A Glimpse Into Ty's Book

As most of you know, I've been writing off and on throughout this past year about Ty and my experiences with losing him, both the hard times and especially the spiritual comfort. I'm hoping it will be published someday, but at the very least, I'm compiling the story for myself and my family. Here's a portion of it, for those who have been curious and asking:

(The INTRODUCTION starts off with the letter I wrote to family and friends, letting everyone know Ty had passed away but how much comfort we all ready felt in understanding the gospel. It's on my blog from a year ago, so I have not included that part.)

Prelude
A PIECE OF HEAVEN

There was a time in my life when the most confident and accomplished I felt was on the field playing college rugby. For four-and-a-half-years I embraced rugby as a colossal piece of my identity. Nothing felt more exhilarating or more fulfilling than sprinting down the field, gripping the ball in my hands, and side-stepping my opponents with a skillful score. I remember crying to my husband that I knew I wanted kids someday—I’ve always know that—but I feared I would never feel as good about myself as I did on the rugby field. Dan soothed my concerns, promising the joy I’d feel as a mother. I could only try my best to believe that would be true.

Months after we both graduated college, my husband and I unanimously agreed that we wanted to expand our family. The instantaneous longing and readiness for a baby struck with such force that I was not prepared for the period of rejection, stress, and anxiety that followed. Despite a series of appointments and fertility medication, my body—which seemed to shut down within a couple months of trying to conceive—was still not cooperating.

Some people might judge me, saying that just over a year is not long, even for people without fertility problems. That may be so. However, the challenge for me lay not in waiting. If I had been told I needed to wait a certain amount of time before conception happened, I’m sure I would have handled it better. Given a timeline, wouldn’t we all accept challenges with a readier heart? But fear of the unknown and jumping to the worst conclusions has been something I’ve struggled with for years. What if I could never have children and this was only the beginning of a long road of failure? Fear inhibited my patience and my faith.

After thirteen months of frustration and dismay, I finally presented the problem to the Lord with the truest of intentions. Feeling impressed to attend the temple—and not just attend but to go alone for my first time—I knelt by my bed before I left and offered a tearful, heart-felt prayer to our father in Heaven, emphasizing the desire for comfort, knowledge, and, most importantly, hope.

Inside the temple (after almost bailing out on my plan because of the cold December weather and misplacing my recommend) I sleepily completed an endowment session before entering the Celestial room. The peace in the Celestial room awakened me from my tired-state, reminding me of my intended purpose for coming to the temple. I sat quietly, unsure of what exactly to expect, and pondered the promise in my Patriarchal Blessing, which counseled that guidance would be given to me in the temple. After a few minutes of struggling to focus next to a chatty pair of friends, my eyes opened in slight annoyance and I caught sight of the Bible. A thought crossed my mind to flip through it.

Skeptical of whether the thought was a prompting or just me talking to myself, I grabbed the white Bible and moved myself to a secluded chair. I turned the pages with no idea what I was looking for. My attention fell on the book of Samuel in the Old Testament. I read the first chapter a couple times through, as I was unfamiliar with the story. But I felt connected to the woman named Hannah: In her sorrows, Hannah wept and prayed to the Lord to bless her with a son because “the Lord had shut up her womb” and she “was in bitterness of soul”. When the Lord remembers her and she indeed conceives a son, Hannah names him Samuel because the Hebrew translation for Samuel is, “requested of the Lord”.

Feeling inspired by the strength and prayerful nature of this woman, whose feelings and desire tread so close to my heart, I couldn’t help but feel connected to verse 27, which says, “For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him.” I read that verse over and over again, waiting for a booming, overwhelming feeling of confirmation that the Lord was answering my prayer. But it didn’t come.

Not until I was driving home in the car, and sharing the experience with Dan over the phone did a happy spirit clear my doubts. He asked me, “Do you really think that after praying to the Lord for an answer, you just happened to open that story?” Reassured by Dan’s words, and the renewed feeling in my heart, I held onto the hope that our future would surely include a child. The Lord had answered my prayer.

