, and things don’t look good.” Prior to that moment, we hadn’t even conceived of the possibility of Abigail being really sick. But within one minute we understood that she was being placed in Newborn ICU (NICU), and that things “didn’t look good.” The neonatologist then asked us if anyone in the family had been sick recently. I responded sort of awkwardly, and said, “Yes.”

He then said, “Who?” I sheepishly raised my hand. Yes, I actually raised my hand, as if I were a school kid, caught in the act of breaking the rules, volunteering that I was the guilty party. I had been diagnosed with influenza (swine flu) six days prior to the birth—which was 4 days after I felt my first symptoms. I had justified being part of the labor and delivery because I had been symptom free for five days with the exception that my voice was still horse, and I had irritating occasional cough, which generally manifested itself only after I would eat something. I hadn’t ever had a sore throat; I had a fever for three hours, chilled for about 45 minutes, was tired for two days, and that was the extent of my swine flu—a flu that I sort of scoffed at and renamed the “Media Flu” (i.e. the ratings booster for CNN). I’ve been a little less arrogant about my perception of the flu as many of my friends have since suffered from its affects, which for them was for some reason much greater than what I experienced.

Time-out for a commercial: I am really not digressing here, as the swine flu fits into the narrative later, so be patient.

We had postponed Lisa’s induction five days because of the flu. And even though I had felt justified with being in the hospital for the birth of my child, I suddenly felt guilty and very small when the stern neonatologist inquired as to who might have had given the baby the swine flu. His initial hypothesis speculated that her respiratory issues may have to do with the flu, although he had admitted that he was only speculating. Even though we had taken great care to separate me from Lisa during the previous six days, suddenly I began to think that I had been too casual and not careful enough in quarantining myself from her. As it turned out, the swine flu hypothesis soon died in favor of something far more serious.

From Bad to Worse: The Life-Flight to Primary Children’s Hospital

2009-10-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

About an hour after we learned that Abigail was on her way to intensive-care, Lisa and I decided that I needed to go home and be with our other four children to hug them, show them pictures and videos of the baby, and brief them on the situation. I left the hospital with a wrench in my gut, thinking that I might possibly not see Abigail alive again, that I would get a call from Lisa, saying that she had just learned that she had died. What made the feeling more profound was the now seemingly prophetic question that Samantha had posed to me just the night before. I was up in her room just before bedtime, going through our routine of visiting with each of the kids, when Samantha asked, "Dad, are you prepared to deal with the baby dying?" It was such an odd question, and apparently so out of context, that I was startled--so startled that I could only give an honest answer.

"No, Sam, I am not prepared for that. And I don't know how well I would do deal with that. But I know if that's what happened that Heavenly Father would help us."

With Sam's "prophesy" ringing in my ears, it is understated to say that it was difficult to leave the hospital, but I felt an equal pull, tugging at me to go home and be with our other four children.

Minutes after I arrived home, "the call" from Lisa came. I had been in the house for just a few moments, when one of the children told me that Mom was on the phone. I panicked for a moment. Abigail’s condition had escalated to the negative so quickly that evening that I expected that phone call to be the communication that Abigail had died. Instead, the news wasn’t so final, but was almost equally grim: “The neonatologist just announced again that ‘things don’t look good,’ that the baby likely has congenital heart disease, and that she is being transported immediately via Life-Flight to Primary Children’s Medical Center.” She asked me to drive to Primary Children’s to be with the baby.

Before I left the house I sat down with our four children at home, showed them highlights from the day of video and snapshots, and then shared with them the gravity of the situation. My parents had fortunately just showed up at the house, and were there to share in our tears as we watched the video of Abigail, and as I explained to my children that Abigail is very sick, and that she may not live very long. I then reassured my kids of the peace that I had felt since I gave Abigail her first blessing. I told them that I didn’t quite know what that peace meant—that it did not guarantee that Abigail would live or that she would ever be healthy—but that I did know that that peace signified that Heavenly Father was with us, that he’s in charge, and that no matter what happens, that Abigail’s life—be it long or short—will serve to help bring our family come closer to our ultimate goal: eternal life as a family unit.

