20 Weeks and Mother's Day

Flowers, pinwheels, and four 
butterflies; one for each month 
you've been gone. 

Dear Aaron,

I went by your spot today and brought roses. 

Daddy bought them for me last weekend and I enjoyed them all week, but I'm heading to Arizona to help family and I wanted to bring them to you before I left. 

The sun was just peeking over the mountains, getting ready to cast its rays on your flowers and stone. The crisp air held the chirps and songs of birds. And you.  

It's Friday into Saturday. Again.

20 weeks...

How has it been this long? How has it not already been forever? 

I stopped on the way home tonight and bought a solar flower for your basket, and two balloons I'll put out when it's closer to your birthday. It's only a month and two days away, and I have no. idea. what. to. do. 

I mean, we're planning to go to the hospital and make dinner for people, but for you, for your site? I just don't know...

I was gutted again tonight. I think my body knows. I do okay (most of the time) until Friday night rolls around. I sat in the car and sobbed and wailed. Oh my son, this pain is so hard. 

And yet, I know you're okay, honestly okay, even better than okay. It's just that I miss you so much! 

So many Mother's Days have been without at least one or more of my children, but I spoke to them, they called, often we video called. And I knew they'd be back again at some point. 

You won't be. Not here, not where I can hold you. 

And it. just. hurts. 

My peace lily is slowly opening at my office, with another bud also forming. Somehow I thought it would have been quicker, but that's okay. Maybe it's trying to teach me patience, patience with my own grief and pain. 

I love you, Aaron. Thank you for being my teacher, for helping me, for opening my eyes. 

We talk of ministering angels, and I don't know why we have been so privileged to have our own in our home for so long, and to be allowed to minister to you. But I'm grateful..

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it breaks.”

– William Shakespeare

Memories

Dear Aaron,

I've been sleeping in my office again. I'm not sleeping well at night and I thought I'd try the daybed again. I mean, it's got a great mattress and is right by a window, so win for the back and win for the hot flashes. 

But I really haven't slept there since you left... 

Like everything else, it's strange. When I slept there before, the french doors stood open, and the whoosh of the ventilator and sigh of the concentrator played in the background. There wasn't much light, but there was always a little from your pulse/ox. 

And of course, you...

It was a game we played. Could I remove your toys enough that you wouldn't grab them and wake me up?

More than once I woke to, "Hi Aaron!" as you squeezed Scout's hand. Or your rainstick banging against the side, or you just kicking the rail. 

Now the french doors are closed to keep the cold night air from freezing the rest of the house, and I have slept better than in my own (normal) bed, but still...

It's quiet. No noise. No lights. 

Just my memories of you there. 

And a faint whisper of your laugh...   

Memories,

Light the corners of my mind,

Misty, water-colored memories,

Of the way we were...

-Barbra Streisand

Part of Me is Missing

Hey kiddo,

Your teacher sent me a text today. 

Next week is your dance festival and your class is dedicating their number to you. The teachers want to put your name on their sleeve. Sweet boy, you have touched so many...

I don't know if I can go, but we'll see.

And then Michael's graduation.

And then Memorial Day.

And your birthday...

Sigh......

I picked up your things again tonight, just like I do every Tuesday night and thought about what to do for Memorial Day and your birthday. Every year for the past many, Daddy has taken flowers around to all the family graves. It takes alllll day to do them; some in Salt Lake, and then more up in Logan.

But somehow I can't just see putting a potted mum on your site and walking away. That doesn't seem quite enough. 

But I don't know what to do. Anything we do seems so small, so inadequate in comparison to what you are. I'm hoping that by your birthday, your stone can be installed. It's pushing it, but maybe... One way or another, it will happen this summer, I just wish it was sooner rather than later. 

I'm so tired....

Bone deep, soul stabbing, emotionally exhausted. 

I try to function, and I put on a pretty good show.

But underneath it all, part of me is missing.

Love you, miss you,
Mama

"Moments before our walk that afternoon; I realized the path ended too soon."

— Kelly Horn

Bereaved Mother's Day - It's Me Now

Dear Aaron,

I learned today that bereaved means "to be deprived of." Yeah, that tracks.

I'm deprived of you, at least in the here and now, physically. 

Today Primary's did a memorial program, I think I mentioned it yesterday. Anyway, Utah weather put on a show and it snowed! Yeah, May 5th and the white stuff was coming down.

Makes it a little hard to release the butterflies after the program.

So they sent them home with us and we did it here. I think I may have liked that better anyway. This way Linnaea got to participate as well. She was enthralled, loving that hers really wanted to stay perched on her hand. We gently placed them on the raspberry bushes and came in for dinner.

A few hours later, I checked and two were still there, maybe kinda like you? 

You stuck around a lot longer than you were "supposed to" too, and I'm so grateful. 

I wrote a note to you. Were you reading it over my shoulder? 

I'm trying, Aaron, really. Grief is a change I didn't want. 

It's said that anxiety is found in the gap between reality and expectations. I think maybe grief is similar. I haven't found that I'm anxious, but my grief is the gap between reality without you, and the expectation that you were going to be here for, I don't know... forever? 

I love butterflies. But they don't become beautiful by crawling into a cocoon and taking a nice nap. The caterpillar weaves the cocoon around himself and then completely deconstructs, into a pile of goo. It's a mess, kinda like grief. 

It's only after a lot of work that he emerges as something glorious and beautiful. 