The following day at church, my husband and I met with the Bishop for tithing settlements. While speaking with our Bishop and mentioning our efforts to conceive, tears touched the Bishop’s eyes. He expressed his feelings that “good things” were coming our way for 2009. While offering a blessing of comfort to Dan, the Bishop stated that Dan was a good husband and would enjoy the blessings of fatherhood within the upcoming year, and that we “would be blessed with all our righteous desires”. Surprised by the boldness of this promise, coupled with my experience in the temple, Dan and I crossed into 2009 with bolstered faith and assurance.

Two months later, despite having witnessed a seemingly endless number of negative pregnancy tests, I found myself staring with disbelief at the positive test in my hand. I checked and re-checked the instructions, analyzing the results until I convinced myself there was no possible way I was reading it wrong. Really, truly, I was pregnant!

People often asked me if it was the final refill of Clomid that helped produced this wonderful event. I would reply that I’m sure it did help; but in my mind, I remembered the promise I received in the temple, and offered silent thanks to a loving Heavenly Father.

The glowing, radiating energy that comes with pregnancy followed me through the whole course of carrying my son—minus a mere month-and-a-half of mild sickness. My blissful pregnancy seemed uncannily comfortable and easy. As my husband described me, “You are the most un-hormonal woman I have ever met,” which was his way of complimenting me, while expressing gratitude for dodging the emotional chaos that might have transpired in its stead.

Still, as the final months approached, I couldn’t shake the biting anxiety that something might happen to my baby. As I watched other pregnant women grow, I questioned my comparatively small belly. True, I carried well and exercised throughout my pregnancy. Even so, the indispensable worry over my son’s safety amplified two weeks before his due-date. I noticed less movement from him and, while testing seemed to prove otherwise, seemed sure that I was leaking amniotic fluid.

Five days prior to Ty’s due-date, I still felt compelled to check on my son’s condition. I met with a perinatologist who performed a non-stress-test on my baby, and everything seemed to be checking out just fine with his heart-rate. However, twice they measured my amniotic fluid levels. The perinatologist indicated, with some concern in her voice, that she could barely find any fluid inside me—which in part explained my smaller belly, but most importantly, the lack of movement from my baby.

While Ty seemed to be fairing well enough at the moment, the doctor explained that Ty could sit on his cord or lack sufficient cushioning and I wouldn’t know it until it was too late. “So,” she continued, “I think we need to send you to labor and delivery to be induced.”

My eyes filled with tears—a combination of excitement and trepidation—as I managed to say to my mother beside me, “I’m having my baby today!”

Labor was a whirlwind of surprise, fearful intensity, and pure joy. With “Cervidil” inserted to soften my cervix at 4pm, the supposed plan included sleeping at the hospital, followed by induction with “Pitocin” at 5am the next morning. However, with staggering pace, Ty Edward Kiefer made his entrance into this world that night at 11:26pm on October 20, 2009, weighing 6lbs 11oz and measuring 19 ½ inches long. His astounding arrival came so unexpectedly that I survived a natural birth without even a chance of receiving an epidural.

Never in my life have I felt more proud.

Still shaking in recovery, I held my infant son in my arms, in awe of the adoration and instant bond between mother and child. With my ever-proud husband at my side, we cherished our newest family member, unable to imagine a happy life without him.

Naïve and inexperienced, I once thought life as a rugby player was as a good as it gets—that I might never feel as satisfied or confident with my accomplishments. How I laugh at myself now, recalling the unparalleled experience of birthing a child and its accompanying role of being a mother. Having tasted the fruit, I never wanted anything more.



My mother was right. While I was pregnant, she told me I would finally know how much she loves me. In the weeks following Ty’s birth, I wrote her a letter expressing that now I understood what she meant: Cradling a piece of Heaven on my chest, my heart nearly burst, straining against the magnitude of love that grew each day.

