Renewal

Dear Aaron,

I painted the bluebirds yesterday.

The ones that have sat on the kitchen windowsill for 20 years. 

I don't remember where they came from: Colorado, Alaska? Somewhere else? Probably Colorado because I don't remember them not "being" and Mom did a lot of ceramics in Colorado. 

I'm pretty sure Mama bought them already fired, as bisque rather than greenware, because her initials aren't on the bottom.  My nativity that she and Grampa did so many years ago when they were still engaged has either hers or his on the bottom of each piece, depending on which cleaned it. 

But over the years, like so many of us, the vibrant blue faded, and even more, the paint started to come off in places. 

So yesterday, I painted them again, and used a pen, like she did, to outline the eye area. 

Is that what happens when we die? Do we get remade? Our parts that are crumbling, failing, fading renewed? 

Does your body run and play? Does Gramma have her perfect eyesight back, lungs that won't fill with fluid? 

Do you remember all the good and the love you experienced here? 

I have so many questions, and so few answers.

But I trust you are still you, and she is still herself, and you both still love with all your hearts because that's what you did here. 

I love you so much.

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

"But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

Isaiah 40:31

Kinda Brittle, Pretty Broken

Dear Aaron,

Hey kiddo, have to say, I'm feeling kinda brittle right now. 

I'm tired, physically, emotionally, mentally. There's "stuff" at work that's hard. It's dark. It's cold. I miss you!

I'm afraid I feel ineffectual. I mean, I know I'm not completely, but sometimes it's like I'm spinning my wheels, or maybe not even doing that, just slogging.

Gramma has been with you for four weeks now, four weeks yesterday. You've been gone almost 55 weeks (yeah, my brain still counts the weeks). 

I think you being gone starts to feel normal (whatever that is) and that scares me too! 

I don't want to forget. I don't want this new normal. I want you back!! I want Mama back. I wanted so badly to reach out and call her tonight. There were some things that were overwhelming and hard and I just needed to hear her voice.

And it's gone, like yours. 

So I try to hold it all together, and somehow I break anyway. 

You know, not every day hurts this bad any more, not even most of them. But sometimes, sometimes the tsunami still comes and sends me tossing, head over heels, tumbling through the darkness, alone, in pain. 

I mean, that's the thing about pain; it's so individual, so personal, and so isolating. 

I just feel so alone...

Please come visit me.

Please...

Love,
Mama

"Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim."

Vicki Harrison 

This is Hard

Dear Aaron,

It's snowing outside, kinda the first real snow of the season. I mean, we've had some here and there, but not really much. This is the kind of day where I want to stay curled up on the couch with a good book, hot chocolate and popcorn, at least usually. 

Today I'm restless, and also wiped out. Not sure how those go together but they do. 

It's been a rough week, Aaron. I took down Christmas decorations on the 1st and was reminded of last year. I "thought" somehow it wouldn't be a big deal last year and oh boy, was I wrong. I found myself breaking down in sobs. 

This year the pain is different, deeper in some ways and quieter too. I don't know if it's because I've had a whole year without you, or because grief over Gramma is so fresh. 

When I was about nine or so, Gramma and Grampa began the tradition of giving each of us an ornament every year with the idea that when we left home, we'd have ornaments for our own tree. Well, they continued that through the years. This year, Gramma had everyone come choose their own, including grandchildren. As I packed those away, I remembered so many different years, so many different treasures. 

A couple years ago she gave everyone a large crystal in the shape of a teardrop. Hers hangs over her kitchen island; mine is in my office window. 

My Christmas Hummels are now put away, but I got back out the ones that are on the shelf year round. There are ornaments made by my childish hands, and ones she embroidered and sent. The butterflies she made for you still hang from the ceiling in the front room. Your ornaments also brought a small smile to my face. I caressed the one she and Aunt Maurie managed to find last year the day you left us. 

This year you both spent Christmas in Heaven...

Oh, Aaron, I miss you both so much! You were always here, or if not, I was with you where you were. I honestly didn't talk to Gramma that often, but I think that may be in part because I always knew where she was and that I could. I was secure in our relationship, that she loved me so dearly. I know you both still do, but I can't reach out and talk to you, touch you, and somehow this week it hurts more than it has in a while. 

I went back to work on the 2nd and had a full days Thursday and Friday. It was hard. I didn't feel like I was doing a great job, but I tried. It wasn't as hard as last year, but still....

