Six more days. Six more days until your birthday? Do you have a big party planned? Is Grandpa Bear there? Nana and Papa? My Grandma and Grandpa? You knew Grandpa Bear here, but not the rest, but somehow I can't imagine you and Papa not being super close. I mean, you share middle names, you're both amazing people, strong, courageous, and oh so full of love.
Oh baby, I miss you so much.
Today the mail brought tears, both of pain and of love.
Aunt Liz sent me a beautiful pot with spring bulbs just getting ready to bloom, along with her love especially over this next week.
And the Utah State Government sent a reminder that it's time to renew your handicap placard. Somehow I don't think you need that anymore. The last ones currently sit in the closet upstairs, with all the rest of your things.
I remember when I first went to get that. It seemed a little funny to me. I mean, what one month old is capable of walking 200 yards (or whatever the requirement is)? And obviously that's not why you qualified; you needed oxygen to breathe. At the time though, you used these little cute tiny tanks. It wasn't a big deal, but I figured that way if I needed it, I'd have it for you. And if not, I just wouldn't use it.
Then not even three months later, you acquired a bunch more accessories: a trach and a vent to go along with your oxygen, the suction machine, a pulse/ox, your g-tube and feeding pump, and of course all the back-up emergency supplies as well. Then the wheelchair...
Now, I carry you in my heart. I use your lunch bag each day for my own lunch at work. A crystal angel hangs from my rear view mirror, a butterfly on the back window, and all my little emotion stuffies sit below the dash, reminding me to lean in and feel all the feels. Many of the name tags from the PICU are on the inside of my closet door. Your hospital gown on the chair in my room; your bib that says "Hope" on my shelf. Gentle reminders of you. I try. Sometimes the pain is overwhelming. Sometimes I feel peace. Always there's a sense of something missing.
Your season paintings still hang in one office while a butterfly wind chime hangs in the other. I think, it's fitting. I mean, afterall, you brought me to the field. You taught me to meet people where they are, to help them help themselves, to want to listen, lean in, and just be there. You taught me that even in the pain, joy can be found. Even when it's hard, I can take another breath.
I'm sitting in the hammock in the backyard, thunder rumbles in the distance, and the hummingbirds zip in and out drinking from their feeder. I hear birds and feel the grass on my feet. I'm trying, Aaron, I really am. And I think most of the time, I do okay.
Sometimes I break down, and I suspect that may last until I hold you again in my arms. I keep talking to you in my mind, often while driving. The other day I woke up with dream fragments running through my head. They were fractured enough that I could not grasp them, but it felt happy, calm, peaceful. Were you there? Did you come say, "hi"?
Miss you kiddo. Love you so, so much.
Love,
Mama
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