Octo Mom #3 and #4, Easter and the 43 Year-Old Eggs

When you meet new people, at work, church, wherever, we are conditioned to ask "do you have any children?" and since we lost Noah, there is never a good answer to that. Wrong answer: "No." (because in the Mormon culture, you feel like you have to justify that answer with an explanation.) Wrong answer: "Well, we had a baby right after we got married, but he is no longer with us." Makes you sound like social service came and took him away. "We had a baby but we lost him": Do you know where he is? We had him and then "boom!" gone. Or how about: "We had a baby but he only came to get a body before he returned to his bigger mission in Heaven with God." WHOA! Crazy Mormons ahead! No more friends.

The right and shortest answer is, "Yes, but he died." It's also the most awkward answer. But it's short and to the point. Unless you count the time it takes for the questioner to decode your answer and come up with a politically correct reply to it. I hate to make people uncomfortable, so I usually say "We have 330 children, we're school teachers." And that avoids the original question and invites the next one: "oh, where do you teach?" Awkward moment averted. Vagueness...still there, but who cares. Once these people figure out how busy we are, we won't be able to befriend them anyway.

So there is just no good way to answer that question. I've stopped asking it myself. So if you wonder why I haven't asked about your kids, it's because I know how hard it is to answer that question unless I know in advance that they are all living, wonderful and superstars. Then I will bite my tongue and listen to you brag. It's soooo much easier.

After we lost our baby (have you seen him? Just kidding!) I was determined not to ever get pregnant again. I tried to put it out of my mind. I was 42, then 43...in January of 2008, more than a year after Noah died, I felt my biological clock ticking so loud in my head that it consumed me. When you are "aging out" of the process...you have shame, guilt and anxiety almost all the time. Every time you have a period, you wonder if that was the "egg that got away." It can make a person certifiably crazy.

I used to laugh at people who would say "my biological clock is ticking" out loud. Mine was too but for me, I needed a companion first. I was lonely and I wanted a physical relationship with a man. S.E.X. (Remember - Mormons are advised to save that act for the sanctity of marriage.) But the thought of raising a child on my own, seemed daunting and wrong somehow...wrong for me. A lot of people do it. You can buy babies. You can have them implanted, grown in a dish, grown in another person, adopt them, foster them... Babies, eggs, sperm...huge demand. While I was single, the thought of a baby was second in line to getting a sperm donor to marry me first. I really wanted a companion. I knew I couldn't handle it by myself.

Once I thought about selling my eggs to build a house...I wasn't using them after all. I could sell them to buy a baby...that would be ironic. Truthfully I didn't think I could have handled knowing that there was a little Jan out there, torturing someone. What if, one day, I saw her get an Oscar, or my neighbor said, "my son's drama teacher looks just like you...I wonder if you're related?" BAHHHHH!!!! But adoption is $40,000 these days and a drama teacher doesn't have that kind of money laying around. So I reasoned that I would have to sell a few hundred more and start a savings account for the day-care that I would need once I adopted someone else's child, since I would still have to work. PSHTTTTT!

But then I read it....online...a story about a woman that lied about her age to sell her eggs and went to jail because the child ended up with Downs Syndrome, and the parents started worrying about the donated egg they had paid a mint for. She needed the money but she was over 35 and "eggs that are older than 35 years are not always immune to chromosomal deficiencies" so egg banks (is that what they're called?) don't usually accept eggs that are older than that.

That was something I didn't need to hear. I have always remembered that article, because that is the first time I learned that a woman is born with all the eggs she will ever have. I don't know how I missed that information in school, but after talking to my doctor, I did find that to be true. My heart sank....my eggs were aging with me!?!? So the longer I waited to inseminate one of my ancient eggs the more likely I was to miscarry because there was something wrong with the fetus. I didn't have a problem raising a child with a chromosomal deficiency...I had a problem keeping a fetus with me for longer than 27 weeks. In fact, of the seven miscarriages and one baby I've had, we've only held half of them longer than 6 weeks.

So I decided that if I wanted to have a baby, I would need to get going again. I would need to stop crying about Noah and get into the shark tank again while my eggs were still dropping pretty consistently.

Miscarriage #3, August, 2007. 6 weeks. This miscarriage was identical to the first one and that's when I knew how to identify the first one. I was at school... of course. We hadn't told anyone we were pregnant. I had just started the nausea cycle and so the pain seemed like part of the process. We share a campus with a professional theatre company and the dancers were rehearsing tap numbers in our theatre. I was alone in the bathroom. I left the toilet long enough to go next door to get Andy. I wanted him to see it before it was gone. So Andy came into the bathroom and we had a moment to ourselves. Until 20 professional tap dancers, who still had their shoes on, marched in across the tile floor for their "break." It was like thunder. They didn't know. They looked at Andy, standing there in the women's bathroom and said "do you mind?" What do you say....? Pearls before swine. So Andy left and I locked myself in the stall and held my hand over my mouth and cried, as silently as I could. Looking back, I should have said "do YOU mind...we've just had a miscarriage here" or something curt and to the point. But when you miscarry, your mind isn't with you. It's everywhere else.

Miscarriage #4, Easter weekend, 2008. 16 weeks. This one makes me sound like a crazy loon. Which I might be.

My sister Penny's family was looking for a house and they found one a mile from us in Washington. It needed lots of work before they could move into it. My brothers are all blessed with skills that can make turning a house over in a week, almost possible. ;-) And let's face it, when you have 7 siblings who are all married, those 14 people, all know how to do something. It's awesome that way! And if they don't know how to do something, they know someone that does. I'll always be grateful to my mom and dad for giving us all that incredible network. We have benefited from each other skills so much. (Except the only thing I can do is loan out cool Halloween costumes, but I am good at cleaning and boxing up stuff too.)

Andy and I had successfully crossed the 12 week mark with pregnancy number 4 and had just let that cat out of the bag. Everyone was ecstatic! 12 whole weeks and I was actually looking pregnant. There was no mistaking it. The pregnancy was going really well. I felt great.

Week 15 - spotting. Laid down...feet up.... spotting went away. Then at the top of week 16, I woke up early in the morning to pee, and swung my feet over the side of the bed and realized I wasn't pregnant anymore. I didn't feel pregnant. A wave of emptiness went over me...like a spirit had woken me up and was now leaving the room... I sat there for a minute, trying to decide what to do. As I stood up I felt the blood descend.

We were putting the final touches on a musical and Andy was about to leave that day to take 50 kids on a bus to state drama in Northern Utah for 2 days.  We were exhausted. I cleaned up and laid back down. I didn't feel a need to make it an emergency because I knew it had already happened. So I laid there and cried. The bleeding stopped as quickly as it had come. We called the Doc as soon as their office opened and he had me go into the hospital in Hurricane to have an ultrasound. I drove in myself because Andy had gone to competition with other peoples kids.

The ultra sound technician was about 12 years old. Okay, maybe she was 21, but she was obviously nervous about the situation. She hadn't been doing it very long. She might have said three words the entire time. "Please scoot down." Once she decided the regular external ultrasound wasn't giving her what she wanted, she lubed up the internal one. That was fun. A person ought to give some warning about that one. None. I'd never had one of those before so I was..............S.U.R.P.R.I.S.E.D.

The only ultrasound I ever had was two years earlier with Noah and I had forgotten why they did them in the first place. Since this technician was so talkative, I just laid there, watching the monitor. She kept moving the "wand" around.....O.W....W.E.E! and around and around....never saying anything. I could very clearly see this little person inside of me, though. Arms, legs, back....It didn't have two heads. But it didn't have a heartbeat either. I wasn't thinking about that. I was just caught up in the fact that I had a fully formed little human inside of me. After at least 30 minutes, which I found out later is a very long time, my technician left suddenly. I needed to pee. So I just laid there concentrating on NOT pee-ing all over the table.

The girl came back in and handed me a phone. Maybe she had a severe speech problem..?! I took the phone and Doc Chamberlain was on the other end. He said "I'm so sorry, Jan, they can't find a heartbeat. I'm so sorry."

What did he mean exactly? They just can't find it...it's too soon...or it's lost.... or.... oh.

He went on..."If you don't pass it within 72 hours, you'll need to come in and have a D&C. Keep me posted." I was still hanging on the word "pass." I asked him to repeat himself and he focused deeply on what he was saying always followed by "I'm sorry."  It dawned on me that I would have to carrying around a dead fetus for three days..."Can't I just have the D&C and get it out and over with? "We want your body to expel it on its own, you don't want to have a D&C. If you've already passed a lot of blood it should be very soon. Go home and let it happen. Bring the fetus to me after you pass it."

I wandered by myself to the parking lot. Everything from the waist down hurt. When I got inside the car I sat down and screamed at the top of my lungs "WHYYYYYYYY?!?!?!" And I "wrestled" with the Lord. I felt so far away, abandoned by Him. I was grasping and heaving. I thought I might pass out so I opened the door. I vomited next to the car and an older couple ran over to me and asked me if they should get help. I didn't know what to say except "I just need some time to deal with something," and they walked away. I got myself together and went home.