I remember commenting to my friend long before Ty was born, “Sometimes I wish I could skip the baby stage and jump right into the cute toddler stage!” I can still see the way she knowingly shook her head at me, eyeing her three young children at her feet, and said it would be different when it was my own baby. Like my mother, she, too, was right.

Holding my tiny newborn, I loved his angelic body, whose pure spirit seemed to linger a baby-sized hand away from Heaven. I realize now why people are so drawn to newborns. It is because their perfect spirits remind us of the home we once came from, and of an eternal plan so much greater than we fully comprehend. I believe a quiet part of our spirit has the capacity to be touched by that of a newborn, gently awakening things we once knew but have forgotten through the veil.

As a new mother, I began to understand the meaning of sacrifice as I underwent the interrupted nights of sleep, arranged my life around pumping and feedings, diapers—and developed the excruciating pain of mastitis within two weeks of Ty’s birth. But I couldn’t bring myself to complain too much. I kept reminding myself how desperately I wanted him and how grateful I was to have a healthy, beautiful boy, home with me at last. My patience as a mother surpassed that which even I would have given myself credit for. I realized that my struggle and fear of not conceiving had fortified my patience, and most importantly, my value in motherhood.

Most days and nights, I learned to laugh through the difficult times. Finding reasons to smile at my little guy was not difficult though. During the day, he lay calm and mellow, and so serious with his peaceful demeanor. At night, he only fussed with need of a diaper change or a quick feeding and then went right back to sleep—except for the one time I was in the middle of changing his diaper and he started screaming. With the dim night-light, I couldn’t figure out why he was uncharacteristically upset—until I felt the warm liquid all over his eyes and face. He had shot himself in the face with his own urine. Oh, that driving instinct to care for our young when they are in pain or in need!

I still smile when I reminisce over my first date-night with my husband. We had enjoyed parenthood for one month and were celebrating by eating dinner at our favorite restaurant. After ordering a meal to share, minutes passed before I commented on our body language: Both of us had an elbow on the table, resting a heavy head in our hand, looking off in the distance without even speaking to each other. The passing waiters probably thought we were the most unromantic, boring couple they’d ever served. Laughing after I point this out, we half-jokingly considered skipping the movie to spend our date-night napping.

Despite sleep-deprivation, Dan and I praised each of Ty’s milestones with sheer delight—the first bath; that invigorating four-hour stretch of sleep; the tiny smile that surely wasn’t gas this time; rolling over; that incredible, heart-melting laughter; first night sleeping in the crib; the first bite of “solid” food . . .

However, there were times when I struggled with juggling the life of a mother, newborn, wife, two part-time jobs, exercise, and other extra hobbies and activities on my list. Less than two months into this, I was still figuring out how to do it all, and without making time for naps.

One day, my morning began differently. I didn't rush to arise and pack up the baby and everything else I would need for the day. I didn't hurry to my dad's house to exercise, followed by jetting out the door to complete my To-Do list.

Instead, I woke up a little later than intended just before my visiting teachers arrived. They offered a lesson on compassionate service and brought a wonderful spirit into my home. It was a peace that had been lacking over the last couple months—and especially over the past two weeks. In our discussion, I found myself sharing with them how we all need to have quiet moments in our day in order to feel the Spirit and allow promptings to find their way into our hearts. When my friends left, with my own words ringing in my ears, I realized a few things:

First, I needed to slow down. I was exhausting myself when there were other solutions, such as re-prioritizing my priorities. In my whirlwind days, I allowed life to distract me from simply holding my boy and snuggling him. My sudden insight was not so much an epiphany, as a willingness to accept the needed changes in my life, so that I would never take my son for granted.

I cradled Ty in the rocking chair that morning, ignoring the tiny remnants of anxious reminders of things I really could be doing. Instead, I savored the pleasure of kissing his sweet face and feeling his little hands clinging to my chest. My “To-Do” list that day became simple:

• Love my son and enjoy my time with him as his mother.