Before I left my children for the trip to Primary Children’s, we knelt in prayer as a family, and my father served as the voice in our petition to God. After the prayer, I hugged each of my kids with a sensitivity and a love for them that I don’t think I’ve felt so strongly before.

Hours of Uncertainty: Swine Flu Quarantine at Primary Children’s

I was accompanied to Primary Children’s by my good friend, Quinn Kofford. I can think of no other person with whom I would rather spend these hours of uncertainty. As many of you know, Quinn just lost his sweet 5-year old son, Cooper, in July to an automobile accident in his driveway. Quinn and his wife Jana Lynn’s response to the tragic death of their son has been other-worldly. While their open wounds are excruciatingly painful, they have leveraged their experience to change lives and to grow their family closer to God. I know of no other better way to describe their response to Cooper’s death than to call it transformative and life-changing for everyone who has even the remotest relationship with them.

As Quinn drove, I apologized for consuming what was likely to be his entire night and early morning, to which Quinn aptly replied, “Look, Heaven is real close right now. This is a pleasure.” He shared some tender feelings about Cooper, and I about Abigail. We talked about peace, death, life, trial, love, mourning, family, and even sprinkled in a little small talk. We laughed. We cried. We prayed.

Primary Children’s had been alerted that the father of their newest addition was recovering from the swine flu, and security was given strict instructions not to let me near her. Thus, Quinn and I had to stay in the lobby of the hospital the entire evening, and we were told to dawn masks.

Quinn was a lifesaver in so many ways that evening. While security tried to get my cell phone number so that the doctors could “call me” with updates, he made them bring the life-flight team downstairs to discuss Abigail in person. When we hadn’t heard from anyone for over three hours, Quinn made security fetch our team of doctors. When I sat in the lobby, a bit overwhelmed at what I was being told, Quinn asked clarifying questions so that I could properly inform my wife of what we had learned. When I wasn’t allowed to go upstairs, Quinn went in my place and gave a second priesthood blessing to Abigail.

That ability for Quinn to even give that blessing was a bit of a tender mercy. It was 3:30 a.m., and we had just met with three doctors—two cardiologists and a pediatrician—who had explained Abigail’s various heart defects. After Quinn asked a few clarifying questions, I asked the doctors, “I realize that in my state, you are not going to allow me to go upstairs, but I want nothing more than to give my baby a blessing. Because I can’t do that, I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow my close friend here to give my baby a blessing.”

The pediatrician replied with the company line that Quinn probably wouldn’t be allowed into the NICU because hospital policy states that all visitors must be accompanied by a parent. She suggested that perhaps tomorrow they might be able to get an exception, or that perhaps that roaming Elders might be able to give her a blessing tomorrow. At that point, one of the other doctors stood up and said, “Look, it’s 3:30 in the morning, and this friend is here right now. Let’s make that exception right now.” The pediatrician, somewhat uncomfortably radioed the head nurse in the NICU, asking for the exception, which was granted to my great relief. That same doctor who stood up for us then offered to assist Quinn in giving that blessing.

While Quinn went upstairs to give the blessing, I stayed in the lobby and prayed. When Quinn returned to the lobby, we both felt completely energized and we regained an energy that we had lost several hours before. The drive back to Orem at 4:30 a.m. was pleasant, peaceful, and without tired eyelids.

The Diagnosis

2009-10-20T08:50:00.000-07:00

Lisa with Abigail her second night at Primay Children's.