We were putting up a musical and trying to get the team together for competition, so Andy was at work and of course, Tuacahn has the worst reception ever so his phone was out of range. I went home, laid down and you guessed it... cried some more. He called me when I got home and I broke the news to him. He sent everyone away and came home. I wanted to pass that baby while Andy was still there, but it wasn't to be. 24 hours passed... Andy left with the team... then 48....my parents arrived to start packing my sister up for the big move and I decided that I might as well get up and help. I went to her house, grabbed a box and started throwing things in it. I was so pissed. So angry about having to tell everyone that we weren't pregnant anymore, but I was still carrying around the baby...that had been dead now for three days.  I lugged boxes full of food storage cans out to the trucks and after 6 hours of that, I had created some pretty big pains. So I went home...dragged out the green colander from its usual space under the bathroom sink and started "sifting" through the blood.


My mom told me to call her if I needed her. But that was Penny's day and I didn't want to drag her away from the joy and excitement of my sister moving into her first home. I didn't want to put a damper on that awesome event. Everyone was working furiously to get them out of the rental before the end of the month. I told her I was fine and I drove home.


When you carry a baby for 16 weeks, that baby has created a lot of G.U.N.K. It has padded its apartment well. So your body reacts in an effort to get rid of the renter and it's apartment just as if you are having a full term baby. I didn't know this. Now I do. I started very specific contractions as soon as I laid down. I started passing whole sheets of blood - things that looked like giant pieces of beef liver, only, as you break them up, looking for the miscarriage, they fall apart like broken jello. A miscarriage is a leathery mass that can't be pulled apart.


My mother....is a saint. I've already told you that. After about an hour of having full on labor pains, I just started praying that someone would come home or come over to help me if they had a chance to break away from other priorities. I was in the middle of that constant prayer and I heard my mom say "Jan?!" Where are you?" She felt that prayer out there in the universe. She gave her boxes to someone else and came over to hold my hand and help me deal with the loss. I wasn't alone. I now know the great and tender mercy of God that he allowed me to keep that baby long enough that my mom could be there with me when I delivered it. That was such a blessing to me. She held my sweaty hair back, wiped my forehead and scrubbed the bathroom after it was over. She even lifted that tiny baby out of the trusty Tupperware colander, put it in another piece of Tupperware and took it to the doc so he could analyze it.

What does a 16 week-old baby look like? Like a perfect little person (about 4 inches long?) covered in slimy, wet beef jerky and red jello. I only glanced at that tiny baby. I could see it's little head, black eyes, arms and fingers through the transparent slime. Then I had to look away. That tiny, still body fit into an 8 oz. measuring cup. Doc Chamberlain told me that it was a perfect little person and did not have an answer for me about why we miscarried.

It took a week or so for my uterus to pull itself back together and that was pretty painful, but other than that, the boobs, nausea, the smells...it all went away immediately. That's why you continue to try to have babies...because the pain goes away and the desire to raise a family is so powerful. But I was discouraged, beyond discouraged after this experience. When will I be given the blessings promised me in my patriarchal blessing? Maybe not in this life. And I might have to be okay with that.

What can I take away from this.... what can you know from me about how to help someone through a miscarriage? Because of the guilt, shame, and anxiety that comes with a miscarriage, women tend to want to do what animals do...go somewhere else and be by themselves. But don't let them do it. Be brave. Brave enough to face it, add stability and not drama, add hugs and not advice. Let them try as many times as they can and pray, pray, pray.

Happy Birthday Brad

I've got to take a break from the Octo-Mom mini-series. Though writing those events out is slowing clearing them from my pockets. Today I will write about someone that has made my life easier.

In the Shelton family there were only two reasons for holding a "family council." 1) the kids were not pulling their weight around the house. 2) there was another baby on the way. So when I was 17 years old, a senior in high school and my parents announced a "family council" I was prepared to get a chewing on about the state of my room. There were already seven of us... and from my perspective, my mom was a pioneer woman, so it wouldn't be that. But THAT'S what it was. That they were expecting baby number E.I.G.H.T.

I was pissed. (I was going to write "mad" but it doesn't tell the real story) Steaming mad. In my selfishness, I raged around with my opinion on the matter. But nobody cared. What could be done about it. Nothing. I was trying to get into college. I already felt that I was "out there on my own." Adding another human to the family seemed to bump my dreams down to the bottom of the priority pile. I was not quiet about my disappointment.

I was a complete idiot.

Brad was born a couple of months before I graduated from high school and when he was 5 months old, I moved away to college. Ugly teenager out...cute baby in. So I didn't get to know this sibling very well and he didn't get a chance to know me. We never lived together when he was growing up. I was the sister he saw at holidays and that was about it.

Forward 13 years. When he was about to enter junior high, the hand of God intervened as usual. My parents were very unhappy with the state of the junior high that Brad was assigned to. I was teaching in the same district, at a junior high about 5 miles north. Brad would ride to school with me, then wait for me to take him home at the end of the day.

Brad had been in a few plays I had directed, but was more serious about the drums, soccer and making videos of break dancing. He was 14 and I was 32. Those conversations on the way to and from school were probably hilarious. I don't remember.

The new school was well-equipped with a principal that did film acting on the side. He was in our court, which is pretty rare. He allowed us to do a musical and a play each year. We did big shows like Fiddler on the Roof with a cast of thousands (about 75), The Music Man and Hello Dolly with a 13 year-old Dolly Levi. She had sparkly eyes and a fun sassy attitude. I haven't seen a better Dolly since. Anyway... our shows were renowned around the district. People came to see the miracle.

Let me wander a second....

When you go to see a play on Broadway, or at a regional professional theatre, you sometimes pay well over a $100 to see these shows. When there is an actor that isn't "up to snuff" you complain vehemently because you have certain expectations about what $100 ticket ought to buy. You want to see all that the modern theatre affords...that YOU afforded. It should always be a well-oiled machine that is conducted by a professional stage manager that makes all the professional magic happen. The magic is long lost on me because I'm a director, that makes me to worst kind of critic. But if I'm at a Broadway play that means I've traveled 2500 miles, I'm usually with a bunch of other people's kids who I am babysitting for the week, and I earned the money by doing school fundraisers all year. For a hundred bucks I want the bells and whistles, a gorgeous leading man who can act and a leading lady that can SING. S.I.N.G.

When you attend a junior high play, you almost have a leading man that is covered in acne and wildly, secretly in love with his leading lady and they could both be singing soprano at this point. You hope he hits the pitch most of the time. You better pray his voice doesn't change mid-production or you might have to pay someone lots of money to have your music dropped into another key. You almost always have to remind that young man to shower before he comes to the show...and does he know what deodorant is yet?

You almost always have a leading lady with a mouth full of metal. She's a foot taller than the leading man and every costume that you rented has to be "stuffed" if you know what I mean. You might also have 4 girls in the play to every 1 boy (which makes choreography tricky to say the least). Throughout the rehearsal process, you will deal with the rumor mill, the bullying (98% of the time it's girls) and the crying. If I had a nickle for every tear that was shed in the name of a broken shoe buckle, zipper or first stage kiss, I would be R.I.C.H.

I should be given a medal for helping junior high-aged leading players through their first kiss. Not me personally, I mean, I'm not 8 years from retirement because I liked kissing my 14 year-old boys.... though sadly, some drama teachers are into that...but if there was a stage kiss that needed to be included in the plot, I coached those kids through it, (This was Utah after all...highest virgin population in the states...at least, that's what I have told myself...). Watching junior high kids kiss each other for the first time is like a medieval torture chamber. Most of the time, I tell my young, terrified leads to "steal" my keys and lock themselves in the light booth, practice until it's not "weird" anymore and then come and find me and we'll go from there. If I could only find a way to use this blackmail to my benefit now.....

The actors are only part of the picture. In the junior high technical theatre world, if you've had a day where a bandaid wasn't needed, you are lucky. If you make it through the play and some set piece doesn't come crashing down, you've had a good show. Bloody noses, crutches, wheelchairs. If a paint fight has been avoided and your light board still works at the end of the day, you are a miracle worker.

It's a little like reality T.V. sometimes. You pay say $7 for a ticket to a big train wreck, and you can't keep your eyes off of it. You also stand up at the end because you can't believe YOUR KID just did that. The kid with the trashy room and the massive phone bill just sang "Sunrise, Sunset" and you bawled like a baby. And 20 years later you will still be crying just thinking about it. That was YOUR KID. Best $7 you will ever spend. So, when you have a sold out crowd every night to see a 15 year-old, skinny-as-a-rail-Tevye (I'm talking about you Sam) you know they didn't come for the bells and whistles, they came for the miracle. I sell the miracle.

A junior high teacher should take pride in knowing, that for 95% of the cast and crew, this play experience is the FIRST time they have ever done anything like it. And if you do it right, they find out how much fun it is and they keep coming back. If they get bitten by the theatre bug when they are young, when they are a rich lawyer 20 years down the road, you pin your hopes on the fact that they will send you money, or cure your cancer, get you into Disneyland for free, or at the very least, mention you when they win their Oscar. So you perservere through the drama of the drama department with that in mind.

Brad wasn't into the drama of it all. For him, it was "fun" and the kid had an amazing voice, but he wasn't comfortable playing the leads (until much later ;-) He was six feet tall in 9th grade and could grow a Grizzly Adams beard in 24 hours, but he stayed on the fringe of it all. Because I was his ride home, during nightly rehearsals, Brad would sit at the back of the auditorium after school and do his homework while we rehearsed. It wasn't long before he discovered that if he picked up a saw, wrench, drill, etc... and helped out, that we could go home a lot faster. So that's what he did.

