Numb

Dear Aaron,

I'm not sure how to describe this.

Numb?

Maybe?

Or frozen in time?

You know, while everyone and everything else is moving at breakneck speed?

I mean, I know I'm not frozen in time. I go to work, I see people, I even do my paperwork (necessary evil).

But it often feels like I'm just going through the motions, especially on the weekends. I have so many tasks and projects that need completing, and they just sit there. Weekdays I'm at work where you never were. But on weekends, especially Saturdays, the house echoes in silence. 

This morning Facebook reminded me that a year ago you were overcoming Covid. That's the one I thought would take you, not Flu A.  And yesterday was the 13th, yours and Michael's month birthdays. 

Last December 13th you were in the PICU but (relatively) stable. I remember driving down to work and calculating both yours and Michael's birthdays by month. Doing mental math helped me stay focused. When I got to work, I sent Michael a text wishing him Happy 209 Months. It was 162 months for you. 

That was also the last day I would see a real smile on your face. Ten days later you were gone.

Were you telling us goodby? 

Were you trying to tell us you loved us but you were anxious for the next step?

You know, kinda like a kid at graduation, or moving out to go to college? 

I mean, I guess that's what you did, and I know your siblings were all excited about those milestones, but they come home again!!

38 weeks now, and 37 since we closed your casket for the last time. 

On Wednesday I get to share your story with the surgical team at Primary's, and next Thursday I get to do it again at a medical conference on Family Centered Care. I don't have any idea yet what I'm going to say, but I do love sharing you. It keeps you alive in the hearts of others, and it reminds them of the "why" of their jobs. You were (ARE) so loved, and by so many in the medical world as well. For a kid who only once left his home state, and rarely left the Wasatch Front, you sure made a big impact on the world, especially for kiddos like you and families like ours.

I'll find my way, Aaron. Really I will. 

But I think I will always have a huge Aaron-sized hole in my heart

Love,
Mama

"Grief is a dull ache,

Ready to spring,

tears waiting.

Something always gone."

– Reverend Lori Turner-Otte