It's cold and dark.
Remember Winnie the Pooh's blustery day? That's what it was like last night. When I went to the cemetery tonight to gather your things, most of your butterflies were tattered. I think two of the ten still had both wings, and some didn't have any. I guess that's okay. I mean, you were pretty tattered too by the time you left. Your heart and lungs hung on as long as they could.
And somehow, the wind last night, the rain today, well, it felt lonely.
On Sunday, someone came up to me at church and said they'd been thinking about you all day. I didn't even know what to say. I teared up. In so many ways, the world has moved on without you. I sometimes wonder if you're remembered. It hurts to think of you forgotten.
And then this morning I found myself talking to you, very much like you were still here. It wasn't anything monumental or important. "You know, Aaron, that's not the way it's supposed to go." And then I realized what I had said. I chuckled, and then smiled wistfully, and then cried.
October was often a difficult month for you. You spent a lot of it in the hospital, often pretty sick. Fourteen years ago we were preparing for your g-tube surgery, not realizing it would be followed a few days later by trach surgery. You had an nj-tube (through your nose, down past your stomach, and into your intestines) at the time, and when it got pulled out, we had to go up to Primary's to get it reinserted. Placing your ng-tube into your stomach was easy-peasy. But when we learned you were aspirating, it had to be pushed further and that had to be done with imaging to make sure it was in the right spot.
Primary's ER was amazing and quickly got it done. Mary was singing a solo in the choir concert and I begged them to see if it could be expedited because your older kids missed out on having me at so many activities; she needed me there. They did, we hurried home, and were there before she went on. And then, we also ended up in the ER because you were struggling to breathe right. Sigh... The good part was, we came home again without having to be admitted. But that was an intense day.
Two years ago was your last surgery. Your lungs and heart struggling, we'd decided no more surgeries and then found you had a fistula in your right groin. Your artery above the hole was about four times the size of what it was below, and that stressed your heart even more. The risk/benefit scale slightly tipped in favor of surgery, so with my own heart in my throat and many prayers and faith, you went into the OR. I was terrified, but you pulled through and immediately after surgery your right foot felt warmer and was pinker than it had been in years. However, it did take you 48 hours to discharge from that "same day surgery."
Aaron, it's been a rough week, a hard week. I feel like the train is starting to race out of control again. Halloween is in two days, then Thanksgiving, and then . . . just before Christmas, your angelversary. It's almost here and I can't quite wrap my head around it.
How can it be a year already? How is it only a year?? And how do I do this?????
Tonight is the last night I pick up things from your spot for several months. Between April and October, every Tuesday night I've taken down your lights and butterflies so they could mow. Every Tuesday an alarm went off at 6:30 and then again at 8 to remind me. I will still go by every night to check on you. Does that seem weird? I mean, it's not like you're going anywhere. But I can't tuck you in, snuggle you, turn on Scout for you, so I do this.
I miss you, Aaron.
Miss you so, so much.
Are you close by?
Love,
Mama
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