I really wanted a little "water well" for Fiddler on the Roof, but time was running out. I drew a little picture on a piece of lined school paper, and gave it to Brad who took those terrible instructions and buried himself in his "project." I've always been able to see his mind at work. And I know what's going on iin there, because it goes on in me too! You plagerize the vision in your head. You aren't sure how it got there, but it's there. For Brad, there is a lot of silence, a lot of visualizing...there's not a lot of time for the drama.

His "little" well weighed about 400 lbs in the end. 15 junior high kids couldn't move it, so it stayed on stage the entire show. (Everyone in our Anatevka had a well in their yard). But in Motel's song "Wonder of Wonders" the actor jumped up on it, as choreographed, and it held him up! That sucker was solid! It was a miracle of miracles.

From that point on, Brad taught himself how to build sets and set pieces for plays. When I asked him if he wanted to play Harold Hill in Music Man, he said no way. He wanted to be in the quartet, because "then he could concentrate on building the set, too." I had created a monster. One that would serve me the rest of his days and still does.

At the end of his junior high experience, my awesome principal was being moved to Lehi High School and I asked him if I could go with him. Coincidentally, Brad was about to enter Lehi High School too, so we were able to go together. The sibling that I thought I would never know, became a smaller version of ME. I was his drama teacher for 5 years, watched him become a skilled Shakespearean actor, a skilled singer and dancer and I watched a lot of soccer games too. I have, ironically, thanked God every day of my life for his existence.

But tall boys that can sing don't have a chance around me. Eventually, he started taking leading roles and using his other skills on stage as well as backstage. After he left me and started at Weber State, he was a musical theatre major, when he came home, he had a technical theatre degree. He got wise to life and figured out that techies suffer less than actors.

When I first started teaching at Tuacahn where I am now, I happened to be in a meeting where they were commenting that they needed more people in the shop. Brad was at Weber and was looking for a summer job. I told them about him and they said "how fast can he be here?" My mom drove him half way south, and I drove north the other half of the way, and within four hours, he was working for Tuacahn. That was six years ago. He started out building sets and props and eventually started designing for them.  2012 - He's designing the sets for Titanic and Hairspray. He even met his awesome wife here. It never fails me - the hand of God.

Brad is now in his last semester at Cal State Fullerton getting a masters degree in Technical Direction and Set Design. He recently went to work for Disneyland. He is the one of the technicians that runs Disney's World of Color show. I couldn't be prouder. When he sends us pictures of Disneyland behind the scenes, I can only look back at the journey and remember the 400-pound well.

So 30 years ago, a genius technician was born. He's not my kid, but very nearly mine. My mom let's me think I helped raise him. I appreciate that. I'm indebted to my parents for bringing him here in the first place. I know it was a sacrifice. it's because of her bravery, that I continued to try to have babies myself after I was 40. I was such a brat when he was born and God reached in played the irony card by giving me the ultimate helper, a much better version of myself. Maybe he knew I would be single for such a long time and I needed Brad's gifts....who am I kidding? I am still benefiting from his gifts.

If the 47 year-old Jan could talk to the 17 year-old Jan...she'd say, "Calm down. God always knows what he's doing. He always knows what you need more than you do."

Always. Happy Birthday Brad. And thank you.

Octo Mom, Nightmare Before Christmas, Part 2

WARNING: In order to understand this, please read "Part I" FIRST which is posted below "Part II."

Noah Max Hunsaker was born on December 23, 2006. There was organized chaos of very amazing doctors and technicians around us ready to mark the birth of the smallest baby ever born in that hospital. There is nothing proud about setting that kind of record.

Dr. Eggert and his team were working on Noah furiously and we were not allowed to see him until they got him stabilized. Everyone wanted to know how much he weighed and even an hour after he was born they hadn’t weighed him, there were more important things to do. But Dr. Eggert finally came in and told us that they had gotten him all hooked up and he was breathing about 70% on his own which was fantastic. He told us that the ultrasound predicted Noah weighed more than he did, only 690 grams, just one pound, eight ounces. O.N.E.P.O.U.N.D.A.N.D.A.H.A.L.F. I was expecting a linebacker for the 49ers. I expected him to be tall too and he didn’t disappoint there. He was a full 12 ½ inches long. As long as a school ruler. But they all said that he was much longer than they expected. He WAS a giant.

Dr Eggert told us that when they went to put the breathing tube in, his air hole was much smaller than they expected. They put a piece of metal in the tube to help it go down and as they pushed, they realized that Noah had some tissue that had formed a web over his vocal cords and that they had to break up that tissue in order to help him breathe. I imagine he had quite a sore throat after that. I hate having a sore throat. I felt so bad. But he was stable enough for us to go down and see him, which we did. They let us in the room for about 10 minutes. There was still such a whirl of activity going on, we felt so in the way. But as I stood next to that little incubator I was in shock. He was hooked up to everything imaginable, there was no way we would be able to pick him up for months. His chest was pumping up and down with the help of a tiny little breathing machine and he had on a preemie diaper that was drowning him. The nurses had put a crocheted Christmas hat on him and he looked like he was ready for the circus. “Come and see the miniature man – the tiniest human ever born.” I had a hard time even saying his name. I was so afraid to say his name out loud. I don’t know why. I just choked on it four or five times, but then when I finally was able to get it out, Gillian, his nurse (a ward member of my sister Penny’s incidentally) told me to keep talking to him because his blood pressure and heart rate was going down. I’m not sure if she told me that to make me feel better or what, but that did help me want to talk to him.


I’m not sure if I felt like he was a real person yet, he was so small and so fragile. Andy and I got out of the way and Dr. Eggert told us that they were going to do a bunch more tests because they were concerned that his fontanel (soft spot) was getting hard, and after that we were welcome to come in and sit next to him all day long if we wanted. We left the NICU and got into the elevator and I immediately burst into tears. For the first time in my life, I had to let someone else take complete control of a situation and I could do absolutely nothing. Nothing but pray. I knew there were people in my room and I didn’t want to go back there, I wanted to stay with Andy in the elevator forever. It was all such a bad dream.

But the elevator ride was only one floor. When the doors opened, our good Bishop (church leader), Brad Anderson. was standing there. I went to my room and Brad took Andy aside and was able to speak to him and help him understand this whole thing in a way that shed a beautiful light on The Plan of Salvation, and God's love for us. He told Andy that God's commandment to multiply and replenish the earth had been fulfilled with Noah and that if we were never able to have more children, it was okay. I will always be so indebted to Bishop Anderson. But, I wish I had heard that advice myself.

Andy decided after 24 hours in the hospital and wrestling with a chair all night, he was going to go home and shower while the doctors were doing all the tests on Noah. Since I hadn’t packed a bag or anything, I gave him a list of things to bring back with him. I stayed in the wheelchair and finally got to meet the postpartum nurses and brought in the dreaded BREAST PUMP.

If there was a moment of comedy to be had throughout the day, it was the "breast pump and cotton pony adventure." It was 11 am when they brought in the pump and showed me how to use it. The nurse said it might not work right off the bat since Noah had come so early, but to pump every three hours for 10 minutes or so until my milk did come in. They were expecting to switch Noah over to stored breast milk once he was able to get off the I.V.’s of steroids and antibiotics. Despite the sheer humiliation of the pump – I might as well have been hooked up to a jersey cow machine, I was determined to do what I had to do for Noah and I knew breast milk would help him. We (my sisters and I) laughed so much though, it wasn’t long before the ten minutes was over. It was a relief to laugh.


Everyone at the hospital was trying so hard to be positive. A funny nurse came in and gave me ten complimentary packages of "cotton ponies." I said "huh?" They looked like regular boxes of maxi-pads to me. She said she called them that because they are about "two feet long and two inches thick, and makes you feel like you're riding a horse." I found out that was true and I've never called them anything else since and neither has Andy.

Almost as if on cue, after I had finished pumping, Dr. Eggert entered the room with nurse Gilly. I could tell that Gilly had been crying and I decided not to look at her anymore. I was still sitting in the wheelchair and Penny and JoEllen were in the room with me. Dr. Eggert asked for Andy. But Andy had gone home to shower. I panicked. He said he had bad news. The tests had come back and Noah was not the healthy little boy with an attitude that they all thought he was. Most of what he said was doctor language and I was hanging on to words like, “heart malfunction,” and “ventricle is only pumping 20% in return,” and most importantly, it appeared as if he had “had several strokes because his brain was flooded with blood and the fontanel was increasing in pressure.” They thought the stokes had happened several days earlier and that might be why he had decided to deliver so early. JoEllen later said, “I was expecting him to say they had decided to fly him up to Primary Children's, or something drastic like that, that would fix him.” But he never did.

Instead, he shook his head and looked in his lap and said “this is the saddest kind of advice a doctor likes to give because we are programmed to heal people, but Jan, Noah is a very sick little boy and even if we were able to keep him alive and on machines for the rest of his life, he would have such severe brain damage that he would never function as a human should." In addition, he said, they didn’t expect him to live without the aid of every single pump and machine that he was currently hooked up to. One of the ventricles of his heart had fused itself to the front of his lung and there was no way to fix that problem. Dr. Eggert guessed that if they took him off the machines, he might last a few years, or as little as 15 - 30 minutes on his own. His advice was to spend a couple of hours with him, hold him, talk to him, and then let him go. He said he would wait for Andy to return and for us to make a decision before he did anything, but that they would keep him alive as long as we needed.