At long last, here’s the diagnosis as it was explained to Quinn and I at that first evening. I will speak in very crude, elementary, possibly anatomically incorrect language, which is how I understand this stuff. The heart, though made up of multiple chambers, is essentially divided into two halves: the right and the left chambers. Each chamber has a main artery—the pulmonary for the right and the Aorta for the left. Those chambers and their corresponding arteries serve the following purposes. Blood flows into the right chamber from the body and the brain. The blood that flows into the right chamber is relatively blue and oxygen depleted, and it comes into the chamber for the purpose of receiving oxygen. The right chamber then pumps its newly received un-oxygenated blood into the Pulmonary Artery, which takes the blood into the lungs where it receives its much wanted oxygen. From there, the now red and oxygenated blood travels into the left chamber of the heart, which then pumps its newly received blood into the Aorta. The Aorta then takes the blood and ships it out to the rest of the body, delivering freshly invigorated, oxygenated blood to all of the other organs and extremities. Without that oxygenated blood, we simply cannot survive.

Abigail’s problems start with the two main arteries—The Pulmonary and the Aorta (the two super highways of blood transport in the body). In Abigail’s heart, the plumbing is simply backward. The Pulmonary Artery is linked with the left chamber and the Aorta is linked with the right—just the opposite of what they should be. The right chamber is getting new blood from the body, and then pumping it out through the Aorta, which then sends that same “blue” blood back into the body without having gotten any oxygen from the lungs. You all know that my children bleed blue, but Abigail is bordering on fanaticism! The left chamber is sending blood through the Pulmonary Artery into the lungs, and then, getting it right back into the left chamber, only to send it right back in to the lungs. So, the oxygenated blood is flowing in circles, not directly getting back into the body, where it needs it. This condition is called Transposition of the Great Arteries.

Fortunately, there’s a hole—rather, a valve opening— in the wall the separates the top of the two chambers that allows blood to flow between the right chamber and the left chamber. Thus, some of the highly oxygenated blood from the left chamber is getting mixed with the bluer blood from the right chamber, and that is how Abigail is getting some oxygenated blood into her body. That hole or valve typically closes within weeks of the birth, but right now it remains open, and right now, it is saving Abigail’s life.

Here’s how they will solve the first and largest problem—the fact that the Aorta and Pulmonary Artery are linked to the wrong chambers. They will actually go and move the arteries into the opposite chamber. During that process, they must be extremely careful not to damage the coronary arteries, which come off the Aorta and supply the heart organ itself with needed blood. They will have to locate the coronary arteries, cut them out cleanly, and then re-attach them to the heart and Aorta which will have been moved the left chamber. In most cases they cut a hole around the coronaries, being careful not to actually cut the coronaries themselves.

The second problem that Abigail faces is that there are multiple holes in the septum, the wall that separates the two chambers. (We later learned that her septum had the appearance of swiss cheese). There was one very large hole in particular that was close to the great arteries, the position of which makes a possible repair technically complicated. Also, for some reason this hole does not aid much in the mixing of the blood that the top hole facilitates. This hole has to be patched.

The third problem is that the Aorta narrows significantly as it gets further from the heart. That narrow section of the Aorta--ac condition called coarctation--could restrict blood flow to the body. That narrow section will need to be removed, and then the surgeons will connect the two large sections of the Aorta together.

Two Procedures to Fix the Problem: From Salt Lake to Palo Alto

Prior to open heart surgery, the cardiologists will perform a procedure known as a catheterization. They will insert a catheter of some kind into her groin, through an artery where it will travel up into her heart. The purpose of the procedure is twofold: (1) to inject die into various places in the heart, which will allow them to take clear pictures (I assume with an X-Ray machine) of a few things such as the exact placement of the coronaries, and (2) to widen (and keep from closing) that all important hole that is allowing the blood to mix in the upper chambers. They will enter the heart through the right chamber, pass through the “good” hole into the left chamber, inflate a balloon at the end of the catheter, and then pull it back through the hole, which will essentially rip open a larger hole in the chamber wall, allowing for a more free flow and mixing of the blood between both chambers. This is sort of a temporary fix that will ensure higher oxygen saturation levels until she can have her second procedure, open heart surgery.

The cardiologists at Primary Children’s told us that heart surgeons here have a vast amount of experience in dealing with each of these three individual issues, and that if Abigail’s heart had just one of these complications then they would feel comfortable performing the surgery to fix the problem. However, the level of complexity to the open heart surgery rises exponentially when all three conditions exist simultaneously which makes the surgeons here think that they aren’t qualified to perform the surgery. In particular, the placement of the large hole in the septum and its proximity to the great arteries will make any repair that much more technically difficult.

