Since mom's always behind the camera:

What gorgeous girls! Wouldn't you agree?

Let Go

Let There Be Music

And let it be GOOD music.
Here are some links to songs I've found especially moving lately. Hope you enjoy them, too!


Sam Kelly sings "Make You Feel My Love" so beautifully it trumps even Garth Brooks' version for me. And I love Garth Brooks' version. He's just THAT GOOD.

This is beautiful, even more so because she is so timid about her outstanding voice. Enjoy!  Janet Devlin "Your Song"

I have NEVER heard this song sung so beautifully. THIS is the way it was MEANT to be sung!! Every emotion is just perfect! Jeffrey Adam Gutt sings "Hallelujah." His voice: Mmm!! And something about his eyes: double-mmm!!

I can't decide if I love it or hate it. But this song moves me. Listen to it entirely and tell me what you think.  Joe Pug - "Hymn 101"

 And a special one for my dad. One of his favorites, and mine still. Peter, Paul and Mary sing "The Marvelous Toy."

Living with Insomnia

I am an insomniac. A real, true, chronic insomniac. For five six years I have not been able to sleep easily, naturally. Most nights I get maybe two to three hours of sleep, if I'm lucky. Many nights I can't sleep at all.

People in general simply do not understand this. When I say that I am an insomniac, people, especially doctors, seem to have a limited number of responses.

Some people say, "Maybe you don't need to sleep." They're referring to those  geniuses who accomplished marvelous things because they truthfully didn't need to sleep more than a few hours a night. They look to these examples and, judging me by the same standard, assume I am simply complaining. If I were stronger, more motivated, or had more of whatever quality they judge I am lacking, I would magically have the energy to do amazing things while the rest of the world is sleeping. But I wish they understood how frustrating it is to be so desperate for sleep but never able to get it, even while everyone around you sleeps easily and deeply enough to wake up feeling refreshed in the morning. I can't even remember what refreshed feels like. If I didn't need to sleep, if I truly felt just fine without sleeping, I probably wouldn't be complaining, I probably wouldn't label myself an insomniac. If I were just a chronic whiner, a hypochondriac, and not a genuine chronic insomniac, I would probably have a whole grocery list of things wrong with me.

Some people, especially medical professionals, say, "You don't look like an insomniac." And I want to throttle them and tell them, "You don't know what it's like to live in my body!" Sure, I might look okay--I don't have those nasty premature signs of aging that some people do--but if you look closely, you might see: after nights of no sleep, my eyes are bloodshot and so dry they water excessively and my makeup will run (that's if I even have the energy to put makeup on). My body, while relatively thin, is soft and out of shape because I simply never have the energy to exercise. I am tired and worn down, all the time, and while I might look okay, just watch for those tell-tale signs of exhaustion, e.g. how slowly I move, how my eyes glaze over because I can't think straight, how little I accomplish because I am so drained from the beginning of my day, the way my muscles start to spasm so it looks like I am shivering because my entire body is screaming that it needs to rest.

Too many people say, "Oh. Well, whenever I can't sleep, I just [fill in the blank: drink chamomile tea or green tea or warm milk, read a book, listen to a book on tape, write a book, write about my thoughts and worries, take melatonin or valerian or coffea crudea or other herb/s, eat bananas, make sure I don't eat carbs or fat or protein before bed, make sure I don't go to bed with a full stomach, make sure I don't go to bed on an empty stomach, go to bed early, stay awake until I feel sleepy, get up early, cut out naps, take a nap, do yoga, exercise, meditate, catch up on chores, do something enjoyable, etc. etc.]." And want I to explain "whenever I can't sleep" is so very different from "I can't ever sleep." And really, after five six years, do they honestly think I've never tried these things? They think they can "fix" my problem in the same way they fix their own "problem."

