For the first time in over 13 years, I don't need it.
Oh, for a while there, I was tempted to do so as we went several months without going in, but it was my insurance, my security blanket. And now I don't need it.
It's been a busy day, which has been good, and hasn't, too.
We met with the mortuary today. He could not have been kinder. He asked us to take the time figuring out what we wanted, and I muttered that what I wanted was to have spent Christmas in the PICU and come home with my child the day after or so, you know, like I thought would happen. It's not his fault, obviously, but really, that was probably one of the last places on earth I really wanted to be.
Yet at the same time, I feel like this is one last thing I can do for Aaron: try to ensure that his service reflects him and his life.
We found a plot at the cemetery. It looks out onto the mountains and is near a girl whose picture shows she had Downs Syndrome. It's beautiful. But I don't want him there, I want him here.
I went and bought burial clothes and lost it in the store when I couldn't find the right size pants. They were on the other side of the (pretty small) circular rack. My sweet Michael was there and was so patient. I returned the special needs onesies that I got him for Christmas, unopened, unused, unneeded. Thankfully they didn't ask why I was returning them. I might have melted into a puddle on the floor.
The rented equipment is gone. Most of the supplies will go tomorrow or over the next few days. His meds have been cleaned out.
Lone Peak Fire came by today with flowers, muffins and a card. My office sent a beautiful arrangement as well. We are being looked out for, but oh, my arms ache to hold him! I almost asked to see him at the funeral home, but feared that if I did, I wouldn't be able to leave.
A Jewish friend prayed that "his memory will be for a blessing." This touches me so deeply. Aaron was, is, all about love, and he blessed our lives immensely. I pray that his memory will continue to bless us and those around him. Frankly, it's the only way I can see through this agony.
"May his memory be for a blessing."