As long as we needed him to be alive? I needed him to be alive forever! Was I dreaming this? Was this actually happening? Was I being asked to pull the plug on the baby I had dreamt about, prayed for, for sooooo many years…and now I had to decide to take him off his life support and let him turn right back around and go back to his Heavenly Father. I couldn’t do it. Where was Andy.

At that point, the four of us in the room, Penny, JoEllen, Gilly and I, burst into tears and I only remember looking at my knees after that.

JoEllen had already called Andy who was mid-shower when she told him, through tears that he needed to get right back. Andy said later that he felt a presence near him telling him that it was going to be okay. And at that point, Andy knew, nothing was ever going to be the same or normal again. He raced back to the hospital and Penny and JoEllen left the room while I repeated everything Dr. Eggert had told me.

Andy arrived and my sisters left us alone to make a decision that ordinary humans should never be allowed to make. We decided that he didn't deserve to live life in a bed just because we were too attached to him. We would have the doctors take him off the machines. We felt a peace enter the room and I was able to stop crying. We asked Dr. Eggert if we could give him a name and a blessing (a Mormon prayer for new babies) and could he keep him alive for 4 more hours while our parents drove like maniacs from Northern Utah to participate in that ordinance. Dr. Eggert agreed. He also told us that Noah had grabbed on to his feeding and breathing tubes and had pulled them out twice. They were going to have to tape them to his very thin skin, which is something they hadn't wanted to do. Were we okay with that? I was affixed to the thought that he was capable of grabbing his tubes and pulling them out, not once, but twice. The decision was easier for me after that. Noah wanted to go home.

At 27 weeks, sometimes a babies eyelids are still sealed shut like a little puppy. I could swear however, that when I was talking to him, at times, he was trying so hard to open his little eyes. I could see his tiny eyeballs rolling around in there and I wished so badly, that I could see his eyes. That night, as I was in my drug-induced coma of sleep, I dreamt that I was holding him and he looked up at me with open eyes. I was so grateful for that dream. He looked like Andy and my brothers. I still see his navy blue eyes very clearly and remember the weight of him in my arms like a normal baby. I hope I never forget that dream, it was the greatest Christmas gift I have ever received.

We called our parents and siblings and to no one’s surprise, they all got in their cars and headed down to St. George. It was four hours exactly from the first phone call to the time all those priesthood holders started arriving. During the wait, Gilly let me hold Noah. She pulled my gown down so that she could lay him directly on my skin over my heart and up near my neck. We stayed in that position for more than three hours. He started breathing more on his own and his blood pressure stabilized during that precious time. I just plead with Heavenly Father to heal him. I begged for help. I begged for a miracle. People told me about their miracles. Weren't there miracles for me? I had waited so long. Eventually, I felt that familiar feeling of the Spirit wrapping his arms around the two of us and giving me the peace that he so often did. I was going to be okay. Andy was going to be okay. Noah was going to be the luckiest of us all. I saw the big picture laid out before me and suddenly I felt ashamed of myself for wanting to keep him and it helped me give him back.

My brother-in-law Kyle, who is from St. George, gave me the most beautiful blessing. It sank deep in my soul. I’ll never forget it. I know he was nervous to give it, but it was exactly what I needed to hear. He said “. . . you will not be able to care for your baby like a normal mother will – you must accept that he will be whisked away from your arms back into the loving arms of his Heavenly Father whose plan for Noah is so great that he must return as quickly as he came…” He blessed me with the power to heal, the power to use this experience to increase my spirituality by always keeping the “big picture” in mind and not my personal pain. I will always be grateful to Kyle for that incredible blessing. I have seen the result of it day by day.

Our other brother-in-law, Penny's husband Joel, gave Andy a blessing and it was very similar, promising him great peace. I remember one thing that stuck with me in that blessing and that was that Andy would be given “blessings beyond his imagination” for the sacrifice he was making that day. That made me smile, because by then I was looking for any piece of humor in the day and I imagined that Andy would be requesting a house with a pool and front row tickets to a Coldplay concert in heaven.


Andy was really stressed about what to say when he would shortly give Noah his blessing. Joel blessed Andy with peace to give that blessing. When my dad arrived, we pulled him out into the hall to ask our senior patriarch what to say. Andy was just shaking. Dad said only one thing. “the Spirit will direct you.” And that's exactly what happened.

It was beautiful to see Noah's two grandma's in the room. I am so eternally grateful that God allowed him to stick around long enough for his grandmas to see him. They tried so hard to "keep it together" for us. I know there were great tears from Andy's mom because this was to be her first grandbaby and she was almost as excited as I was. She had such sad eyes that I had a hard time looking at her. I felt like I had failed her. She said "I'm a grandma!" and I'll never forget that.

Once we had gathered nearly every member of our amazing families, everyone was allowed into the NICU, we stuffed about 20 people into that tiny room and the priesthood holders gathered around and very carefully“laid their hands” on Noah’s tiny head and gave him a name and blessing. Andy thanked him for his short visit and blessed him with all the rights and honors afforded to someone that does not get to fulfill a normal life here on earth. He told him he loved him. How is it possible to love someone so much that you barely know? That you will not get an opportunity to know in this life? Yet still today, as I walk past his picture every day of my life, I say “I love you Noah,” in my head and I feel like a mom for just a second.

After the blessing, the family moved into a nearby waiting room and Andy and I said goodbye to Noah. Gilly came in and unhooked Noah from all of his tubes and we gave him a bath. Just 30 minutes after that, with his quarter inch hair all slicked back and ready, he returned to his Heavenly Father. I felt a deep peace come over me as if someone from beyond the veil was saying “thank you.” We carried his little body into the waiting room and both grandma’s got to hold him, finally. It was done. The whole ordeal…from the first time I had thrown up (in the parking lot at Tuacahn) to signing the release papers at the hospital, it was done.

I will always be eternally grateful to my brother-in-law Adam, for agreeing so graciously to take Noah’s body back to Lehi, so that we could bury him near his Aunt Katie. Grandma Hunsaker held onto the chest they had put him in and wrapped him in the crocheted blanket they brought Andy home in when he was an infant. The good people at Wing Mortuary in Lehi prepared his body and put it into a white casket the size of a shoe box. We buried him next to my little sister Katie, in the other half of her plot, since she too, was in infant when she died. We held a little graveside service on December 29th. My brothers sang "Be Still My Soul." And I needed that.

My brother Steve, who has always had a very close connection to the “other side” said that when the grandkids had let off the blue and white balloons at the end of the graveside service, he heard his sister Katie say “Okay Noah, it’s time to go.” Steve was so overcome with the Spirit that day that it was like he was in another place. He has a keen sense of the spirit world and keeps those things mostly to himself. But I was so grateful to know that Katie was around, helping Noah. It still makes me so grateful to my parents for allowing us to use that special gravesite. I can’t wait to get to know Katie and Noah.

I had a baby. I didn’t dream it . . .

He was here, he came in just like any other baby, but he left us all too soon. Just twelve hours later. Got his body and then left it in this world for us to bury.

He had feet, eyebrows and a hair line exactly like his dad’s. But that was just about all we could tell – so tiny and coming from such gregarious, giant-like parents.

I waited 41 years to find the right man to marry, though I had other opportunities, I just knew it wasn’t to be and marrying my best friend at 41, well – finding a single worthy priesthood member at that age was my miracle, let's face it. Andy is the greatest blessing of my life. But by bringing Noah into this life fulfilled the measure of my creation, and as much as I spent 41 years trying to convince myself that I was a “whole” human being, despite being a single one, I now see why my married-with-children siblings were so ecstatic when they found out I was pregnant.


I tried for a long time to understand why I needed that piece of adversity. Why did someone like me, who wants babies so badly, have to go through that? But the whole experience humbled me. I may have needed it. What really humbled me was wrapping my boobs for two weeks while my milk dried up in the middle of winter, that was fun. Cotton ponies humbled me. Not being able to walk for a week humbled me. Why didn't I get off that epidural sooner? Going back to school after the break humbled me. I guess I needed to be humbled.


It frightens me, because now that I have been a mother for a few short hours, I want to be a mother more than ever…but is it wise? Could it happen again? Could I give another one back? Could Andy? Might we also be able to conceive again, a baby that can grow up and that we can get to know… or are we just being selfish? Oh, "motherhood is relative." They are all saying it. "You are already a mother to so many." Too bad I don’t believe it, at all. That's something I wish people would stop saying. Learn this from me...don't ever tell a teacher "but you're already a mother to so many people..." I know you are searching for the right thing to say...but don't ever say that. Say "SHIT!" or "Damn it! I wanted that for you too..." but don't try to put it into perspective. I've got the perspective down. And it doesn't make the pain go away.

My testimony/perspective is this… Noah is mine forever. I will raise him in the next life and I believe that with all my heart. I have felt his presence and I know that he knows I'm his mom. The lessons I have learned about seeing the bigger picture, put my Heavenly Father’s sacrifice into perspective. If I grieved at the loss of an infant I didn’t know, how much more was the grief of our Heavenly Father at the crucifixion of His Son, also a premature death he could not stop even if he wanted to. This is my ultimate testimony: that God lives. That He gave is Only Begotten Son back to us for the remission of our sins so that we too, may return to live with our families forever. No amount of miscarriages can take this true knowledge away from me and each one strengthens my resolve to be a better person so that I may earn those rewards. How great are the rewards that await me if I can keep my perspective, hold to the truth that I know and keep my head on straight and my heart in check, as I continue to find out who I am and what God expects me to do. I don’t feel sorry for myself, just increasingly indebted to the Savior for His love and intercession on my behalf. How can I not?

