Gratitude and Grief, Love and Loss

Dear Aaron, 

Thanksgiving yesterday, my first here at home without you.

Last year Gramma asked everyone to come, so we did. When I walked in, I didn't recognize her. She had deteriorated so much. But she said she was feeling so much better; she planned to see this year, too.  One year ago today. She was gone not even two weeks later. 

I worked to get Christmas things up earlier this year. Today was just my poinsettia arrangements and the Treepee. I've stayed busy, moving, distracting myself. And yesterday was chaotic, noisy, and amazing. Matthew & Kensey, Michael and you were missing, but everyone else was here, and here most of the day. No time to think.

But in the quiet moments, I find myself remembering. Grateful for you, and missing you terribly. 

Here we are again.

Friday into Saturday.  

101 times since that night, your last night here, your first day in heaven. 

Tomorrow I will go to your grave and decorate it for Christmas. I can't tell you how much I wish I was still choosing Christmas presents for you, juggling medication and nursing schedules. How strange it sometimes still seems to not be, and how painful the realization that those don't seem quite real anymore. They fade, almost like a dream. And then I'm hit with the gut punch agin. 

I miss you, and I miss Gramma.

I don't even have words for it.

A friend who also recently lost her mother put this up:

I was reasonably prepared for you to die. 

I was not prepared for you to be gone.

 And I think that's it. You dying was painful beyond words I have. Excruciating, gut wrenching, heart breaking to the point that every breath physically hurt. But there were things to do and tasks to perform, so amid the tears (and wails and gasping sobs), I did them. 

And now, I'm left with "gone." And that won't change. 

So I'm limping forward, wearing my mask, and even doing pretty well most of the time.

But Friday into Saturday . . . 

November into December . . .   

Thanksgiving into Christmas . . . . . . . 

I love you. I miss you.

Love,
Mama

“I'm just jealous of the angels

Around the throne tonight”

Donna Taggart 

 

Holiday Time

Dear Aaron,

This morning as I left for work, the bright morning sun shone in my eyes. Shortly after, dark, low clouds rolled in and my headlights turned on. To the northeast, blue sky behind the mountains. To the south dark gray hiding the mountains that were right there. Kinda felt like a metaphor for my life. 

Bright moments of joy and clarity, and then unexpected shadows, pain, sorrow. And still, work waited for me so I continued on. And stuck my grief in a box until the end of the day (mostly). 

I've got most of Christmas put up. Every year when we take it down, it seems there's an ornament that's missed. No matter how hard I try, the next year I find it. Last year was one that Grampa made, probably one the last ones. This year it was your Chinese Tiger that Gramma and Grampa sent from China. June 13, 2010 was in the 5th month of the year of the Tiger, and you were one in so many ways. And you made me into a Dragon Mother. I learned to advocate fiercely, and love deeply. And somehow, inexplicably, breathe through unbearable pain. 

I heard the term "season of grief" the other day and oh it fit. 

November into December just hurts. 

It's dark.

Christmas is coming.

You're not here and neither is Gramma.

On this day in 2018, I wrote about our holidays. You'd been a turkey yourself. My good china platter held the turkey and it was close to the edge of the table. Disaster was narrowly averted when I realized you'd grabbed it and pulled it towards you. Not that you'd eat it or anything, you just wanted to play. But then I wrote (in naivete and ignorance): 

"Holidays are kinda weird for medical mamas.  You're so grateful for each one, but mindful that even the close ones aren't really guaranteed."

Sigh...

Never in my wildest dreams did I think you would go two days before Christmas. Even in your last few hours, I planned to spend Christmas in the PICU and bring you home a few days later.  2023 was the one year I decided to take the Christmas picture later, after Christmas when it would be quieter. The one year I didn't plead with God to give us another Christmas. 

It was quieter...  Too quiet.

I miss you, Aaron. This time of year hurts. Lights, music, joy, and sorrow. I told someone today that it's kinda strange to hold both joy and sadness together, and it is.

But I do it.

There really is no other option.

Love,
Mama

“Joy and pain, they are but two arteries of the one heart that pumps through all those who don't numb themselves to really living.”

Ann Voskamp 

99 Weeks... Forever to Go

Dear Aaron,

Somehow things seem darker than I remember last year.

Bleaker.

Quieter...

I went by the cemetery and while it was actually earlier than I went last year (I get off an hour earlier because I also start earlier) the light seemed dimmer, the sky blacker.

I went to Arizona to spend Grampa's birthday with him, and it was good. 

And hard.

The house seems so different without Gramma. He told stories, many I've heard, some I hadn't. I told stories, too. Ones that featured him that he doesn't remember anymore. 

We sat outside and watched a yellow butterfly flitting through the bushes and flowers. It seemed to stay for a long time. Were you and Gramma close by listening too?

Back here, the trees have lost their leaves; they crunch under foot and gardens seem bare. We may see snow next week. Winter is trying to force her way in. November was hard for you. Surgeries, pneumonias, and then storming. We spent one Thanksgiving in the hospital and came close a few other times. I miss those days because it means you were still with us.

