Don't Tell Me...

Dear Aaron,

I'm angry. 

I keep hearing the things people said. 

Things people still sometimes say.

And while I know they mean well, they. Just. Don't. Think!

"Are you excited to travel now that you don't have to care for him?" (Two weeks after the funeral.) NO!

"It's so good to see you finally getting back to yourself. I can see you feel better." (A month after you died). Um, no, I just wear the mask better, the mask I will wear the rest of my life. Grief makes people so uncomfortable.

"I could never be as strong as you. I guess God knew I wasn't strong enough to lose a child." Oh, it's not like I had a choice. And it damn near broke me. In fact, it actually did. I underwent cardiac testing six months after you left due to symptoms I'd had since you died. But I couldn't summon the energy to go in before then. Broken heart syndrome, takotsubo cardiomyopathy, is a real thing.

Don't tell me ,"he's in a better place."

Don't tell me, "You got to keep him much longer than you thought you would."  I know that, but I want you here. Now. Still. I worked so hard, loved so much, gave up almost everything to keep you alive. And you loved your life. Your life here. And you were loved so much! 

Don't tell me that "I know how you feel. We had to put our precious dog down a few months ago and I loved him just like a child." WHAT?? (Yes, someone actually said that.) I know people love their dogs, but honestly, every single person should realize they will outlive their dog. And it's a dog! Not flesh of their flesh, bone of their bone. They bought it; they didn't give birth to it. 

Halloween 2023
Aaron-dalorian,
showing me "The Way" 

Don't tell me "I only have so many ________ (fill in the blank with whatever event) with my children" 'cause you know, not really. You may only have so many with them in a certain age range, but really?? Are you planning to disown or bury them? Because I only got 14 Halloweens, 13 Christmases, 13 birthdays with you. And I get No. More. NONE! And I guess if they're worried about missing them in person, well, I missed three with your siblings, some of them very young, as we fought to keep you alive. 

So if someone wants to say those things, go ahead. Just not to a parent who has buried a child.

Your last Halloween, we draped your costume over you for a quick pic because you were so sick, fevering so high, so precarious, that we didn't dare put it actually on you. And Halloween is on the doorstep again, only five weeks away. 

Oh, Aaron, I miss you! The weather cools. Nights are officially longer than the days now. The leaves change and fall. And I relive over and over those last few months of your life. 

So many days and nights in the hospital. So many fevers, blood transfusions, close calls (that I didn't realize were quite as critical as they really were). 

It's been 92 weeks tonight. I went to sleep thinking it was just another night. We were on the right path. It was taking longer than I wanted but you would be okay.

And in the grand scheme of things, you did go home. You are okay, more than okay, but I'm still not. 

They say that anger is a secondary emotion; something else always comes first. 

Did you know that a broken heart actually hurts physically? 

Tonight I just want you back.

And I can't have you. 

Tonight I'm drowning.

I miss you.

Love, 
Mama

“I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.”

C.S. Lewis 

Learning to Swim

Dear Aaron,

I don't swim well. I never have.

And yet, I'm being forced to learn. It's that or drown. And I guess sometimes I still feel like I'm drowning. 

But sometimes I swim. 

Always I'm wet. I don't think that will ever change.

Our mountains change colors, the nights get chilly. I don't see very many hummingbirds although I'll leave the feeders up for a little longer in case there are some stragglers needing help. 

And I realized something the other day: I don't look at the mountains as much as I did that first year. I still notice them, but it's more of a conscious effort to see. 

The first year, I think I was looking around like you do when you're lost, confused, in an unfamiliar place with no idea how to get out. You look around hoping to find something familiar, someone who can help you find your way. 

And it was so hard, so confusing! I was so lost!! The idea of a world without you in it was unfathomable. And yet, I was required to fathom it. It. Made. No. Sense. (often it still doesn't)

And so I clung to the mountains, to the stars and the moon, the trees and the grass. I studied them because I knew them, and at least they didn't change (much anyway). 

They grounded me, and still do.

