July

Dear Aaron,

Another month without you, the second July you haven't been part of. 

You came home from the NICU 15 years ago on Sunday, came home to make memories before you died...

Well...

You did that! 

Over and over and over, until you didn't. I cherish those memories, and miss the ones we didn't get to make. 

You came home to a tiny bassinet set up at the foot of our bed. You came home to eight siblings that were beyond overjoyed to have you around all the time! Before that, they could only see you for a short time on weekends, and I think Michael (then not quite 4) expressed what we all felt when he had a meltdown in the unit. He wanted to stay with you, and if he couldn't, you needed to come home!!

You came home and I learned that it took me six seconds to race from my office to my room, and ten from the dining room. The kids learned to jump out of the way if your alarm was going off because I wouldn't even realize they were there. The apnea monitor only alarmed if you already had not breathed for 20 seconds, and I would count the beeps as I ran. That happened over and over, some days more than others, for the first two months and two days of your life (minus the days in the hospital). It's telling that I remember to the day the last time you had a true apnea. 

And at night, I would look down to the foot of the bed and see two blinking green lights, one for your heart and one for your breath. As long as they were going, I knew you were okay. 

As long as I could see the tracings on your monitor in the hospital, I knew you were alive.

And then the day came when the monitor was dark, the room was quiet except for my cries, and you were so, so still...

Oh Aaron, it's July, the month with all our birthdays, the month you were due. I don't want to have my birthdays without you, and you're not here. And Gramma isn't here. Yesterday I missed her so much I pulled up an old voicemail and listened to her voice. And it was regarding your services, your burial. How do I do this?

Some days just really hurt...

The pain is different now, maybe less sharp, less cutting. And yet, still there, maybe deeper, more steady? I don't know. The tsunami doesn't come as often but I'm always wet. It's always there, part of me, in my bones, my flesh. 

It has fundamentally changed me.

And I miss you.

Love,
Mama 

“The grief within me has its own heartbeat. It has its own life, its own song. Part of me wants to resist the rhythms of my grief, yet as I surrender to the song, I learn to listen deep within myself”

~ Alan Wolfelt