When we left the hospital with nothing but our bills and free boxes of cotton ponies, it was midnight on Christmas Eve... The streets were silent. All I could think about was that I wished there was some drunk driver out that could hit and kill us. But there was no one. Just my luck. So I started a new prayer, that Jesus Christ would make his second coming sooner than later... and I've been praying for that ever since.

Octo-Mom, Nightmare Before Christmas, Part 1

The following is a journal entry I wrote a few days after we delivered our son, Noah. It feels more like a documentary than a blog...I was going to re-write it, but that might be a disservice to the emotion of the time. So I'm breaking it up into a couple parts. Sorry it's so long.

Because I didn't know I had miscarried the first time, after 6 months of not getting pregnant despite the calendaring and ovulation predicting we had done (not at all fun...more like work) the doctor put us on Clomid and we got pregnant immediately. Aside from having "night" sickness the entire pregnancy, I considered myself the happiest human on the earth. Nothing could pull me down.

On December 22, 2006 around five in the morning I felt some sharp pains in my lower abdomen and I was having a hard time going back to sleep. I was determined to lay in bed though because it was the first day of Christmas break and Andy and I had decided to sleep in for the first time in months. Teachers get to be excited about Christmas break all their life! But I was 6 1/2 months pregnant, I wasn’t feeling very well and there was no position that I could get myself in that was comfortable enough to go back to sleep. Occasionally I would get another sharp pain but they were short and I thought they would eventually go away.

I was officially 27 weeks pregnant, out of 40. We were having a little boy that we were already calling “Noah Max Hunsaker.” He was a late bloomer and this worried me. Usually, you should feel a baby kick by 20 weeks and by 23 weeks, nothing. Andy was in rehearsal for A Christmas Carol at the Utah Shakespeare Festival. I was sitting at the back of the theatre with Scott Phillips, my former teacher and mentor who is now the Managing Director at USF. This was the first time they had used microphones for Andy's character "Ghost of Christmas Present." The sound guy decided, that night, to add a lot of reverberation to Andy's mic and when he bellowed "are there no workhouses!?" I felt Noah kick for the first time. Then, any time Andy would speak, Noah would kick. After the rehearsal when Andy came down the aisle to go home, Noah kicked again. I knew that he recognized his dad. The next couple of weeks he was kicking a lot, usually between the hours of 8:30 in the morning and 10 and 7 and 8 at night and anytime Andy was around. It made me laugh so much.

I digress. At around 7 in the morning, the pains were pretty fierce and I just couldn’t stand it so I got up. I had Christmas presents hidden all over the house. So for the next hour I gathered and wrapped while Andy slept in. I started having more regular pains but because this was my first pregnancy, I didn’t know they were contractions and they came and went so quickly that I just kept saying “Noah, simmer down now.” But by 8:30 I couldn’t stand it anymore and I went in and woke up Andy. Andy witnessed me go through one of these pains and insisted immediately that I call the doctor. Andy, in his wisdom, started timing the pains. At 27 weeks I guess it just didn't occur to me that it would be contractions.

The doctors office asked two questions, when did they start and how long between intervals. I was having sharp pains that would double me over every five minutes and they lasted about 30 – 45 seconds.  They said “get to the hospital, you are in labor.” The first round of phone calls began “Please start praying, Jan is in labor.”

I hadn’t showered, shaved my legs, packed a bag, had a breathing lesson, nothing. We still had three months for that! This was absolutely wrong. So when we got to the hospital they admitted me, and Perionatal specialist Dr. Robert Fagnant met us there and did an exam immediately since Dr. Chamberlain still had patients to attend to. Dr. Fagnant is one of the best Perio-neo-natalologists  in the United States and to speak for St. George, everyone told us over and over that we were in one of the best Neonatal units in the state, if not the United States. Several very acclaimed preemie doctors have taken up residence here. We were very lucky.

Dr. F told us ALL the news. The good, the bad, the scary and the inevitable, that we were going to deliver a baby that day if not in the next couple of hours. I was freaking out.  He told us that 50% of all babies born at 25 weeks turned out perfectly fine if they were big enough, and the other 50% had all kind of problems including blindness, celebral palsy, deafness, and a myriad of other problems. Because I wanted to deal with our decisions intelligently I tried desperately to be unemotional at this time. I listened to the whole story, the positive and the not so positive. But that was the beginning of the nightmare. I went into some kind of deafness myself. I started praying non-stop. I started making promises to Heavenly Father that I would raise this boy in the light and that I would quit working and be the best mom that I could be. I didn’t stop praying for 36 hours.

People were swirling around, it was a beehive of activity. Very small babies were born in that room but none quite as small as Noah would be. Everyone was very concerned, but also, very calm. Dr. Fagnant did an ultrasound and tried to guess how much Noah weighed so that preparations in the next room could be readied. They figured that he weighed around 870 grams, just under two pounds and that was "great! He's a giant already!" There was a great chance that he would be completely normal and just need a few months stay in the NICU before we could bring him home. Everyone had a story of a baby that had survived at that age. I was feeling like we might win. I also wanted to scream. I also wanted to do everything I could to make the contractions stop. They tipped the bed upside down and laid a stack of pillows under me to keep my uterus upright. They gave me some little green pills that were supposed to stop the contractions but Noah wanted out. So when that didn’t work, they gave me a yellow pill that was supposed to relax the uterus so that it wouldn’t be able to contract. That worked almost immediately and everyone relaxed at that point. They wanted me to hold that baby inside as long as I possible could so that the steroids that they gave me would work through him to help mature his lungs as quickly as possible. They hoped that I could keep him inside 48 hours, but they weren’t very positive that this would happen.

After several hours of barely noticable contractions, my mucus plug came loose and my water broke. This was a bad sign and the second round of phone calls began. Please pray. Pray, pray, pray. I could feel both sides of the family praying like crazy. Within an hour of the first wave of water, however, it stopped. Miraculously, the sac had sealed itself up again and Dr F told us that we might be able to get another round of steroids in Noah after all. I was in a kind of trance of prayer.

They gave me an epidural at about 4:30pm and that was one of the worst experiences of my life, but with such a great result. I was able to forget about the contractions and relax which was probably one of the problems Noah was having. I was so uptight about what was going on and I was not ready to have a baby, and he was not ready to be born.

Besides having Andy by my side, one of the greatest blessings of the day was having Penny and JoEllen, two of my sisters with me. They had both recently given birth to little boys and we were in good spirits because I was excited to add to the club, but I was not excited to be so unprepared. They were so good to me. They told me all the mom secrets of labor, how to breathe, how to lay, and what not to worry about, what to listen and look for. I was so glad to have them there, but I missed my mom. I wished I wasn't so far away from her. We bought a few hours of time playing cards that JoEllen bought in the gift shop. JoEllen ran home and got a camera, we hadn’t even thought about a camera. I didn’t even have a clean pair of socks on. I hadn't shaved my legs or even showered for the day. But at the time, you just quit caring about that, and concentrating on trying to keep that baby inside for a few more hours, a few more minutes.

I just kept praying. I was also holding very still. I felt like if I moved, I would tear something loose, or jar Noah or start another contraction. By about 10 that night I was finally able to sleep. I had defied the timeline Dr. F. had fully expected to have delivered him by then. I knew that people were praying, our families were praying, the nurses and the doctors were all praying. There was a powerful spirit in that room like I had never felt.

A postpartum team was waiting on the other side of the window of the room I was in to take the baby once he was delivered. They sat around and waited, and waited. Penny and JoEllen went home to put their families to bed with the condition that no matter what time of night, we were to call them and they would be there for the birth. The doctors all went home for a few hours and the good nurses, and Andy took care of me.

Andy tried to sleep in a reclining chair next to my bed but it was more like a war between Andy and the chair. It was hilarious (but not to Andy) and I was worried about him the whole night. He had to keep getting up to turn off the monitors that were beeping. He didn't even get one day of vacation. He was so exhausted and I felt so bad for him. I could see the worry on his face like I had never seen before. What if I hadn’t had such a good man by my side?  What an incredible blessing to me. Andy did not deserve to have this happen to him. I started to feel so much guilt about being older than him – again – and putting him through this ordeal. I just prayed and prayed that Noah would stay put for another day and that eventually, he would be able to get to know the sweet, faithful, strong, hilarious man I know as his father. I hoped that Noah would pick up those traits from Andy. Just one more day would help so much they kept saying....one more day...even an hour.

But it was not to be. At about 4 in the morning on the 23d of December, I felt like I needed to have a bowel movement. Dr F had said that that was a sign of the babies head coming further down into the birth canal and to let everyone know when that sensation was happening. So I did. I told the nurse, Caroline, that I felt like I needed to have a bowel movement. That was when the circus began.

Caroline checked to see if my water had broken and if she could feel Noah’s head and she thought she could. She practically ran out of the room flipping the lights on as she went. Suddenly, everyone that was playing cards or sleeping was wide awake and in “baby” mode. The room came alive. Dr. Eggert, another amazing doctor in charge of the NICU, got his team together in the resuscitation room ready for the pass-off. I was then able to feel the contractions pretty clearly and they had me push right away. Doctor Chamberlain arrived.


