Girl's Camp

 

Dear Aaron, 

As I sit on the porch of a mountain cabin and try to write to you on my cellphone, I'm drawn to the contrast of what life was like during your life. Birds are chirping, a hummingbird flits around, and the wind rustles through the trees.

Facebook reminds me of those times: happy times, scary times, and times I mourned for friends. Times filled with beeps and tears, joy and pain.

Fifteen years ago yesterday your echo read "normal cardiac function." After being rushed to the PICU in heart failure a few days earlier, I think you could have powered the whole hospital on my joy and excitement! 

A year later, you went in emergently for your second lip repair due to a massive hematoma that we initially thought was a significant infection. Having received the news that the full repair had been done instead of needing to leave the wound open with drains, I walked into the PICU and realized my body's reaction to the smells and sounds I was hearing. It was the first time I wasn't so focused on getting to you that the sensations registered in my conscious brain. I felt an immediate tightness, and increase in my own heart rate. 

And then the next year it was my friend's son, the little boy who lived only a couple miles to the west of us, who lay so still, so fragile, and on the cusp of his own journey back Home. 

And then on through the years, until you left and now I'm here with the girls from church, and we have grandbabies in our life. Linnaea is the only one with her own memories of you, but the rest will know you through pictures and stories. 

And now you experience it all. The camping, the sunrises and sunsets. Do you fly with the hummingbirds? I see so many this morning. Or scamper with the chipmunk that just ran across the porch? 

Do you children that came to teach us in your tattered bodies with perfect souls get together and look down at us, sending love along heartstrings that are still so strong? 

We miss you. 

I miss you. 

Love, 

Mama 

"Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads."

Henry David Thoreau

The Body Remembers...

Dear Aaron,

I've been cranky, irritable. My birthday was Wednesday and it just felt odd. There's some things going on with someone that is near and dear to me, and all I can do is pray and listen. So I chalked it up to all that. Plus unwanted home repairs and really hot weather.

But then Facebook reminded me of 15 years ago.

Fifteen years ago last night I was also cranky and irritable, and antsy. I spent about an hour on the phone with the on call pediatrician trying to figure out what to do. You were "sorta" okay. I mean, you looked pretty good except something was bugging me. We decided to just turn up your oxygen when you were eating to give you a bit of a boost. Now at the time, "up" meant from 1/32 of a liter to 1/16, barely a whiff. 

Fifteen years ago this morning, you spit up (not a lot, and not the first time) but I'd had it. I told your dad that I was sure I was neurotic and paranoid, but I needed a professional to tell me that so I was taking you to the ER in American Fork, maybe they'd do a breathing treatment and I'd be back in a couple hours, maybe longer if they were busy. 

Now that statement should have given a clue to my clarity of thought. No four week old baby, and especially one that is compromised, is going to walk into an ER, get a breathing treatment, and leave. Yeah, it didn't happen that way. 

They diagnosed pneumonia, and I was so confused! How could that have happened?? They weren't certain although some ideas were tossed around, but the long and short was they told us they were sending us by ambulance to Primary's to be admitted. At the time, the only thing I knew was that Primary's was somewhere towards the north end of Salt Lake County; good thing the ambulance driver knew where we were going. 

We were admitted to the floor, antibiotics were started, and my head swam. The next morning however, things changed. Your heart patterns changed, the nurse heard things she didn't like, and we landed in the PICU with a new diagnosis: heart failure.

Sigh...

And now I know why I was so on edge yesterday. 

That ten-day stay left its mark on me. The learning curve was sooooo steep! And the lack of sleep was significant. 

When we did discharge, I asked our attending what the outcome would have looked like if I hadn't taken you that Sunday morning. She gently told me that if I had waited until I could identify a problem, they would have been able to make you comfortable but otherwise.... 

That was the first time, but certainly not the last that I didn't know why I needed to get help but went anyway. Each time further reinforced how God knew your days and you would live every one that He designed. 

Even that last admit, December 2023, we sought help in time. But that time, that time Flu A ravaged your already tattered heart. He knew it was your time. He called you home. And I still, still wish it had been different. 

But even though I wasn't done (and never would be), you were. In His mercy, He took you Home. I trust that when it's my turn, you'll come get me. I miss you, Aaron. Thank you for all you taught me.

And I suspect that there will always be dates that my body remembers, even when my brain does not. 

Love,
Mama

"Our bodies are the texts that carry the memories and therefore remembering is no less than reincarnation"

– Katie Cannon 

Held

Dear Aaron,

As I sat in Sunday School yesterday, a painting caught my eye. I've seen it many times, but somehow yesterday, it spoke to me.

The expression on her face, the pain, the sorrow, the weariness and exhaustion, and yet a glimmer of hope. As she held His hands and felt His love, a sense of being seen as she truly was: a daughter of God and cherished by Him. 

Oh Aaron, it resonated within me. He knows our pain, He knows my pain, and He came to bring me hope and love, to see and understand me. 

July 4th brought fun times and memories. There was a flyover by Air Force fighter jets. Linnaea keeps calling them "fighter drones," I guess that goes with what she understands. Anyway, they flew south several miles to the west. We could see and hear them, but it was far away. And then as we came down the hill, they had circled over Pleasant Grove and were flying north, right over our heads! What a thrill! I remember running across the field, not much older than Linnaea is now, as the Thunderbirds flew at the Air Force Academy. It almost felt like I could reach up and touch them. These were higher, but still low enough that we watched them climb to clear Traverse Mountain.  

Hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill that evening and then fireworks at the park brought more fun times with the family. Linnaea and Barrett had a great time climbing up and down, and Barrett tried hard to catch the Black Hawk helicopters that circled over the valley. We made fun t-shirts for the grandkids with Linnaea's and Elend's hands, and Barrett's and Sterling's feet. Do you remember making the Four Seasons prints that hang in my office?   

The flowers in your garden are beautiful, except the clematis which is struggling. I have agonized over it; I didn't plant it well initially and have been fighting to keep it alive. It doesn't look well at all. This morning I dug down to the roots to check them out and they do seem to be okay, so I guess I'll just keep tending it and hope it comes up better next year. I'm told that it is a hardy plant and that even when it seems like it's "done" it can surprise you, maybe like you did.

You weren't "supposed" to live, and you went to the edge so many times that I think that's why when you did go it was such a surprise. You had cheated death so many times it didn't occur to me that this time would be different. So maybe this plant is more like you than I thought. It has been injured but is stronger than it looks. I hope so... 

I miss you, Aaron. I try to stay busy and mostly I succeed, but still, the underlying rhythm of life thrums with your absence. Like a white noise that sometimes fades into the background and is unnoticed but still there, it permeates the atmosphere. 

Except this is more like the absence of sound which still rings in my ears. 

So I will cling to His hands, knowing that He holds me, holds you. And maybe I'm also like the clematis, fighting to find my way in a world that no longer knows you. 

Miss you, Aaron.

Love you.

Love,

Mama

"You can find peace amidst the storms that threaten you."

-Joseph B. Wirthlin

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