The past week has been interesting. Not far from where you are is another tiny grave. (Okay, I don't know how tiny the grave actually is, but there are only four days between the two dates.) In September before you left me, a little soul came briefly and left again. His birthday was Sunday; his angel date was today. On Saturday, I took two butterflies over to him and saw a few matchbox cars lined up on his stone. Yesterday when I went to pick up your butterflies (mowing day is Wednesday), there was another butterfly for you along with a matchbox car. 

Two sets of parents grieving, not knowing each other, and yet I hope I brought a smile to their faces like they did to mine. Do you know him? This little boy? Do you hang out together and keep an eye on us? Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

And today I took some things up to little Gracie Field. She is so critical right now. Her big brother was struggling in the room next to yours when you left. Mom woke up in the early morning hours feeling like something was wrong and heard sobbing. She prayed for us, for you, for me, and now I pray for her. I still have no idea how I managed to walk out without you. How my heart kept going when yours had stopped. How I kept breathing... 

Oh Aaron, I may be swimming, and even doing okay most of the time. 

But I will never be fully dry again. 

Love,
Mama

Just keep swimming...

Dory

September

Dear Aaron,

We're a week into September; fall is almost here.

The sun has already set and it's only 7:30. 

Nights are cooler.

Cold weather isn't here yet, but I can feel it coming.

This week was hard! 

Memories keep popping up, juxtaposed against each other. 

First day of preschool in 2013, and then a few days later going to the SOFT picnic and ending up in the PICU. 

Your Make a Wish Star Raising in 2016. 

Realizing in September of 2018 that it had been a year since our last 911 call, and that continued into November! 

Matthew coming home from his mission in 2018, laughing and joking with everyone, until he knelt next to you. And then the tears flowed. He left, each of your siblings left, not knowing if you would be here when they got back. And yet, they went because they knew how important it is to share the good news with others. You almost weren't here when Andrew came home. Twice I called the mission office to tell them the doctors didn't think you would pull through, but you did. 

And now Michael has been gone a year, but you've been gone almost two. He went by to see you before he left, and we won't see you when he comes home, but I suspect you'll be there.

And then, somehow, with all the memories of you and the highs and lows of Septembers, memories of Gramma were mixed in there, too. 

I keep remembering the tracings on your heart monitor as your heart slowed and then stopped, and the call almost a year later from Auntie T telling me what was going on in Arizona. How the only option was to intubate Gramma and put her on a vent, but the doctor didn't think she would be able to come off. How I understood academically that a ventilator lets the body rest so it can recover, but my gut said that wouldn't happen. And then he started talking about how that would mean a trach and a long-term nursing facility, and Auntie T said she knew I'd done that with you but .... And I interrupted her. "No, not for Mama, not for her." And that's where Tricia was going too. 

You loved your life, and the vent was a necessary component. You loved playing with the tubes too! But Gramma had for years made her wishes known and she wouldn't have wanted that. So we said goodby. I told her to find you and hold you until I could get there. 

And oh, it hurts, it hurts so much.

Your cousin Lauren got married yesterday and we siblings were all together for the first time since Gramma's funeral. Grampa wasn't able to come because he's struggling, and it was weird to be together, and not have them there.  

It's still weird to not have you here. 

Aunt Maurie send one of the sprays of roses home with me last night and Aunt Liz and I put it on your grave. It's the first time in a long time that I've had flowers to put there, and they're beautiful.

I don't do well with the cold and the dark and winter. It feels lonely and sad. Both you and Gramma struggled so much more those last few months, and then just when the world was at its darkest, you left. 

I sit on the patio and the hummingbirds fly back and forth. They drink voraciously at the feeders and the flowers. They work to gain the weight they need for their migration south, which will begin so soon. The world is shutting down. Soon the frost will come and take the flowers in your garden. The hummingbirds will be gone, and I will stop sitting outside until the weather warms again. 

Hunkering down, trying to keep going.

Missing you . . . always.

89 weeks . . . 

Love,
Mama

"I used to love September, but now it just rhymes with remember."

-Dominic Riccitello