I thought it would be one easy push. A baby that small should just shoot out, right? Let me say a couple of things about pushing. What the…? First of all, I couldn’t tell what was being pushed and what wasn’t. People were giving me all kinds of advice and I was doing everything I could. I passed gas, poop, water, blood and finally I asked them to let the epidural wear off so that I could feel what I was doing. I had pushed for almost two hours – from 4:00am to 6:00. It took about 15 minutes for the feeling to start to return to my legs and within two good pushes, Noah had crowned.

The next part is tricky. The next part worries me still to this day. As soon as he was nearly out, they told me to stop pushing. I was panicking. I really needed to push at that time like no other. But I am obedient if nothing else and I held back while they coaxed him down the birth canal gently. to protecthis head and not damage his brain in the process. That was the longest two minutes of my life. I couldn’t see anything that was going on because they wouldn’t let me sit up very straight to avoid putting more pressure on his head and tiny little body as he emerged. I worry to this day that I didn't stop pushing soon enough.


Once he was out and they had cut the cord, Dr Chamberlain held him up as he crossed the room for me to see but went straight by me and passed him through the window to the waiting team on the other side in the NICU. All I heard them say about him was that he had an obvious cleft lip. I knew that wasn’t terrible and these days, cleft lips can be repaired so that they aren’t even noticeable. My other thought however was all of the speech therapy, what if it was a cleft palate or worse. So ironic that he was born to two actors. That’s the way it works though, huh? No one would be better equipped to teach him how to speak properly than both of his parents. My mind was reeling. I was praying so hard I thought my heart would explode.

I was shocked at how maternal I felt immediately. I wanted to hold that baby. I knew he needed intensive care, I could see that he was tiny, so tiny and it was shocking. But I ached immediately to have that baby put on my chest like regular moms. Even though they told me that they were going to pass him straight off to another team and that I would not be able to hold him, that was my first self-pity moment. I had spent 6 months with this kid and now they were taking him away. Why coulnd't anything just be easy?

As they were finishing with me, I still had to deliver the placenta and be cleaned up, Dr. F came back into the room to say that Noah had officially used his lungs and had cried out. I missed it. He had also pooped and pee’d all over everyone and that was a great sign. Glad I missed that. Andy said “that’s my boy,” and everyone laughed. The spirit of the room was getting lighter now that he was born and in safe hands. Looking back over the moment, I wished someone had recorded that little cry, because once they had stuck all those tubes down his throat, he never used his little voice again.

Octo Mom Prologue and Miscarriage #1 "Little Shop of Horrors"

Warning: I was reading a blog today from a woman that lost her husband and it was a beautiful tribute to him and it is allowing her to grieve outloud in a way. I hope you don't mind, but I'm grateful for the idea. So I decided to write a little mini-series called "Octo-mom."  It might be a little graphic in nature. Female stuff mostly, I anticipate.

Too bad.

I hope that I can use it as a tool to get me through my grief. I include the graphic truth for truth's sake in hopes that people can learn how to talk to someone that has had chronic miscarriages. Especially the Mormon someones. Being a mother and having the ability to have children is something that we are raised with, expected to do and look forward to doing. For me anyway. Mulitiplying and replenishing the earth, and having big families, is not just a Mormon idea and I won't approach it from that perspective because, for me, I so hoped that I could have children more than anything. It's been in my system as long as I can remember. As far back as the "Easy Bake Oven days...

The minute I stood on a college campus I was looking for a husband. I was 18. Every single man I ever dated went through a kind of test in my mind " would he be a good father?" That's probably my biggest secret. Jan Shelton Hunsaker, career woman, didn't really want to work for anyone but God. Truth.


But then I went to college...didn't find a husband, epic fail. Went on a mission...came home and went back to college....became studentbody president of the university (I thought that would make me famous with the men, turns out it just makes a girl tired and intimidating.) So I graduated....didn't find a husband...moved to Japan....didn't find a husband...moved home and started teaching...

T.W.E.N.T.Y....Y.E.A.R.S.....P.A.S.S.E.D. And honestly, I can name five LDS women right now that are my age or older and still searching for a companion, and are incredible in every way. I do not suppose their pain. I only tell my own story. Just mine. There are worse things than miscarriages. This is only going to be my mini-series. It's what consumes....me.


Because I have always had the urge to be a mother, I truly believe that most women are born with the natural instinct to bear and nurture children. So my journey has been littered with flashes of hope and buckets of despair. I sincerely hope, however, that it might help someone out there dealing with the same thing, or trying to help someone else through it.




I am an Octo-mom. I have been pregnant eight times. I teach school for a living, and when you have tried so hard and so long to have children of your own, so that you can stop raising other people's kids, it makes you feel like a cheap babysitter. It makes you feel like you're in jail. You don't have a good reason to quit working, so you just keep getting in that car and going to work. When what you really want to do is hold a sleeping baby...or a crying one... or a sick one...or just any baby.

Miscarriage 1: Because I was 41 when we got married, we wanted to get started on a family. I didn't want to be using oxygen and a cane at my child's high school graduation. I had never been pregnant but according to the internet, twenty or (two hundred) sites I had visited for information...about eight weeks after we got married I discovered that I probably was. ;-) We called the doctor to schedule an appointment and the nurse said "have you done a pregnancy test?" and I said yes, but they were negative. (If I had a nickel for every pregnancy test I have taken in my life, we'd have enough money to adopt.) She said, "as soon as you get a positive pregnancy test, we'll put you on the schedule."


We couldn't get a pregnancy test to be positive though, and so I waited for that moment and kept going to school as usual with my secret and my hope. Along the way to school Andy would stop and let me throw up here and there. We were having auditions for our summer musical, Little Shop of Horrors, how ironic, and I was in a lot of pain, off and on. It felt like my period was about to start, all the time, so my original impression of being pregnant was that it was very painful... all the time. And that was good. As long as there was pain, I knew I was pregnant. I was elated inside and could not wait for that little stick to turn into the plus sign I knew it would.


The pain eventually turned into diarrhea and in between listening to kids audition, I would run off, throw up, sit down, shoot fire into the toilet and run back into the auditions, sweating, my face beet-red, but I was smiling, nodding.... these were kids I was meeting for the first time. They were so nervous. I needed to help them feel at ease. That's what you do with high school kids.


Sing, smile, write, run, sing, smile, write, run.


Eventually, there was blood and a lot of it. It was like someone had turned on my period tap. I was confused. I thought I was pregnant. I guess I was just having a really late, really bad period. I guess I might have the flu after all. Such crappy timing. So disappointed. And there were more kids to listen to. Always kids.... other people's kids. Turn on your actor, Jan. Use that bachelor's degree for something.


The pain got worse, making me pull my knees up to my chest under the desk, all the while smiling at the auditioner making them think I was very present. I'm sure they were looking at me, sweat running down my purple face, white lips and green circles under my eyes, wondering what kind of alien they were auditioning for. It's a wonder we got the cast we did.


Auditions usually run about three hours and between my trips to the bathroom, there are times when you are waiting for people to show up and time passes very slowly. I remember one of those moments when the accompanist was fiddling around on the piano, and I just ran over to the garbage can and threw up in it. We had to tell her what was going on right then so she didn't think she was going to get the flu or as my dad likes to call it "the Gunguskiotis.". In fact, she is also the school secretary and because she is the one that lines up substitutes for illness, she was also the first one to know I was pregnant, all 8 times. I love that woman. We have learned to trust her like the psychiatrist she really is.


Since there was no one around for a minute I sat in the bathroom unhurried. I passed a plate of blood shaped like a flying saucer and shortly after that, I passed a lumpy purple mass the size of a golf ball. Then the pain went away. Instantly. The room got brighter and I could sit up straight.


I distinctly remember being able to take a deep breath, looking at the toilet full of foreign objects and thinking, "this is the worst period I have ever had." And that was all. I had a vague idea that I had miscarried but it wasn't until I had had two more miscarriages, that I knew the experience at Little Shop auditions was actually my first miscarriage.

I heard my student stage manager open the bathroom door and say "Jan? There are some more kids here to audition. Are you okay?" And I was. Actor face. Move on.

Legends and Legends in the Making

I am indebted to many people for making my life so great, and I am inspired today to write about the "fathers of my art." These are humble men (today I'm thinking of a few men) that have shaped an influenced me through their lifelong dedication to the arts in Utah.

Last Saturday, my great husband remounted the "first in twenty years" Utah Thespian Festival for high school students in Utah.

Since Andy was asked (by the national office) to be the Utah Thespian Chapter Director three years ago, he has painstakingly resurrected the Utah Thespians in anticipation of hosting a tournament that would qualify kids from Utah to attend the National Thespian Festival during the summer. They give out so much scholarship money, it seemed to us, that we should find a way to reopen that opportunity for our Utah kids.

My husband is a good father. He wasn't out to take on a glamorous leadership position. He saw a missed oppoprtunity for his kids and rolled up his sleeves and added another huge responsibility to his already overflowing plate. He is a legend in the making.
In order to have a theatre tournament, you need a venue, competitors and money to hire judges. We booked a venue, sent out flyers, emails, shameless plugs on Facebook and Twitter, still, its been dead for so long, I truly expected about 8 kids to register...and we got 80! From 8 different schools! In 12 divisions! It stops me every time.