It's been 99 weeks now since I last told you goodnight and kissed your warm cheek. And it really was warm; you were fevering again. 

Sometimes I close my eyes and I'm right back there, in that PICU room with the little Christmas tree above your head, the banks of IVs, and the machines with their whooshes and beeps. 

And sometimes I strain just to remember your smile, your laugh, your wiggles and moves.

Tonight is hitting hard.

Will my brain always count the weeks? It's been almost two years. It seems so odd to have another year that never knew you coming to a close. 

Candles flicker on my shelves, lighting dark corners. Your memories light the darkness I feel, but like the candles, the flame is small and sometimes feels like the darkness will overwhelm them. 

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Memories

Dear Aaron,

November.

Almost December again.

98 weeks (will my brain always count weeks?)

I'm sitting in the airport getting ready to go see Grampa for his birthday.

It's still dark outside, but with the time change the drive to work looks different. The mountains are dark against a lightening sky. Or if I'm heading west, I'm still in shadow but the peaks glow in the sunrise.  By the time I come home, darkness covers the land but the sunset paints the horizon in coral, orange and red.

Yesterday was the Primary program and your Linnaea was so articulate. And so tiny. She stood next to another girl her age and only came up to Ruby's shoulder. I was beset with memories. 

An early song was "A Child's Prayer." I remember all the times my parents encouraged us to pray, knowing that He was there, would listen, and I felt like a child again in need of that comfort.  

I remembered the program in 2019. (click the link to hear him do his part) 2019 was a good year, a happy, healthy year (mostly). It was the first (and last) time you were part of the program.  You said, "I love Heavenly Father and Jesus, and being with my family." 

Then the children sang a new song, "The Miracle" and I had tears again in my eyes. He is a God of miracles.  You are one of His miracles. Your life was and you continue to be a miracle, helping and strengthening. And I still miss you. And I miss Gramma. 

Thanksgiving and Christmas are coming. Last year we were with Gramma and Grampa for Thanksgiving, and I put Christmas up just before we went. This year I think I may put it up next weekend. Yes, it's early but I need the light, the peace, the comfort. 

I'm deciding that just like grief, there's no "wrong" way to celebrate, to remember. I want to remember. I don't want to forget. 

I love you, kiddo.

Thanks for being part of my life.

Love,
Mama

Jesus is a God of miracles;

Nothing is at all impossible to Him.

But I know this:

Of all His miracles the most incredible must be

The miracle that rescues me,

The miracle that rescues you and me!

Shawna Belt Edwards

Wedding Day

Dear Aaron,

Your Andrew married Zoey yesterday. They are such an amazing couple, and to see all your brothers and sisters (and brother-in-law and sisters-in-law) together, minus you and Michael warmed my heart, and tugged on my heartstrings at the same time. Andrew was barely seven when you were born; he grew up with you.

At the reception, I saw a few friends I haven't seen since before you passed. And others who are ever present in my life, holding me up. 

This is our first wedding without you, and it was beautiful, and heartbreaking. I'm learning to hold both at the same time.

I didn't break down yesterday, and Friday was just too busy, but on Thursday as I went to see you, I saw evidence that others had been there, too. Two little pumpkins balanced on top of your stone, and the rocks were neatly stacked. 

I'm not the only one who remembers, even though sometimes it feels like it. I'm not the only one who checks on you. Yesterday, Matthew and Kensey took some time to go see you as well. They were only in town for about 36 hours but came by your spot.  

You know, 16 years ago about this time we found out you were coming to be in our family! I gave Daddy a small pumpkin and painted an American flag on the side to tell him we had a new blessing coming. You were due on the 4th, but came a few weeks earlier. Daddy still has that pumpkin. 

But anyway, when I stopped by on Thursday, I got out of the car (I don't often do that) and knelt by your side, and sobbed. I miss you, and sometimes I wonder if anyone else still does. I mean, I know Daddy does. He spends a lot of time in the temple and always looks for butterflies in the paintings. But most people's lives have moved on.

I guess in some ways ours have too. I no longer aim for your bedroom to give meds. I've learned to appreciate the quiet in the house, but honestly, I never really wanted it. 

The days are shorter, colder. I no longer need to pick up your butterflies and lights each week because water has been turned off and they won't mow again until April. Our second holiday season without you approaches. I don't count the first Christmas. You were here until two days before. So our third Christmas without you, but our second holiday season. 

I'm singing with the choir again and we're doing two of my favorite songs, ones I specifically associate with you: "Were You There When the Angels Sang?" and "Jesus Christ, the Apple Tree." I believe you were there when the angels sang on that long ago Christmas morning. And Gramma, too, and maybe me. I hope so. Music has been such an integral part of my life. And taking shelter under Christ as the Tree of Life, as the Apple Tree, brings me much comfort. Music soothes my soul.

Tomorrow is Gramma's birthday, my first one ever without her. I know I took her for granted way too much. I couldn't imagine a world without her. Will you tell her how much I love her? How much I miss her? And happy birthday for me?

Missing you both on this fall day. 

Love you, Aaron.

Love,
Mama

"Music expresses that which cannot be put into words...
And cannot remain silent."

Victor Hugo