Changes...

Hey Aaron,

It's been a bit of a busy day, but I kinda like those. I find when I stay busy, it's easier.

Your room looks so different now, but it has your fingerprints (okay, and probably some of your food too) visible everywhere. I finally hung a scarf over the window. I never did while you were here because fabric tends to trap dust, and your asthma was already tricky enough. I wanted to do everything I could to protect you, even forgoing any soft window treatments. But now it lends a more finished look to the room. 

Your butterfly still hangs in the window where it has ever since my aunt and uncle gifted it to you on your first birthday. Your hand and foot molds, and your bunny with the trach and g-tube are in there, as are pictures and paintings. The piano is back where it was until we had to move it to make room for your big bed. 

It's peaceful in there, and I'm mostly at peace too, I think. At least most of the time. 

6 years ago today

We had a massive windstorm come through last Saturday. Michael and I were out buying me a new car, you know since I no longer need the ramp and wheelchair tie downs. I love my car. It's smooth, quick, so comfy. But I would give it all up in a heartbeat to have you here, or to have you here the way you were before you got so sick two years ago. 

I know, I know it wouldn't be fair to you to bring you back. And so I will try to stop wishing for that. But I do miss you, terribly. 

I was at the hospital today, talking to neurologists about family centered rounding. I actually didn't know very many of them, but there was one who had cared for you, and until I said that you had passed away just before Christmas, she hadn't known. I miss the people up there. I miss our relationship with them. I got to talk to the nurse manager from the floor where you spent so much time. She said the nurses and techs still talk about you, and ask about me. I interact with a lot of the staff up there, but it's mostly the leadership, or support services. I don't see nurses or RT's, and not even that many of the doctors who cared for you. I miss that part of me.  

Anyway, back to the windstorm. Michael and I went by the cemetery on the way home, and I hoped your flowers and things wouldn't be blown into the next county. They had been scattered a bit, but were also weighed down by the snow so we were able to rescue them all. I brought them home, cleaned them up, and pulled out my wedding bouquet that's been sitting for almost 35 years. I got a basket that I could stake down to help keep it in place, (I mean, it's March. It's going to be windy.) and set out to create a new grouping. I think it turned out okay. And as I did so, I thought of my mom putting it together for me all those years ago. I wondered about the dreams she had for me, and how she felt in letting me go. I know it's different, but I felt like I was doing for you the way she did for me. 

I love you, Aaron. I can't take care of you here any more. There are no more g-tube cares, trach cares, diapers, or feedings to prepare. No more meds to draw up and give. No more breathing treatments. So I take care of your grave, write to you, and help at the hospital. 

I do what I can here because while your journey here is over, mine is not. And I want you to be proud of me.

Love you, miss you.

"Life blooms right through death, and they beautify each other."

~Terri Guillemets