I will preface this post with a disclaimer. If you don’t want to know what I have been feeling, in a very small part, over the past seven years, then click on the x to escape. I just needed to express some things. Not sure why. It’s my blog. J 

Seven years ago, January 11, 2006, life as we knew it in the Moore home was forever changed.

Seven years ago, on January 6^th, Brent went in for a routine surgery, his third since being diagnosed with Crohn’s disease in 1983. Normally a bowel resection patient is in the hospital for about 5-7 days, and then has about 6 wks of recovery time ahead of them. This time was no different. The surgeon removed a section of small intestine which was diseased, and in 5 days sent him home. I remember being surprised that he was going home so soon. His previous surgeries required a full week in the hospital. I also remember, vividly, that I was concerned that they had given him a turkey sandwich to eat for lunch that day. Normally you don’t go from clear liquids to turkey sandwich. Regardless, I brought him home.

At about 4:00 Brent started having a fever and slight pain. A call to the surgeon resulted in ‘watch the fever, it is normal for post surgery to be in pain.’ Ok. Well, by 7:00 his fever was 103 and he was frozen. He could not move. Literally, he could not move. The pain was that excruciating. A call to the surgeon resulted in me calling 911 for an ambulance. I clearly could not transport him the ½ mile to the hospital. The kids were all at church for activities, thankfully. The ambulance came, and the fire truck came, and the home teachers came. The paramedics had to pick Brent up with the blanket that he was wrapped up in and set him on the gurney. I made what few arrangements I could, and raced down to the hospital.

At 11:30 the surgeon came and said that it looked like Brent’s intestine had ruptured. I am glad that I did not have a computer, or google. I did not fully comprehend how serious this was.  I did not really know what peritonitis was, or that he could have, and should have died that night. When the surgeon came back out to the waiting room after an emergency surgery, I remember him saying, “With any luck, he will pull through.” I remember thinking, what? What are you saying? Luckily, I was not alone. Our very good friend and Bishop at the time, Dan Gagon, was there waiting with me. I still had no idea what we were in for. I figured another week in the hospital and all would be well. I was so very naïve. All I knew was that he was alive, and I figured the problem had been corrected.

That night began our seven years of heaven and hell. And today, we still fight. So much has happened over the past seven years. Some good, some bad. It’s hard to say what percentage is bigger. When we are humble and reflective, we know that the blessings and miracles far outweigh the hell. When we are down and going through yet another surgery or drain insertion or fever or abscess, we clearly think that the bad far outweighs the good.

The miracles include, of course, that Brent is still alive and can be a part of our lives. They also include a ward that has become unified in purpose through fasting and prayer, innumerable priesthood blessings, hundreds of hot meals, notes of kindness, and sincere concern. On the list of miracles is also family members who turned to prayer, who long ago gave up believing that it would do any good. We were blessed with family who were able to help us out with providing whatever comfort or financial needs we had. They installed central air conditioning before Brent came home from his 90 day stay in the hospital. They provided an extra fridge for all of Brent’s medical supplies. They provided comfort and company while I felt alone and often abandoned in the surgical waiting room or ICU. Our children became stronger and unified because they had no choice. I am so very thankful for my children and the responsibility and maturity that they showed throughout this time. They continue to amaze me, especially when we go into ‘hospital mode.’ The miracles also include finding a new surgeon and moving Brent out of UVRMC in Provo and moving him up to LDS hospital in Salt Lake City. For this, we owe Dennis, Brent’s brother, more than he will ever know. We are eternally grateful for him and his wisdom and for taking action when no one else would. The blessings also include our support team of friends. Good friends. The kind that you hope your children will find at some point in their lives. The kind that come running when you need them, sometimes breaking every traffic law to get here. ;)  The kind that you know are worthy to offer a priesthood blessing at any hour of any day. We have also been blessed with the many wonderful, kind, caring people at BYU. They have truly been amazing through all of this. They could have given up on Brent long ago, but instead, they support us and continue to do whatever they can to make it possible to remain employed. We have so much love and appreciation for Brent’s co-workers, bosses and HR personnel. We cannot thank you enough for what you have done for us. Even the small things like having a recliner in his office. Thanks. The list goes on and on. We truly acknowledge the many medical miracles and Dr’s and nurses that played a part in them. You know who you are. You will forever hold a special place in our hearts.

The hell we experience often seems endless as well. The twelve surgeries, the too-many-to-count drain insertions, the dozens of abscesses and fistulas, the wound care, the infections, the depression, the anguish, the frustration, and the hundreds of days and nights spent in the hospital either in UVRMC, LDS, or IMED. Every day of our lives we are reminded of the negative aspects of all of this. Every day we wake up wondering if something is going to go wrong. Brent’s health can, and has, changed in a matter of minutes. We are fine one minute, and in ICU the next. Our hope and faith have been crushed so many times that sometimes we begin to doubt everything we believe in. When Brent starts running a fever, the stomach turns to knots, and off we go to the E.R. in Murray. We have bags always packed and ready to go. So many plans, outings, vacations and birthdays cancelled/postponed due to changes in his condition. We are not able to commit to anything in advance. Our lives are not ours, but the disease which seems to own us. Some days we deal with this quite nicely, and say all is well. Others, not so much. It is a rollercoaster of emotions that we often find ourselves asking if we can please get off. Ok, begging.

Life goes on. We are surviving. Brent is still alive. We still have a family. We have a home. Our needs are met emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Our lives will never be the same as they were before January 6^th, 2006. Brent will never be the same. I will never be the same. Our children will never be the same. Those who have been with us throughout this journey will never be the same. Some may say that that is very sad. Some may say that it is for the better. We have all changed. We may never know why we have to endure what we are enduring. What we do know is that many people have come into our lives throughout the past seven years that have changed us, or have been changed because of us. We do not want to be the poster child for endurance. We did not ask for that, and do not like it. We just want to be ‘normal’ again. We do not want pity or sorrowful looks. We do appreciate your love and concern, however.

I have been plagued with feelings of needing to share all of this. Not sure why. It’s long, and probably too private. I am sure I have left out many details, some that are so horrific you should be thankful I left them out. Why did all of this happen seven years ago? Who knows? Did the surgeon screw up and not take enough of the intestine and sew back into unhealthy tissue? Who knows? Did the turkey sandwich cause him to rupture? Who knows? But to this day I will not allow Brent to eat a turkey sandwich. There are too many things we do not know. Too many unanswered questions. We DO know that most days we consider the good to far outweigh the bad. We acknowledge all of the miracles, large and small. We know that we are strong, and have endured much. We know that our family is stronger because of what we have been through thus far. We know that our needs have been met through you. You are one of our miracles. You strengthen us beyond belief. We know that God is real. We know that He is mindful of us, even during our darkest, most doubtful moments. We are always lifted back up. Always given the strength that we need to endure yet another trial. Thank you for the part you have played in our lives during these past seven years. The journey continues. The rollercoaster is still chugging up the hill and racing back down again, over and over and over again. 

Thanks for helping us chug back up the hill. Again.