Mental health professionals will try to force me into "cognitive-behavioral therapy" (CBT), which undoubtedly will fix my insomnia. Here is what CBT is: You deny your body sleep (already happening, no forcing necessary there) until you feel "sleepy," which, in an insomniac's vocabulary is equivalent to "passing out." After days of little to no sleep, you are finally ready to "regulate" your sleep. This means you go to bed when you feel "sleepy," but you only stay in bed for twenty minutes; if you are still awake in twenty minutes, you leave your bedroom and do something active until you feel "sleepy" again, then repeat until you are unconscious. But if this doesn't happen by 5 hours after you first went to bed, you must force yourself to stay awake until the next night, then repeat. Once you are so sleep-deprived that you are literally passing out when you first go to bed, you limit yourself to 5 hours only for at least a week. (Note that a healthy individual sleeps a bare minimum of 7 hours a night, ideally 8-9.) Then, if you can keep this up for a week, or more depending on the program, you are allowed to increase your sleep time by half an hour. You can increase your sleep time to up to seven hours a night. But if, at any time, you begin having difficulty falling asleep again, a.k.a you are not so sleep-deprived that you pass out at bedtime, you must begin the program all over again. You will never be allowed more than 7 hours a night. It is strictly forbidden to take naps, sleep in, or go to bed early, ever. You know, because this sounds like such a pleasant way to live.

Some people, especially doctors, say, "That's because you're depressed/anxious." And I want to say, "Yes, I am depressed, and I am anxious. But couldn't that be the result of my insomnia, and not the cause of it?" They can pump me full of any variety of anti-depressants, anti-anxiety pills, and sleeping pills, or send me to frequent, expensive therapy sessions, but it won't fix my depression or anxiety because it doesn't fix my insomnia. But just try telling a doctor that, I dare you. They'll tell you that you've got a bad attitude, that you're not doing it right, and that that must be the real reason for insomnia.

Some few, precious people, simply say, "I'm so sorry. I hate it when I can't sleep. That must be so hard." In those cases, I just about break into tears saying, "Yes, yes. It is so hard! Thank you for not judging me or trying to fix me." 

Don't get me wrong, I want my insomnia to be fixed. In the same way someone with a collapsed lung or a broken leg wants their problem to be fixed. What I hate is being told "It's all in your head; we ran a bunch of blood tests, and there's nothing wrong with you; there's nothing wrong with you except you can't sleep; there's nothing wrong except you say you can't sleep." (This last one is so annoying. I say I can't sleep? It's like they don't even believe me.) This would be the same as telling that person with a collapsed lung, "We ran a bunch of blood tests, and there's nothing wrong with you except you can't breathe." Or telling the person with a broken leg, "There's nothing wrong except you say you're in incredible pain and can't walk (but since the bone isn't actually showing, as far as we can tell it's perfectly fine)." 

Alright, so this rant doesn't seem to have a pretty little point that I am trying to make. This is heavy on my mind because I get the pleasure of seeing an insomnia specialist next week, who will explain to me again why cognitive-behavioral therapy is so much better than drugs.

 I guess I just want to beg you to please be considerate of poor insomniacs. If we're too tired to make fabulous dinners, go out with friends or join playgroups or even go to church, finish novels, join a gym, or even explain why we're so tired, please don't take it personally. When we say, "I couldn't sleep last night," by way of explanation, please don't assume this was a one-night thing and we can get over it as quickly as normal people could. Unless you number among our fellow chronic insomniacs, you just can't understand how tired and miserable we are.

Leave your thoughts and comments, please!

Dance Dance Evolution

Success! We've taught Lana how to dance in under a year! Watch her dancing skills evolve.

May 2012

July 2012

September 2012

May 2013

And the Big Finish!

Ta-da! Lana can dance!!

Ten is too many

It's the end of the day; dinner and bath time are done, and it's finally Lana's bedtime. We grab a couple books, as usual, and with a great sigh I read the first title, "One to ten." Anthony groans and says, "It should be 'One to Three.'" For some reason, this strikes us both as so hilarious it takes a full three minutes to regroup. Poor Lana must think we're crazy.

(This isn't the book we have, but it's close enough.)

Peek-a-boo is the name of the game!

Watch Lana grow in these videos of peek-a-boo. It never gets old, does it?

August 2012 - Peek-a-boo is fun in a chair!

January 2013 - It's fun with a mirror!

February 2013 - It's fun everywhere!

March 2013 - Peek-a-boo is fun in the sun!

April 2013 - It's fun with a table!

May 2013 - I'll never be done!

(Good thing mom finds this game nearly as entertaining as Lana.)

This Is Water

Watch this! This is Truth. Beautiful.