The former senior thoracic surgeon at Primary Children’s, a highly regarded and experienced surgeon in such matters was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and is no longer working. He would have had the ability and expertise to perform the operation, but he is no longer working. Therefore, Primary Children’s is going to send Abigail to Stanford Medical Center in Palo Alto, CA, where they have two surgeons with enough experience in the handing these simultaneous issues. So, sometime in the near future, Abigail will be loaded into her own private jet and flown to Palo Alto for heart surgery (I am purposely not adding up the cost of all of this, as at this point I have no idea what my insurance will and will not cover, because at the moment, that is irrelevant—I will be in debt for life if necessary to attend to Abigail’s heart—does anyone know a good loan officer?).

At the moment, we’re waiting for the first procedure that should be performed this afternoon. It was scheduled for yesterday afternoon, then bumped to last night, then bumped to this morning, and now it has been bumped again till this afternoon. The good news is that that means that she’s fairly stable; the bad news is that the longer they wait to perform this procedure the longer that they will likely wait for her to be transported to Stanford. I guess that God knows that I need to continue to learn patience.

Back to The Story: A Blessing from President Eyring

2009-10-20T07:30:00.000-07:00

Grandma Reeves with Abigail

I woke up Wednesday morning, feeling a bit of anxiety as I knew that the cardiologist and surgeons were meeting to discuss a strategy for fixing Abigail’s heart. Lisa and I arrived at the hospital at about 12:00 p.m. I required her to finally get some rest for the first time in 48 hours, while I ran the kids from our hotel at the U of U down to school in Orem. We had brought them up on Tuesday night to the hotel so that we could be with them and so that Samantha (our only over 14) could see Abigail.

When we arrived at the hospital, we met with a few cardiologists, a Dr. Day and a “fellow”—which must mean some kind of a resident doctor. They had prepared a drawing of Abigail’s heart, and began to explain the issues that I had described above. They informed us of their intent to perform the catheterization, explained the risks and rewards of the procedure, and then asked for our consent. As they talked, my anxiety subsided and even though we began to understand some of the risks of the procedure, we again felt peace.

After the cardiologists left, I began to think that I wanted to give Abigail another blessing in preparation for the first procedure. I don’t know that it is doctrinal that two priesthood holders need to be present to give a blessing, as I have often been the sole priesthood holder present when I have anointed and blessed my sick children and spouse. However, the custom of having at least two priesthood holders is a good one, as the more worthy priesthood holders that can participate can only add to the spirit and faith that is present during such blessings. I thought about calling my father, but I didn’t want him to make the drive again, so I search my mind for friends that I might have in the Salt Lake Valley.

My mind and heart turned to John Eyring, a missionary companion from Holland, a dear friend who—despite the fact that geography (he spent most of the last 10-12 years in Boston), family, career, and church responsibilities have made it almost impossible for us to consistently communicate—is a kindred spirit, whom I admire on an intellectual, social, and spiritual level. I sent John a text, telling him about Abigail’s condition, and asking him if he could come an assist me in giving her a blessing. He responded about 20 minutes later that he was in California but that his “#2 man” would be there in an hour. His “#2” man was his father, President Henry B. Eyring, whom John had called and asked to assist in the blessing.

I’m one of the millions of people who have a special fondness for President Eyring. It’s impossible to hear the man speak and to sense his authenticity and not feel attracted to his spirit. Beyond that, I’ve had a few occasions to meet President Eyring. One of those events was at my missionary homecoming sacrament meeting, where he was kind enough to show up to support one of his son’s missionary friends. He spoke at that meeting as well, and I will never forget what he said. I remember him taking notes as he listened to the various speakers, including myself.