Months later, I would be ever grateful for the whispering teachings of the Spirit that allowed me to grow as a mother, and enjoy that precious moment (and so many more) with my son. Had I known about my limited time with him, I might never have let him go.

(*To those still reading, I've skipped the next segment which writes about the details of that morning. Its pretty vivid and I'm not sure how much I'll actually include in the book just yet. If you're really interested, email me and I"ll send it to you. I just don't want to upset anybody. I've skipped to where Dan and I are at the hospital and nothing more can be done for Ty)
 . . .

It was only a few minutes before a nurse wrapped Ty in a white knitted blanket and let me hold him. His body felt so empty. But I cradled him close to my chest and he still felt like my baby. I kissed the small bridge between his eyes as I always did before naps and bed-time. Ty appeared so peaceful and beautiful, like he was sleeping: a little angel in my arms. I rocked him and loved him with Dan crying beside me and holding Ty’s chubby hand.
“Taumafai,” I murmured, and Dan began to sing the Samoan hymn, Taumafai—a song which speaks of persevering when the road becomes tough; that by relying on Christ and hoping for the future, we can do all things.

It had become Dan’s favorite song on his mission in New Zealand—a song he sang on days when he needed extra strength, and a song he sang to me from time-to-time during our five years of marriage when nothing else could console me. It had always brought us peace in the past as it did that day in the hospital, embracing our son.

A peaceful spirit entered the room with our tearful voices, reminding us that Ty was with his Grandpa Kiefer, who passed away a year and half before, and with Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father. A blanket of strength wrapped around us, confirming in our hearts that Ty was safe and happy, and worried about our grief for him.

We held Ty’s body for the next hour, savoring the warmth of his skin before it faded away. Dan and I (and even Ty) received blessings of comfort from my father and one of Dan’s good friends. When it was time to let Ty go, Dan and I each held him one more time, unwilling to believe this would be the last time we would carry him in our arms. But the ER doctor wanted to speak with us, and so we finally left our little Bubs behind, where a kind social worker made molds of his hands and feet.

Speaking with the doctor, we were touched by the true sorrow in his eyes. Our son’s death was not simply a part of his job. The experience of trying to save Ty’s life was personal and painful and the doctor felt deeply for us. He explained that as far as they could tell, our son had passed away from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). He told us much of what we already knew: that little was known about what causes SIDS.

Harrowed with guilt, I dared to ask the question that was tearing me apart inside. “Was it because the blanket was over him?” I winced, remembering how I couldn’t see Ty—how he was completely covered beneath it.

The doctor offered his firm reassurances that a baby blanket is much too light-weight to suffocate him, despite the precautions that are given to new parents. Dan also reminded me that Ty was a strong boy, who could lift his head without any hindrance and roll over both ways. The doctor emphasized that there seems to be a biological and chemical problem inside the brain of babies who die of SIDS that impedes their respiratory system. I felt some momentary relief by this news, as did my husband. But the embedded guilt would plague us in future days to come.

Dan and I returned to my dad’s condo—a home we had lived in during the first four years of marriage. It felt safe. It felt like the only place we could return. We never wanted to step foot into our own apartment again.

Dan and I walked around the neighborhood before we entered the condo. Hand-in-hand we tried to comprehend how our lives had changed in what seemed an instant. More importantly, we discussed what we were going to do about it.

With urgency in his voice, Dan held me in front of him and asked me to make a promise with him: That we would always be there for each other and rely on one another; that we would include God in our struggle to heal and never turn our backs on Him.

Through our embrace, we began the most crucial first-step of our grief. We created a solid union between husband and wife and God; securing a foundation that would bring us closer together, despite the precious life we once knew lying in ruins before us.

A day at a time . . . a week at a time . . . we hoped and prayed for survival.

(*After one more segment, I jump into the first month of blog posts. Then I write sort of a spirtitual re-cap of things I learned in that first month. Then there are blog posts from month 2, followed by another mini-chapter of things I learned in that second month. The book continues in this format up until the first year, so far anyway. I'm happy to hear any constructive criticism if you've read any of this.)