And the whole speech, now that you're hooked:

To My Friend Battling Infertility

Dear Friend,

  My name is Hannah. You don't know me, but if I could, I would throw my arms around you with a great, "Oh, honey!" And I would sit you down and LISTEN--through the tears and the anguish, the bitterness, the confusion, the rollercoaster of hope and grief that you've been on for two  years. And there is nothing you could say that would shock or offend me. Because I'VE BEEN THERE.

  I've been where you are right now. I KNOW. I'll tell you what I know later, but first you need to know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE. I think  you already understand this, because you actually started a public blog about what you are going through. But I hope I can help you feel it a little more, because I felt you reaching out for validation and support through your words.

  So here's my story (it's a lot like yours, but longer). Sorry for how long this got--I'm a bit of a writer and it's a hard habit to kick.

  My husband and I met at BYU and married young; I hadn't planned on being married at 20 but I knew Anthony was the one. We've been married for eight years now, and he's proven to be my perfect husband in more ways than I could have imagined. So there we were, 20 and 23, and still a couple years away from graduating. We decided it would be best to wait at least a year before trying to get pregnant. But, much like you, I was continually struck by the temple's emphasis on children. Literally every living thing was commanded to multiply "that they may have joy in filling the measure of their creation." Whoa! You're telling me we'll only feel fulfilled, feel the greatest joy, by having children?

  Okay, so the doctrine wasn't that shocking. It was nothing I hadn't heard before, but the way it felt in the temple was… hard to describe--strong, true, urgent. And I noticed all the symbolism there, too. Did you know that fig leaves represent fertility? Did you know that bows represent fertility? I mean jeez! There's no escaping it! (Which I'm sure is intentional.)

  So long before our allotted year was up, I had major baby lust. And that's a hard thing to cope with at BYU, where parents bring their babies to history class. But because of our starving student circumstances, I dutifully waited a whole year--with the firm understanding that we'd be pregnant within months.

  Well, We weren't. we did the basal charting thing. We timed things right. But I knew there was a problem, and I knew it was on my end. See, I'd always had irregular cycles--I'd go months between periods (let me tell you about false pregnancy hopes!)--so I went to the Dr. right away. We ran lots of tests and determined that I had PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). In layman's terms, my hormones all peaked at the wrong times, for unknown and therefore untreatable causes, so when my ovary formed an egg it never got the signal to release it; instead, the ovum turned into a cyst on my ovary and stayed there until it ruptured. And yes, that's very painful.

  With all the testing, of course we checked Anthony's sperm count, mobility, etc. The results came back and basically showed that he had outstanding sperm; he should be able to get any woman pregnant. Anyone, that is, but ME.

  So right from the start, I took all the blame for our infertility onto my tiny shoulders. As much as my sweet husband assured me otherwise, I knew it was my fault. I was broken. I was not a good wife because I couldn't give my husband children. God must be punishing me--I even had specific reasons why he should punish me. During one testimony meeting somewhere in the early times of our infertility battle, a new mother got up--oh, how I hated those!--and thanked God for trusting her enough to raise one of His children. So not only was I being punished, but God didn't trust me, either.

  As you can see, my frustration with infertility was aimed at two targets: God and myself. And I am not ashamed to say what you may need to hear: I hated us both for it. I didn't hate God in a "I'm going to stop believing in you" kind of way, but you can bet he heard a lot of angry prayers from me. A lot.
  Here's what I've learned about those kinds of prayers: God loves them. He gets them.  He UNDERSTANDS them. And even if we're too angry to feel it, I visualize a daughter, sobbing into her father's chest, beating her fists against him in helpless, overwhelming emotion; and the Father, wrapping His arms around His precious daughter, resting His chin atop her head, and crying with her. So don't be afraid to vent to God--He's right there with you. This is a hard thing, and He understands hard things. He knows this isn't a time to "grin and bear it," or a time for "pretty please with a cherry on top" prayers. (Although a few of those certainly couldn't hurt.)