Then we lost our original venue for the event. We had 80 kids and no place to go. We thought we were going to have to cancel it. So we called James Arrington at Utah Valley University and he said "C'mon down!" at the very last second.  UVU has the biggest theatre department in the state and they are right in the middle of The Secret Garden, but he said "We'll find room." He had to schedule us, open the buildings and rooms for us, wait for us to finish, be at our beck and call - James F.A.R.L.E.Y.F.A.M.I.L.Y. Arrington! Brother Brigham himself. Ego? None. Once we arrived it was: "What can I do for you, Jan...you need tape? I'll walk across campus and get you some...you need a costume mannequin ...done....what else? Doors unlocked? Not enough room? Let's find another room...., etc... etc... His wife called while I was hustling him around and he stopped, fully present and said "We're havin' fun!" He wasn't having fun! He'd been teaching all day! His back was killing him. He wanted to go home, (so did I!) but he was at my beck and call because he said he would. The man is a good father. A champion. A legend. At my serivce. AH!

So to our surprise, we were still afloat and we needed to start calling judges! We could only muster up $10 a round AND it was a Saturday night. What were we thinking?!!!!! I thought we'd have to use the bus drivers, but NO. Our highly over-qualified royal friends RUSHED to our rescue. Ann Hileman (who flew in from INDIANA!) Diane Daly, Shawn Mortensen, Mindy Nelson, Josh Stavros,  etc.....etc.....all of them proud to be part of this pioneering event. All protectors of the arts. Even Andy's amazing parents, threw together a hospitality table fit for a king. And we had a few!

Exposition done.... here's where my heart is today.... Part II - "A Lesson in Humility."

Andy is an Equity actor and has had the chance to work with some of the finest actors in the nation at the Utah Shakespeare Festival. One of those actors is Vanessa Ballam, the beautiful daughter of Michael, the professor from Utah State, musical theatre, opera, (LDS temple film) legend.

I shouldn't call him Michael. I should call him Mr. Ballam. Or even, Brother Ballam. He might be Utah's greatest musical theatre LEGEND.

So, Andy called Vanessa (a former Miss Utah and musical theatre legend in the making) who volunteered to judge at the tournament and offered to bring her dad along too. In fact, she even brought her incredibly brilliant husband along who is also an Equity actor. They drove TWO HOURS, and had to pay a babysitter, to help us put up our toddling little tournament.

Our kids were familiar with the Ballams because they now host the Utah High School Musical Theatre Awards (The Jimmies) and we were lucky enough to win "Best Ensemble" last year for All Shook Up.  That was a lot of work for them and I'm so grateful! I digress. Anyway, our kids think Michael Ballam walks on water. (So do I.)

And then there he was. Judge #9. He just walked through the door looking like....Sir Michael Ballam.

I had one job, and that was to get the judges from the door, into the tabulation room as they arrived and as usual, I was a complete, stuttering, bug-eyed freak. I've seen him so many times, you think the awe would have worn off. But then I got to shake his hand and look at his perfect hair up close. The man has beautiful hair. He didn't know me. But he took my hand and looked me in the eye like we were old friends. The first thing out of his mouth was "Congratulations Jan! (He knew my name!)This is fantastic. I'm thrilled you ask me to be part of it." Positively regal. Positively...... humble.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to reply with finesse: "Thank you, your highness, your presence makes this truly an event of worth and value." But instead I squeaked out "You're so awesome."

Y.O.U.R.E....S.O....A.W.E.S.O.M.E.  

(!?*#!?*?) Shaking my head just thinking back....so embarrassed. I'm 47 years old. "You're so awesome." I might as well have added "dude."  "You're so awesome, dude." "Dooooooode...you're so awesome."

Pshft.....................t. Whatever. WHERE WAS I? I was in the land of the little people.

King Ballam hugged his royal cousin H.R.H. Arrington and then wandered into the tabulation room were he picked up his ballots, adjudicated more than two dozen 15 - 18 year old plebians, had a cookie between rounds and laughed with us ALL like we were long lost friends in the kingdom. His daughter Vanessa was no less gracious than her father, all of us celebrating KIDS and the theatre together. Then later, as I read my students ballots (those plucky plebians) Lord Ballam had written things like "You are a tower of potential!," "WOW! Impressive instrument!" and "Thank you for that performance, it was brilliant! You are going to do so well at nationals." On all of his ballots he left his handwritten email address in case the kids had questions. H.I.S. E.M.A.I.L.

Michael Ballam became a father to me that night. Not because he is so talented, or so famous, but because he shared his talent with US. Little bitty, bite-sized Utah Plebians...I mean, Thespians. He told my kids they had potential and he used every second he had with them to coach and uplift. He was accessible, listening and .... present. He was NOTHING like I expected. What was I expecting? That his kingdom had jaded him? No, it hadn't. Or that his fame had messed with his ego? Nope. No ego. None. That he would be too busy for weeeeeee little people and our little tournament? NO WAY. He was there to celebrate what we had done. He was the portrait of humility. Just a regular guy with some skills. And in the end, when Andy handed him his weeeeeee little check, he ripped it in half and handed it back. With gas at these prices! What an example to me.
The only thing I was lacking at that moment in my life was Fred Adams (Founder of the Utah Shakespeare Festival). He taught me 25 years ago in college but that doesn't matter....the minute he sees me I am the center of his world.  Ego? Never. His kingdom sports a Tony Award for his little habit of pursuing excellence in the arts. I idolize that man. He apologized for not being able to make it, he was "with the state legislature...stumping for arts money" You can do that Fred. Please do that. Get your Shakespeare Center built so that we can all enjoy it forever!!!

Where was I? Oh....

In an effort to redeem myself, as the Ballams were leaving I did manage to say "You are an inspiration to me and to my students. Thank you for taking the time." (I practiced in the bathroom) GUESS what he said.... GUESS....!? He said "I've had an absolute ball! Come to Utah State next year we'd love to host this! This was fantastic!" (Hair STILL perfect) It was as if he was leaving his family reunion. HE was laughing, ribbing us, eating a ham sandwich and he was proud of us.

I have, and will always look at people like Michael Ballam, James Arrington and Fred Adams as the "Father's of Theatre in Utah." I'm sure they looked up to their "arts fathers" in their time, but they are mine. I have always had a deep and abiding love for people that dug in their heels, fought, clawed and crept inch by inch up from a free play in the park to a Tony Award. They could have set up kingdoms on Broadway, but they BLOOMED where they were planted, and I am the benefactor of their lifelong pursuit of excellence. These men started with passion and two dollars in their pockets and they raised beautiful families, and legendary careers in the theatre. (This is a career where most LDS men don't stand a chance. I'm so grateful to them because my husband is an LDS man in the theatre and they are an incredible example to him as well.)

Here's the point. And I do have one. (I did ultimately learn something, again, and A.S...U.S.U.A.L.)

Whether you are a legend or a legend in the making, never forget from whence you came. Lead with genuine authenticity and humility and you will become a legend in whatever capacity God has chosen to assign you. I have found, humility comes from serving others and just when I need a good dose of it,  an Andy, James, Sir Michael or King Fred shows me the way.

If thou desire the love of God and man, be humble; for the proud heart, as it loves none but itself, so it is believed of none but by itself; the voice of humility is God's music, and the silence of humility is God's rhetoric. Humility enforces where neither virtue nor strength can prevail nor reason."

— Francis Quarles

So.... Dear Michael Ballam, James Arrington and Andy: I hope you don't mind that I was so inspired by your presence last Saturday to make it the topic of my long-winded blog. It occurred to me, that the reason you are all so talented is because your humble authenticity allows you to reach and teach. I want to be just like you someday. It's not eloquent. But I THINK YOU'RE AWESOME and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Jan Hunsaker
Future legend. I hope.

Take It or Leave It

Last week a very nice girl in my film class at the college where I'm teaching, politely asked me how many films on the syllabus were rated "R." Not having it in front of me, I replied "a few." She then informed me that her religion did not allow her to watch rated R movies and she would be checking out of the class. Did she see my CTR ring? It was a little arrogant. I wish she hadn't been arrogant. No problem for me... there is a wait list as long as the existing roll.

But, "her religion?" Though I didn't ask her, I'm pretty sure, we share the same religion. And a stabbing pain twitched in my eye. I hope she didn't notice that. I had been warned that this might happen. I just didn't know how I would feel - until it happened to me.

The leadership of the LDS Church has asked it's membership not to view rated R movies. Still, here I am, teaching "Understanding Film" and I was assigned to teach this class from someone I know is also a member our our religion and so is his boss, and his boss above him. These people are "old St. George" families that go back to Jacob Hamblin himself.

I turned to some research from "The BYU" itself to get perspective. There are classes in which R rated movies are required viewing. Film Appreciation classes for example and Amistad appears in several History syllabuses. They have an International Film Studies Club with a "disclaimer" noting that they will be watching and critiquing several movies that may be considered Rated R (Foreign ratings are very different and usually have an age appropriate suggestion)


We could read about what is going on in our world, or look at pictures, but it can also be recreated through the power of film in a way that puts us inside that piece of the world. It makes us sit up and watch, listen, assign meaning...pay attention . . . that's key. Most of us are visual learners, so anything that a student can watch and decode while they learn increases retention of the lesson.

