Five

There's a question I don't know how to answer. Because of you, I probably won't know how to answer it ever again.

"How many kids is this for you now?" I get asked that a lot.

I know the answer. But I've been wrestling with how to answer. It's not that you don't count. Because you do count; more than I can explain. It's just that your sister is coming soon. Everyone can see my belly swell with her and will get to meet her and talk about her and kiss her. We are so excited about her. But when people ask, I don't know whether to tell people about you. So, most of the time I don't, even though I want to. I really am sorry. But I can't seem to verbalize you to people I only see once every 6 months, or to strangers I run into in the store, or to the random people who seem to think the expansion of our family is their business. You're just too special. And I can't -I refuse to- explain such an intimate relationship as ours so casually.

I remember when we found out about you, our fourth child. We had been trying longer than we had with your brother and sisters. I wasn't worried. Good things do take time after all. Then, there you were! The faintest little blue line on a stick let me know. I was so excited. Also, I was nervous. I'm always a big, messy mixture of both.

I remember telling our families and a few friends. I could hardly keep you a secret. I wanted everyone to know.

I remember being exhausted. I wasn't ever sick, but boy was it hard to get up in the morning. However, I could deal with tired because I could eat! I was so grateful to you for that.

I remember I was able to keep up my activity level in those early weeks. I was working out, eating healthier than ever in my life, and I couldn't help but think how much you would benefit as well.

I remember when I first started seeing that early bulge in my middle. You were in there, happy and growing. I was feeling great, and I was sure you were too.

Then I remember the day I saw that little bit of reddish-pink on my toilet paper. It's supposed to be normal to get a little bit of spotting in the first trimester, but until you it had never happened to me. When it never got any heavier, I didn't worry.

I remember waking up the next morning alert, unlike the normal groggy that had taken over me for the past couple of months. Taking advantage of the fresh morning air while everyone was still asleep, I went for a run. When I saw blood in the bathroom afterwards, I determined to take it easy for the rest of the day.

I remember, at my friend's house later that day, passing two blood clots. I knew then something was wrong, though I could barely believe it. It couldn't be what I thought. You were perfect. We were both so healthy. I snuck out to the car to call my midwife, only to have the possibility I feared confirmed. You were leaving us way too soon. Then I called your Daddy and cried.

I remember the next day doing everything I could to distract myself. The bleeding continued, and still I didn't have the cramping I was told was coming. I wondered if I should call my midwife again. But I didn't want to go in and listen for a heartbeat I knew wasn't there anymore. In the middle of cleaning out the car, I cried again.

I remember calling your grandma when the cramping finally started. As the pain slowly escalated, I just needed another woman who understood. Your Daddy is wonderful, but sometimes even a Mommy needs her Mommy, even if there's nothing she can fix.

I remember bawling on your Dad while he held me, helpless to do anything but stroke my hair and silently pray as my body worked so fiercely to remove yours.

I remember feeling guilty. You were born into the toilet because I was unable to make it to the shower. Even with the pain I knew I should have powered through those last few steps. And I didn't. What a horribly vile place for someone as beautiful and pure as you to end your mortal journey.

I remember your Dad giving me a Priesthood blessing of peace and comfort and strength. He spoke to me of Jesus Christ's Atonement, of the Resurrection and the blessing of eternal families. As I grieved for you, my mind held to the truths my heart was too broken to feel.

I remember the next day feeling -physically- as if the night before hadn't even happened. I was amazed at how quickly my body recovered. My heart was a different story. I felt empty for a long while. Then I felt angry. I wasn't angry at anyone in particular, just at the situation. I was oppressed by the thoughts of uncertainty and powerlessness swirling through my mind. My arms ached to hold you. My heart ached with your absence. My soul ached so much that my body hurt. And there was absolutely nothing that I could do about any of it.

I remember your Dad telling me that he had let the family know. It was a relief that I didn't have to. I didn't have the words.

Then I remember realizing, in one of the many moments I spent thinking of you, the immensity of your reality, of your existence, your presence in eternity. I won't pretend to know the complexities of the journey of the spirit to the mortal world and back again. I do, however, know the importance of bodies in God's eternal plan for His children, even (and now, especially) the ones that don't to get stay very long. Yours lived inside me for a few short months. I am sorry I was unable to help you form it to completion. Thankfully, Jesus Christ overcame death. Your death. My heart's death. All death. Because of Him, we only said 'goodbye' temporarily. Your body will be complete and perfect one day. I will finally meet you. Until then I want you to be invested in the work God has for you with all the vigor I'm trying to do my work here, because I know there is so much more to our existence in eternity than this brief, imperfect stint in mortality.

I remember the day I realized I hadn't cried in some time. Somehow it didn't make me sad.

I remember the day I felt like myself - a new self, but myself just the same. Those days began increasing in regularity until they were the new normal. The grief slowly dissolved into something less acute. I don't know how it happened or when, but the pain wasn't sharp anymore. The aching was no longer debilitating. You left a hole, but you somehow filled it too.

I remember when I knew it was time to start trying for your sister. That prompting scared me. Because I miss you. And I doubted (still do) I could recover a second time.

I remember finding out about her. Your dad made me take a pregnancy test. I had been emotional all week, but I was sure the test would reveal nothing. But he was so sure he was right that I humored him. That bold blue line on a stick proved him right. I cried. For the first time in months, the tears were different.

I realized recently how near you must be to your sister. In a world I can't yet see, I know you're there, encouraging her, helping her, getting her ready for a journey you so recently took. Your life didn't start inside me, and it truly didn't end there either. Amidst the all the things I can't and don't yet understand about God's work, that still brings me peace.

I miss you. I do. I miss the face I never got to kiss. I miss the belly I never got to tickle. I miss the laugh I never got to hear. I miss the name I never got to pick.

I know you'll never be in the family picture on the wall. I'll never wake up in the middle of the night to feed you, to calm or hug you. I'll never see you take your first steps. I'll never hush your tantrums or wipe your tears. I'll never tear my hair out over your stubbornness. I'll never celebrate your successes or teach you the beauty in failures. As long as I'm on Earth, I'll never hear you say my name.

But you are still my child; as much as the siblings who are in the family picture.

Our experience, our mortal entanglement was different. It was not what I wanted. Still, it has become sacred to me. Our Father in Heaven is amazing that way, isn't He? He takes our brokenness and somehow makes it meaningful. I remain unable to understand why it had to be this way. But I'm at peace. Our family is eternal. I've never been more sure of that. You are as much a part of my heart and our eternal progression as your siblings. You are just carved in there in a divinely different way.

So when people ask: "How many kids is this for you now?" I know they are just asking for a number. But a number doesn't really do any of this justice. I give them a number anyway, the only number they will understand. It's the only number I don't have to explain. I smile as I think of you all one by one: him, her, her, you, and her. Then my mouth replies, "Four". But I want you to know, my heart declares, "Five".

Every single time.