  We started clomid treatments. Rollercoaster ride! Week 1: Menopausal symptoms--no fun for anyone; especially poor husbands. Week 2: It's BBT charting and carefully timed sex to the extent that it becomes a chore, and trying every old wives' tale you've ever read about. Week 3: The waiting. So hard! Should you be hopeful and excited like the nurses tell you? Start painting your nursery? Because apparently attitude makes such a difference in these physiological things. NOT! Bite your nails; keep busy; wait. Week 4: Wait some more. How soon is too soon to take a test? This test is negative, maybe I'll try one more, just to be sure. Dang. Well, it comes in a 3-pack so we might as well. Then, despair, frustration, depression, and it's back to Week 1.

  We did that for eight months. Finally, the Dr. told me we had to give my body a break. "Thank God!" I thought. "I really DO need a break." Guess what happened. My period was late (not unusual), and I felt distinctly different at work. A little nauseated, a little too sensitive to smell, a little tired. So when I got home, I decided, "What the heck? I've got enough of these sticks anyway." Positive. I stared at it, not believing. So I tried one more. Positive! When my husband came home we did a happy dance in our kitchen. Finally! Finally!

  My glee lasted until the next night when I started spotting and cramping. I googled it: no worries, that's totally common for early pregnancy. I woke up in the middle of the night and knew. I was bleeding, hard. Bye-bye baby. The physical pain was over in another day, and I told the three people who knew about it, "At least we can get pregnant." I was obstinately cheerful. But still, my body had betrayed us again. My fault. My fault. My fault.

  We graduated from college. We hit the two-year mark of infertility. Suddenly, my bitterness turned outward. Look at all these women popping out babies like it's nothing. Literally planning, to the month, when they would have their next. Constantly commenting about how wonderful motherhood was. Didn't they know it was KILLING me? (They didn't, because I hadn't told, but I didn't factor that in until later.)

  And I saw their glances--suspicion and blame, I saw. In hindsight, I bet most of those glances were curious or even sympathetic, but that's not how I saw them. My friends, who'd all married later than I, all started getting pregnant. And I had to go to baby showers and be happy for them. Here's one phrase I learned that helped me through those: "I am happy for you. I'm just not happy for me." Try it, even if not out loud.

  We started clomid again, adding a few extra pills, hormones, or whatever to get me pregnant. Too many appointments. Finally, one ultrasound showed an ovary with TWO viable eggs on it. It was go-time! The nurses all referred to me as the "twin mommy." And guess what. We got pregnant. Weeks passed. I indulged every food craving and avoided bacon like the plague. Every night I inserted progesterone capsules vaginally to help me stay pregnant. It was working.

  Week 10 of pregnancy, we had our first ultrasound. "Let's see that baby!" the nurses all cheered. I crossed my fingers for babies to make up for the one we lost. We watched the monitor as the Dr. probed around. Is that a head? Was that movement I saw? Those things are so blurry. Ultimately, the Dr. turned off the ultrasound and dismissed the nurses. "Where's my picture?" I wanted to ask. Instead, the doctor told me I had a blighted ovum. Layman's terms: I was pregnant, but when the embryo split, it made the placenta correctly, but somehow missed the making-the-fetus part. No baby. He said to go home and wait to miscarry. We'd start trying again in a couple months.

  This miscarriage was worse. So so so much worse. It didn't happen right away and I desperately clung to the hope that maybe there was a baby after all. But I did miscarry--and it's a lot tougher at 10 weeks than at 6. I was doubled-over in pain and tears for 24 hours before Anthony called the Dr., who said "get her to the ER straightaway." They checked to make sure my body was miscarrying properly (it was) and loaded me up with painkillers and an order for "pelvic rest," which is a lot like bed rest, for two weeks.

  Despite my stubbornness, I really could not do a thing for myself during those two weeks. So much pain--physical, emotional, spiritual. The Relief Society president called me one day and asked if I could take dinner to a new mom. In exasperated tears I explained why I couldn't. Someone brought me dinner that night.

  That was when I realized I HAD to tell people. It wasn't something I wanted to do--I'd made it into a dark, shameful secret for so long--but I had no choice; I needed help. I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was: people were sympathetic and caring. Not too many could truly empathize; we lived in a young ward and none of my family had any fertility problems (the opposite, it seemed). But they were sensitive to my sensitivity, and that made a difference.

  I tried reading books for empathy. Unfortunately, either by luck of the draw or simply because of who bothers writing books, what I read were tales of couples who never had children. They talked about coping with infertility permanently: when to stop trying, whether to stay childless or try to adopt. At 2 1/2 years of fighting, I wasn't ready to give up, but I felt hope slipping away.