President Eyring arrived shortly after 4:30 p.m. on Wednesday. We spoke briefly about her condition before we entered the room, and then President Eyring and I pronounced a blessing upon sweet Abigail. I anointed, and I asked President Eyring to give the blessing. Some time in a more sacred forum, I’ll share with you what he said during and after the blessing, but suffice it to say that the experience only amplified the peace that we have felt since I first gave Abigail a blessing in the nursery in Orem.

The Story Behind the Middle Name

2009-10-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

Abigail was an easy choice of first name, and we assigned it to her as soon as we learned she was a girl. Long before Lisa got pregnant, I had read David Mccullough’s John Adams, and learned to deeply appreciate both John and Abigail’s beautiful relationship, but also Abigail’s often unsung contribution to the founding of the country. She was intellectual, spiritual, and practical—a great woman. I told myself after reading John Adams that if we ever had another girl, we would name her Abigail, after my hero Abigail Adams.

For some reason we struggled mightily with the middle name, and never felt completely comfortable with anything; that is, until we arrived at Primary Children’s hospital. In the lobby of Primary Children’s is a photo of Anna Rosenkilde, Abigail’s great-great-great aunt. Anna was the first head nurse at Primary Children’s in 1922. She remained the head nurse here for 24 years. Patients and staff affectionately referred to her as “Mama Rose.” Thus, the origin of Abigail Rose. Because Primary Children’s has been such an important part of Abigail’s life thus far, Rose seemed like the perfect tribute to an ancestor who played an important role in establishing the hospital as the premier children’s care facility in the region.

Lessons Learned So Far

Lisa and I had a feeling that this baby was something special—after all, we had no business getting pregnant with an IUD that was firmly in place. After three years had passed since the birth of Emma and after hundreds of prayers regarding the matter, Lisa and I felt silence from heaven on the matter of whether we should have another child. We felt that we were done bringing children into world, sold the crib, and started to prepare for a new phase of life. And then we learned in February that number five was on its way.

So, Abigail is indeed special. Let me highlight some of the way in which she is blessing our family right now.

First, within minutes of us learning of some of the complications, the prayers and faith of many friends and family began to pour in. We were alerted via text, email, and phone calls of the faith that was being exercised in our behalf. I experienced the most amazing sensation throughout that first night of complete uncertainty. I had heard people in crisis thank those that have prayed for them, saying something to the effect of how they can feel the power of that prayer. I didn’t understand what they meant by that, and frankly, in my spiritual immaturity I discounted their statements a bit, believing that they were just trying to find a way to say thank you to those who were thinking of them. But I was wrong, and I completely misunderstood the very nature and power of prayer.

I could feel physical manifestations of the prayers and faith of the many that were praying and fasting for our Abigail. I knew that prayer worked, for I’ve seen it work small and large miracles countless times. I’ve always known that faith is a literal power. I know that the spirit is a real substance, consisting of the finest, more refined matter in the universe. I know all of that, so I’m not necessarily surprised by what I have learned regarding prayer. But the exhilarating lesson that I've learned was that the prayers and faith of righteous people have immediate, physical impact on things. Prayer has the ability to control and manipulate the elements. I said earlier that God is the greatest scientist in the universe, and that he has complete control over all elements and matter. Prayer is our conduit, our access, to controlling those elements.

Second, I learned again that one of the greatest miracles that occurs is the peace we can feel in times of complete uncertainty. As I gathered my children that first evening, and, with a quivering voice, related the state of Abigail’s condition, I taught them what I was I feeling: I had a peace that only the Holy Ghost can give that has assured me that despite the outcome we would not be left alone, and that this experience would help our family reach its ultimate goal of being together forever.

The Holy Ghost does not only reveal truth—though I am grateful for that function alone—but he also imbues a peace that cannot be counterfeited. Though I find myself occasionally nervous that I may not be initially happy with the outcome of this situation, Lisa and I have been carried and continued to be carried by the quiet calm and peace that the Holy Ghost provides.

We are so grateful to all of you for your faith and prayers. It works. It matters. Please continue to exercise that faith in our behalf. I could go on for another three pages for all the things I am thankful for right now, but this update is already eight pages. We will continue to update and share with you as things progress.

Love, Jeff.