I Didn’t Know
I couldn’t stop crying, and I didn’t know why.
It was a Sunday morning in October, 2005. Andrew had gone early to church, to one leadership meeting or another. It was my job to get the six kids into Bubba, our big old van, pick up my neighbor and her brood, and drive us all to the chapel. My neighbor’s kids would fight over who got to sit by my two-year-old and help him out of his car seat when we got there. Andrew would be waiting with a bench saved for us, primed for the all-hands-on-deck operation of keeping our family contained, quiet, and - with luck - listening, during the sacrament service.
I did this every week. It was a challenge, but I like to be challenged. After sacrament meeting, I served in the nursery while our older children attended Primary and youth classes. Some people had questioned whether it was fair to ask a busy mom of six to take responsibility for toddlers on Sunday, too, but I usually felt a lot of peace in that little room with Primary music in the background and a handful of tots playing quietly; I enjoyed my friendship with my co-leader, too. There was no reason for this week to be different.
Pregnancy hormones? I’d stated many times, “My pregnancy hormones are happy hormones. Breastfeeding is another story.” I was about sixteen weeks along, and my mild morning sickness was fading to an occasional twinge of nausea. There was fatigue, of course: I expected no less from pregnancy in my late thirties. As I described it to my parents, “I crave my afternoon nap the way an alcoholic craves a drink,” but I made sure I always got that nap, and I’d have an extra-long one this afternoon while Andrew was on duty. This was going to be my last pregnancy, and I was determined to enjoy it.
But that morning, somewhere in the process of dressing and snacking and supervising, I burst into tears and found I just couldn’t stop. I couldn’t do any of it - escort ten wiggly souls into the van, drive, sing, pray, lead our little nursery. . . It must be the nursery that was the problem. Maybe it was time to ask for a release.
At any rate, it wasn’t happening that week. I called my neighbor, who was a bit alarmed at the sound of my broken voice, and told her, “Don’t be waiting outside with the kids; it’s going to be awhile.” I called my husband and told him if his children were going to get their dose of spiritual training that week, he was going to have to make it happen. He posted straight home and took everyone to church. Someone else - I’m not sure who - filled in with the nursery. I went back to bed and sobbed myself to sleep in the suddenly quiet house.
After a morning of rest and an evening of coddling, I was just about myself again. Maybe a little stressed. I made an appointment to talk to the leader of our congregation. Clearly, the nursery was too much for me: it was time to ask for a release.
I didn’t know why I cried that day. I didn’t even suspect that the baby I was carrying was anything other than healthy and growing. After six wonderfully normal pregnancies, I had forgotten even to worry that things could go otherwise. But nine days later, when I learned that the baby’s heart had stopped beating some time ago, I couldn’t help but connect that fact to my unexpected breakdown.
I didn’t know that I knew . . . and yet I did.