  I tried to make light of it. I even found a joke that I used whenever someone felt too sorry for me--you know, the kind of sorry that says they've even given up on you. It's a little crude, but it helped me a tiny bit: I'm every high school boy's fantasy--I'm smart, sexy, fun, and you can't get me pregnant! Yeah, way to focus on the silver lining. Still, you do what you've gotta do to make it through. Not everyone will understand it, even if your style isn't resorting to dumb jokes, but it's not something to beat yourself up over. Whether or not you've given up the fight, infertility still sucks.

My story goes downhill from here, I'm afraid. I thought we'd seen the worst--I mean, how much worse could there be?

  Just when we'd waited long enough to try again, the Recession of 2008 became reality for us in a big way. The week before Christmas, with no warning, Anthony's work laid off a dozen employees. He was one of them. He just came home, after working late like he usually did, sat down on the floor and said he didn't have a job anymore. And since I'd quit work to focus fully on being healthy and pregnable, that meant we had no income. We'd spent all our money on fertility treatments instead of saving. The outlook was grim.

  Forget babies, we had to get jobs, because those unemployment checks aren't enough to pay the bills. The problem was, no one was hiring. Even BYU had put a "hiring freeze" on every department. So by February, we were out of money, out of a lease, and out of options. We moved in with my older brother in Texas; houses come cheap down there, so he had room to spare. Gracious of him, lucky for us, but hard. My identity as a woman was diminished because I couldn't be a mother; my husband's identity as a man was diminished because he couldn't be a provider. Big red X's through almost every paragraph of the Family Proclamation.

  Worse still, my brother had two adorable children. And my sister-in-law got pregnant a month after we moved in. Every day felt like a slap in the face. We ate their food, lived in their home, and I had to listen to a daily dose of "being pregnant is so hard." You want to talk about hard? Lady, let me TELL you about hard. Solidify bitterness towards pregnant women forever? Check. (This was not her fault, but still.)

  By that summer, we were jumping at the chance to house-sit for my parents, who decided to go on a mission since the economy wasn't giving my self-employed father any income anyway. Best. Blessing. Ever. Anthony finally found work. I taught Primary--which, actually, was a LOT easier than being in Relief Society. Everything is seen and taught from the perspective of a child (instead of a mother), and there weren't as many pregnant women. There wasn't enough money to try for a baby the fancy way, so we waited. Oh, we were still trying, but let's face it, it was never going to happen for us without help.

  By the 4-year mark, you'd think I'd have been battle-hardened, a little less sensitive. But you'd be wrong. I'm sorry to tell you this doesn't get easier. It just doesn't. so like I say, do what you've gotta do. Don't deny yourself what you need. No one but someone who's been where you are has a right to judge--and trust me, we'd never DREAM of it.

  So our 4-year "anniversary" of infertility rolled on by us. And at Stake Conference, some general authority (thank goodness I can't remember who--one of some quorum of Seventy, I think) gave a talk, no lecture, about people who waited to have children. He may have even wagged his finger and "tsk-tsked" at us. Okay, probably not, but he might as well have. Anthony held my hand tightly, maybe to keep me from standing up in the back row and shouting, "So what about us?"

  In a righteous fury, I was quick to remind myself that this wasn't my fault. If God wanted me to have a baby, I would have had one. Heaven KNOWS we'd given Him AMPLE opportunity. And hadn't I broke my heart with pleading, just like my biblical namesake? Hannah-in-the-Bible got a child; she got a freaking prophet! But me? No, not me. I wasn't worthy enough. I wasn't trustworthy enough. I wasn't enough something. God had taken away TWO pregnancies and then our means to try for more. How DARE this man condemn me for what God controlled? (Because, how could I not take his words personally?)

  So we went to our bishop. More accurately, I went and made Anthony come. And I told him pretty much everything I've just told you and then said, "So what are we supposed to do?"

  We had the best bishop ever. He was only 35, had five boys, so I know this didn't just come from him. He explained the nature of "patiently waiting on the Lord" so kindly that even my wounded heart was moved. He counseled us to put whatever we could spare from Anthony's minimum-wage job into a "baby fund," and to seek a blessing. He advised us to ask someone else to give the blessing, since Anthony was so involved in the situation. We did as he counseled. The next week, we asked if he would give the blessing; he agreed happily, as long as we all fasted before it.

