Depression weighed heavily on me during my second pregnancy. I was genuinely thrilled to be expecting another baby, but the hormonal rollercoaster made it nearly impossible to feel the joy.

Labor was long and difficult. By the time my son arrived, I was too physically and emotionally depleted to celebrate his birth. For the next 24 hours, I lay in bed replaying the experience, shaking my head in disbelief that any human being could endure such an ordeal. I had no words.

I held him gently and commented to my husband on his dark, almost purple complexion — where did that come from? He seemed especially tired, but since the nurses didn’t seem concerned, I tried to focus on resting and regaining strength.

We were nearly ready to be discharged when a nurse came in after taking him for a routine task. I pretended to be asleep. She quietly asked my husband, “Is your wife sleeping?” He said yes, and she responded, “There’s a problem.”

I rolled over and sat up. She explained that our baby had turned blue and was now being prepped for a life flight to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City. He was stable in an oxygen bubble, but they needed to run more tests to determine what was wrong.

We quickly packed up and caught up with our son just in time to see him off. Before they whisked him away, we found another Elder in the hospital who helped my husband give Nathan a priesthood blessing — that he would grow to live a long life of service to God. I shed a tear, but mostly I felt numb. I had missed the window to truly connect with him.

After several tests, doctors discovered Nathan had been born with a heart defect that required surgery. The procedure was scheduled just days later. We stayed at the Ronald McDonald House nearby, and life came to a complete halt. I sat by his side, playing the same calming music I had labored with. It brought a sense of peace amidst the beeping machines and medical chaos — first for me, and now for him. In those quiet moments, we began to bond. I started to really see him, and slowly, I began to feel what he meant to me.

The day of the surgery, we took pictures, kissed him, and let them take him back. We waited for four hours in the surgery waiting room. Then came the good news: the surgery had gone well, and there were no surprises. Barring complications, he’d be stable enough to come home within a week or two.

My husband couldn’t miss more work, so he left me at the Ronald McDonald House and drove home. That night, around 10:00 pm, I lay in bed overcome with guilt. I beat myself up for not being by Nathan’s side after his surgery. What kind of mother was I? I had been bitter after the delivery, and now I wasn’t even with him when he needed comfort most. Oh, how I wanted to be there.

But in the chaos of everything, we had all forgotten: I was recovering, too. I should have been resting the past four days, but I hadn’t — and now the exhaustion hit me like a wall. I could barely move, let alone return to the hospital to comfort my little Nathan. Through tears, I prayed: “Dear Father in Heaven, please let Thine angels attend Nathan tonight. I just can’t go. I just can’t.”

A warm, comforting peace settled over me. I knew that my prayer had been heard. I relaxed — and let Nathan rest in God’s care that night.

Ten days later, Nathan came home — oxygen tank and all — with tubes taped to his tiny face. That tank stayed with him for the next six months. At his three-month follow-up, the cardiologist examined him, visibly amazed by how well he was doing. I didn’t think much of it — until I overheard her quietly say to an intern, “Most of the kids with his defect don’t make it past three months.”

I had never known that. I’d only clung to the blessing that promised “a long life of service to God.” Maybe that’s all I needed to know. And maybe that’s why everything had unfolded the way it did.

If I had bonded deeply before they took him away, I don’t know how I would have coped with the emergency. If I had been able to be with him that first night post-surgery, I would have missed the powerful peace of knowing my prayer had been answered so directly.

Only two months later, I read an article in the Ensign magazine that brought even more reassurance. It told a true story of another child treated at the same hospital. These few excerpts have stayed with me:

“Clayne…hurried from the intensive care unit to awaken Debbie, who was sleeping in the hospital’s parent room. ‘There are visitors,’ he told his wife. ‘I can’t see them, and I doubt that you can see them. But I can feel them.’

“For nearly an hour, Sherrie looked about the cubicle and described her visitors, all deceased family members. Exhausted, she then fell asleep.

“‘Daddy, all of the children here in the intensive care unit have angels helping them,’ Sherrie later told her father… ‘People from the other side helped,’ Sherrie recalls tearfully. ‘When I was really in pain, they would come and help me calm down. They told me that I would be okay and that I would make it through.’’’

(Michael R. Morris, “Sherrie’s Shield of Faith,” Ensign, June 1995, 44)

Reading that affirmed what I had already felt: my prayer had truly been answered. Angels were there — helping Nathan, comforting him — and, I now believe, helping me, too.

With the crisis behind us, I finally found joy in bonding with Nathan. He’s a remarkable young man with a tender, compassionate soul. And as hard as it was, I’m genuinely grateful for what we experienced. I now know, without question, that prayers are heard. And sometimes, when angels are tending to our loved ones, they’re also quietly ministering to us.

_________________

•   To discover how to start choosing more effectively now, read The Jackrabbit Factor (FREE!)  
•   If you want more step-by-step guidance on creating the life you really want, join me in the Mindset Mastery program.
•   If you want my help overcoming that giant obstacle right in front of you, learn more and sign up for Genius Bootcamp.