I hope someday I find this, too.

Love you, little man.

Miss you so much.

“Grief is the price we pay for love.”

- Queen Elizabeth II 

How Do I Do This?

Dear Aaron,

Facebook reminds me of the posts I've written through the years.

It's May, the month of Mother's Day.

And Bereaved Mother's Day is the Sunday before.

Tomorrow.

And the annual Primary's memorial for the children who all died in the past year.

Died.

How????

I have shed so many tears throughout the years for my friends, mothers whose children are no longer earthside.

And now it's my turn.

I'm still not sure how to "do" this. 

The freedom to come and go, to not make plans ahead of time, or whatever.

I don't know what to do with this freedom. I feel untethered, like my rudder is missing and I drift in the wind.

Local colleges held commencement this week and last, and the University of Utah's was this week. I heard the news and went, "oh, okay" and went on with my day, not thinking about it again. 

For the past 13 years I knew when it was, what time, when they played home football games and many other events. 'Cause you know, Primary's is right up there too. I could see the stadium jumbotron from hospital windows. I took a quick trip down the road two years ago for Mary's graduation. And I knew, I knew that if we had an emergency my only hope of getting there without significant delay was to call an ambulance. So I knew traffic patterns and events and would make decisions about how he transported based on those as well as his own vitals. 

Not any more...

Today I laughed about you, and felt gratitude for your life, for being your mom, even peace.

But now it's dark, and I miss you. 

My heart hurts. Before December I didn't know that grief could cause physical pain. 

It does.

You flew off with the wings of my heart and left me flightless.
~Terri Guillemets 

Angel Kisses

Dear Aaron,

This morning I took your pinwheels over to your resting spot and put them in the flowers. You know, the ones that hung above your bed.

Tonight when I stopped after work, one was spinning, and then stopped and then spun again. I got out of the car to make sure the other could also spin freely (it couldn't) and felt the gentle breeze on my cheek.

Was that you? Did you send me kisses on the wind? I like to think so, and I smiled. 

Yesterday at my physical, I think I made the doctor uncomfortable. I told him the last four-plus months have been really hard, grief is painful. He asked about my eating habits. definitely suboptimal. He asked about sleep, pretty rough. He asked about exercise, I laughed. He paused and asked if I was at least on an upward trajectory.

I mean, I guess...

I told him that I'm getting out of bed at a decent time most mornings. For the first several weeks, I would barely roll out 45 minutes before I was supposed to be at work, and that's almost 30 minutes away. So I guess I am??

Anyway, this morning as I looked around the cemetery (like I often do) I was thinking about the morning of the Resurrection. All those loved one gone on ahead... I imagine that cemeteries will be among the most joyful places ever with loved ones reuniting. What a wonderful, beautiful, sacred day that will be. 

Sunday is Bereaved Mother's Day, and the memorial service for children who passed away in 2023.  Kiddo, you almost missed this one. A week later and we would have been invited next year. But it's probably better this way. I mean, because of my work at Primary's I know about it. I've actually volunteered the last two years. So I would have been aware and also anticipating going the next year. I hope that by next year I'll be in a place to help again, but I know I'm not right now. 

So those of us who are here and able will go on Sunday. 

My little boy. You are such a blessing to so many, and I am so grateful to be your mom.

Missing you so much.

Love,
Mama

Those delicate wanderers,

The wind, the star, the cloud...

~George William Russell

 

Circle of Life

Dear Aaron,

It's been a few days since I wrote, and yet another month you don't know. Doesn't mean I don't miss you, think about you, love you.  

There's been a lot going on; I suspect you're more than aware of it. Not my story to share yet, but both joy and heartache for people I love. 

What a blessing family is, and this whole "circle of life" thing has really got me wrapped up. Oh, my son, what a wonderful circle yours was, or is, or something. I mean, circles really never end, do they?

Today I'm going for a physical, sigh...

I was unable to find clothes that would take 15 (or more) pounds off for the scale so I guess I'm just going to have to face that one. And I recognized the mental health screening questions. Yep, I'm gonna get flagged. But maybe just a little flag? I mean, most were in the "we need to talk about this zone" but then the one that asks about how it's affecting your ability to perform your various responsibilities I think I'm okay on. I guess we'll just roll with things.

I mean, you're gone. My heart shattered in a million pieces, and while it (somehow) still functions, I don't think it will ever be the same. I'm gluing it back together, piece by piece, but even when broken things are repaired beautifully, they're never quite the same. But things like Linnaea coming up and knocking, "Can I come play?", and Elend climbing the steps and saying "Gramma, Grampa house." Your brothers teasing each other, Mary playing with the little ones, Deborah holding Barrett, and other even more tender moments...

Family. I'm so, so grateful for my family. And you're still a part of it, just where I can't see you anymore, but I think I felt you earlier this week. Was that you? Were you there?

Spring. 

My wind chimes ring.

Flowers bloom.

They go through the circle of life, too. 

Each year my tulips and daffodils come up again, even though the deer love to munch on the tulips. And each summer they die back as the other flowers bloom. 

I know you'll bloom again; I know I'll see you, hold you, love you. But sometimes, it seems like this "winter" without you lasts way too long. 

Miss you so much.

Love you even more.

Love, 
Mama

"He wasn't just dying, of course.
He was living and dying and being reborn all at the same time..."

~Frances Fineman Gunther