  That blessing was beautiful. It was healing to my soul. It was straight from God. All three of us were in tears by the end. If ever your sorrow and despair threaten to overwhelm you, follow that counsel. They very best advice I could give you would be my bishop's. Don't give up. Keep working and waiting. Seek Divine guidance and help by the means available to you. Your results may be different than mine. I'd expect them to be.

  But I bet you want to know what my results were. Otherwise, you'd have put down this EPIC of a letter long ago.

  Well, I was told in that blessing that I was truly not to blame. God had very specific timing for when my children would come. And they would have specific missions to fulfill in this world (which, I guess, accounts for the timing factor). I was told the time was "not yet," but would come even after what I thought was the "last corner." I was told that, whether by pregnancy or by adoption, my preparation must be the same, and I had to be fully prepared. In the meantime, I was promised joy and fulfillment as I served and taught others' children. Yeah, powerful stuff. Oh, and I was told that my body would function as it should (I started a period that day), and that Anthony would be able to provide handsomely for our family. THAT was the medicine we needed (that came true during my last pregnancy, exactly when it was most needed).

  Soon after, they called me to teach seminary--at my old high school in Tualatin, no less. I was 25. Who calls a 25-year-old to teach thirty 14- to 18-year-olds about the Gospel, life, and everything?! God does, I guess. I thought serving others' children referred to Primary kids. Nope. It was these kids. They became my kids in a way only a teacher can claim. Half of them are on missions now, and I feel like such a proud mommy.

  My older brother had his fourth child, and my younger brother became a father-to-be. I was happy, but I was still waiting to turn that last corner. We knew our next fertility treatments needed to be more elaborate--the kind that cost thousands of dollars--and we were averaging about $50/month for our baby fund. (I didn't get paid to teach seminary.) So that corner looked very distant, indeed.
  We silently miscarried a third time. It was early, so we hadn't told anyone. We just grieved and kept waiting.

  Then… THEN, my younger brother and his wife, inactive in the Church but with high-paying jobs, offered to cover the cost of gonadotropin injections and treatment. The WHOLE cost. My sister recruited their help in my behalf. They were inspired, I learned, by my sister-in-law's mother who, when hearing of our situation said, "This is a small sum to you--one of your paychecks--but this is the world to them." Except I'm sure it sounded cooler because she speaks Korean. God works in mysterious ways.

  So we quickly found our specialist and made arrangements for my next cycle, which for the first and only time in my life had been as regular as clockwork for an entire  year. It worked. On the first try. And my baby's heart was beating visibly on a monitor soon after Mother's Day 2011.

  The rest of it is a different story. You can read about it on the post in September 2012 titled "OurPregnancy Story." But be forewarned: it isn't pretty. Heaven and Hell waged war over my child entering the world, and I was the carnage-strewn battlefield. It is the horror story of all pregnancies. So if you're not ready, or are the skittish-type to be scared away from fertility drugs, don't read it. You can still check out my blog, though, and see the miraculous result that is my daughter. Just remember, she's not just another baby, she's the conclusion of our 5-year battle with infertility. She isn't there to taunt you, but to give you hope.

  There's so much more I could say, but really, what I'd offer is a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, a cheerleader and righteous fury supporter. If you need me, now or later, I'm all yours.

  If there's no great joy in this journey, believe there is marvelous sunshine at the end of the dark road. (See Teachings of Lorenzo Snow, chapter 7.)

Carry on!

Hannah Trujillo

P.S. Also see "Claim the Exceeding Great and Precious Promises" by Spencer J. Condie, Oct. 2007 General Conference. And then notice how many of God's most precious daughters were purposefully tried in this way. The Old Testaments' all about happy endings to infertility. We're in a pretty special group of women, if you think about it.

First Beach Trip

We made it to the beach and back yesterday (nothing short of amazing when you consider we had no antifreeze). 

The sun was out, the sand was warm, and the water cold. At first, Lana didn't like the feel of the sand or the waves, but by the time we left, she kept turning around to run back into the water.




 

I even got Anthony to admit the coast was indeed different than "just a big lake." Mission accomplished!