My syllabus contains 16 units that help us develop critical thinking while we are watching a film. It is a Humanities or Fine Arts credit and consequently, the movies that are shown are rich in historical context including artistic and technological advances through time. We study narrative structure, editing, sound, cinematography, ideology in film, etc... all things that open our understanding to how movies illicit emotional and ideological response. Ultimately, we should have a broader view of our world, and appreciation for the kinds of humanity that we are not exposed to every day. After all, film is the world's number two form of entertainment (after television) and we identify the cinema as a major player in the humanities because it shapes our ideology so clearly. It has so much power! And that is what I think the Mormons (we) are afraid of.
 
This is a quote from my syllabus : "Film, historically and currently, deals with complex and controversial issues; it often makes us uncomfortable by challenging our identity, our relationships and our beliefs. It is impossible to have a meaningful Introduction to Film class that does not engage, at times, difficult issues..."

We (Mormons) don't criticize the movie for it's content we are advised to steer clear of it. The thought pattern goes like this: as marijuana is a gateway drug, so are rated R movies to porn or violence. I really believe this. But I also believe that it ... depends on the rated R movie. My students would probably rather watch Austin Powers than Pans Labyrinth, but even with that PG rating, Austin Powers offends me to the core and Pans Labyrinth brought me to my knees. What to do?!?!?

Solution: Brigham Young!
After he trekked out to Utah on his own two feet, Brigham Young was criticized for finishing a playhouse before he finished the Mormon temple (After two thousand miles on foot, I would have finished a bar myself), and this was his reply :

"Upon the stages of a theatre can be represented in character, evil and its consequences, good and its happy result and rewards; the weakness and the follies of man, the magnanimity of virtue and the greatness of truth. The stage can be made to aid the pulpit in impressing upon minds of a community an enlightened send of a virtuous life, and also a proper horror of the enormity of sin and a just dread of its consequences. The path of sin with its thorns and pitfalls, its gins and snares can be revealed, and how to shun it." (Discourses of Brigham Young, pg. 243)

So yesterday, after a particularly violent vampire movie (not the sparkling kind I assure you) I was asking myself this question again...how can I teach this stuff and still feel good about following the advice given to me from the mouthpiece of God? I can point out the consequences of sin, but I just can't call it that. I must be the actor I was trained to be. My new lecture notes will have to include a politically correct study guide, clearly stating how society crumbles when vampires are around. Vampires aren't real...right? I'm really confused.

I guess I could edit the movies I'm required to show. The writer George Eliot once noted, “If art does not enlarge men’s sympathies, it does nothing morally.” When we choose to edit film, we are only seeing what we want to see and what we already know. So why study things we already know?

I taught English in a refugee camp in Thailand for about 7 months while I was serving an LDS mission. I had them write about their life stories. I was appalled and shocked at the atrocities these children of God had been through. Their English was bad. Their vocabulary simple. Still, it made me get up earlier in the morning. It made me keenly aware of their sacrifice. BUT... I was not in Cambodia or Vietnam in the 70's. It was not until I had seen the movie "The Killing Fields" that I fully understood what my refugees had gone through. I was racked with pain and empowered to serve after I saw that movie. (I saw it on my mission) My thought is, in a controlled environment (like a film class, or sitting with a group of mature adults, etc...), a movie like Amistad, or Saving Private Ryan, or Pans Labyrinth ("Come sit on the right hand of your Father...) could lift your soul, make you fight back, raise your consciousness! As long as you take advantage of the information the film gives you to put it into perspective and use the film to enlarge your sympathies toward mankind.

But I am nothing if not obedient and I want to do what my leaders have asked me to do. My questions continue to burn...

Last one...when I saw the movie "The Passion of the Christ" (rated R for...the truth, basically) I nearly had a stroke from crying so hard in that film. People were sobbing all around us. Nobody cared. I watched the nails go into his hands (because it is literally depicted in the film) and I quietly thanked the director for including that for me. (Mel Gibson...weird). I needed to know, as closely as they could reenact it, how great that sacrifice was...for me. I'll NEVER forget the sound editing that so clearly created the sound of a whip biting into a human back. He took that for me.

I watched the actors stand around the bottom of the cross, knowing He was the Son of God and I imagined it was me. I was wearing the costume and all. And ever since then...every single Sunday, when I am participating in the rituals of sacrament meeting, I visualize that scene, from that rated R movie, and I am there! And I am racked with pain for what I have done to cause this moment in history. And I beg for His forgiveness.

So do I end up with some inspirational answer to my conundrum? Hehehehe... no. No way. Sorry. You might have been waiting for it...but remember who the blogger is....


This is my only peace: we can use film to enlarge our imagination, create empathy and awareness and learn about the paths of sin... and how to avoid them. (Thank you Brother Brigham) As long as . . . we do it in an environment of understanding and learning and we always, always, always, remember that the rating it's been given, the information it provides, is someone else's perspective. Take it or leave it.

Just like my class.

Be of Good Courage

Joshua was exhausted.

He needed to hear this: "Be strong and of good courage, be not afraid. Neither be dismayed for the Lord thy God is with thee wheresoever thou goest."

When I was in 8th Grade I was desperate to be popular. I was utterly ordinary. We called kids like me a "spaz" in the 70's. The kids that I hung around with were the popular dudes. They needed me. But not for the reasons I hoped. I was the "note" girl. The delivery girl. The mail service. When one of the popular boys wanted to give a note to someone to ask them to "go with" them, I was the one that delivered that sacred news. "Going with someone" was the 1970's version of "facebook official" I guess. We were too young to date, so we just "went" with people. We danced with them at the 7th grade Sweethearts Ball - you know that dance that started at 3:30 in the afternoon and ended at 5?

I never "went" with anyone, though I craved the opportunity. I took my job as "wingman" very seriously hoping that I would take a note from some popular, newly single boy and he would casually brush my chubby 8th grade hand, lock eyes with me, hear the bells, and realize that the name on the note was...MINE! But that never happened. I never gave up hope though, and consequently, the mail was delivered without fail, rain or shine.

I also rode the cusp of the group of kids that thought the popular group was ridiculous. They were the "smart kids." And they were VERY spazzy. I was only sorta smart. I did my homework and I went to school, but only because I had parents to please and mail to deliver. (Before email - human snail mail was exhausting.)

I didn't feel at home in either group. I thought I was the only person that felt that way. Ah, junior high!

So one day I was walking up over the overpass by my parent's house with some cool kids from the popular group and they offered me a little plastic bag full of pills that would "make everything awesome." I started giggling that precursor-to-a-heart-attack giggle...the smart kids rumored this was happening in the school, but suddenly I knew who they were, and it was happening to me. I felt - all at once - so scared I instantly needed to pee, AND... popular.  I saw my aunts house and I tried to make an excuse to go there, but because I was only sorta smart, I didn't come up with one fast enough or good enough for them to believe that I was supposed to stop there. I did need to pee awfully bad though. ;-) So I walked on. I was about three blocks from my house and that was plenty of time for them to persuade me to take the pills. Which they pursued with a vengeance.

I distinctly remember one boy saying "C'mon you chicken, I think she's too chicken." Was it really going to be this ordinary? Chicken? At least say "fraidy cat" or something interesting. I admit it would have taken me a lot of courage to participate in that activity, which I had never done before. I imagined my babysitting money being spent on drugs, my mother's disappointment, the reputation I had flying off my head and being replaced with a big stamp "loser." Only in the 70's it might have read "burn out." Yikes. I had a decision to make right then.

Good courage meant I could walk away, but I was too far from home and I didn't have a cell phone in 1978. So I continued to walk with the group and after I stopped giggling, I decided to say "no thanks."

And it was that easy. It was that ordinary. It felt so SPAZZY. I said "no thanks." In part because I was grateful that they would consider me part of their popular group and partially because I was learning about good courage. So I said "no thanks" about 20 times until I was within running distance of my house.

My dad was the bishop (church leader) and I had seen many destitute people burnouts come into our home for help and my mom would shoo us into the back room until they were gone and she would say "if you do drugs, you will be like that someday. You must be braver than that." Hehehehe.... and here I was, in the test of my training, and I actually acted on the expectation of my parents, because I knew without the shadow of a doubt that I was strong. I had been endowed with good courage.

When I got home I ran down to my room and cried and cried. I was exhausted from the anxiety of the situation...growing up pains. (I can identify that emotion easily now that I have perfected it as an adult.) I was also afraid that those kids would tell everyone in the school that I was a chicken.

But they didn't.

I did have a new reputation however of someone that would always say no. There wasn't a word spoken between us in the four years of high school that followed. I can respect that.

In the end of that era, the spazzy junior high years, I quickly distanced myself from the group and my mail business went belly up. Well...because I was soooo good at it, the smart kids did use my services, but let's face it, smart kids just didn't get asked to "go with" someone very often.

I didn't learn until I was teaching junior high aged kids 25 years later, that moving around from group to group is how we learn who we are. Acting on the expectations of your parents is who we become. I'm very glad that they expected so much of me and that they taught me good courage. Good courage is serving your fellowmen, taking an assignment outside of your skill set, saying no to your urge to buy something you can't afford, facing your addictions, bringing children into the world, walking away from a Costco chocolate cake...and walking away from the mail delivery service.