The grief seems to settle into my bones, into my very being. It doesn't bring the same bone-crushing pain, but the ache is deeper. It feels more like it is part of me, more internal and less external. I'm attending a weekly grief group for parents starting on Tuesday. During the intake interview, the facilitator asked what it was I was hoping to get out of it, and I had to be honest: I don't know.  I just know I need something, and I hope to find it.

I'm trying, Aaron, I really am. I don't feel very strong. 

This is hard...

Love,
Mama

“You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it.”

– Margaret Thatcher 

2024 Ends

Dear Aaron,

I don't think I liked 2024 very much. The first year that didn't know you. The year I struggled with grief to an extent I simply couldn't imagine beforehand. I still can't figure out how you're gone! 

And Mama too...

I've never known a world without her, and my whole world was so wrapped up in you for so long. It's been almost 15 years since we discovered you were going to be "different" and even more impactful, not likely to be here long. 

I don't want to go into 2025, and yet, I do. I hope it's somehow easier. Can it be? 2024 was so hard... 

I find both you and Mom in so many things. I wear the bracelet she gave me in memory of you daily. When I go to the grocery store (way too often) I twist the bag handles together the way she taught me, the way Nana taught her and I'm reminded. I remember her every time I do my nails or put on lipstick. 

Your butterfly is on my car and your angel hangs from my rearview mirror. Other mementos are in my home office and clink every time I open the cupboard doors. I bought Q-tips yesterday. The last time I bought them was a year ago while you were in the hospital. At the same time, I bought two Christmas shirts because I finally admitted you probably wouldn't be home before Christmas and I wanted some festive clothes. I think of you every time I put one on.  

I finished the probiotics we used to give you. I actually finished them a few months ago, but the empty box with the syringe is still in the cupboard. Somehow I haven't thrown it away. I still have a saline bullet, one, in the pocket of a blazer I wear from time to time, and wore for Gramma's services. I take it out, hold it, smile through tears, and put it back. 

We did candy cane sleds tonight, Aaron. We did them last year the day you left us. That morning Daddy asked me what we were going to do about them and I told him we needed to do them, we needed the laughter and joy they'd bring, and they did, both then and tonight. Watching Linnaea and Elend, Stirling and Barrett brings so much joy and comfort, and yet the pain is there, too.  

I read an article regarding caregivers today. It focused on family caring for those with dementia, but I found myself relating to much of what was said regarding caregiver fatigue. I did have support in caring for you, but it was still, in the end, me. I was the expert; I knew you and I knew your medical complexities. It was hard, so hard, and beyond exhausting. I know I was blessed with strength beyond my own. And now that you're not here, my body has struggled. I find myself exhausted mentally and physically still, a year later. 

December brings such a dichotomy of emotions. You died on the 23rd and your funeral was the 30th (My last post said the 29th, I was wrong. That was your viewing.) You were buried on January 2nd. Mom died on the 11th and her funeral and burial was the 21st. But the 21st is also Mary's birthday, our anniversary is the 22nd and Christmas is the 25th. Joy, celebration and rejoicing; sorrow, pain, anger and anguish. 

So I think I'm glad to leave 2024 behind, but I don't know what to think of 2025. 

I hope it might be more gentle? I'm tired of being strong.

Love,
Mama

"Time is the fire in which we burn."

~Delmore Schwartz 

One Year...

Dear Aaron,

I made it through the year. 

One year since I've seen your face, kissed your nose, run my fingers through your hair.

One year ago today we closed your casket and something irreparable broke inside of me. 

I had meant to give you a haircut. It was getting so long again but there just hadn't been time between hospital visits and work and the holidays. No worries, I'd do it in the long lazy days between Christmas and New Years.

Now I'm grateful it hadn't happened. We have a couple locks we cut off that sit in your room. Whispy, dark and somewhat long. Memories...

A year ago I didn't think I could do this; not that I had any choice. I'm still not sure how to move forward, but I look back and realize that in spite of all the pain and anguish (and they are still so real!!) I have.

We move into yet another year in a couple of days. Another year that won't know you this side of heaven. 2024, 2025, and so on...  

You and Gramma now hold each other and I cherish the day that I see both of you again. I'll keep your memories alive here until I join you. Your pictures now bring smiles more than tears, although the tears are never far away. The butterfly suncatcher Gramma gave me last year hangs on the door, my nativities are scattered through the house. Your Santa hat lies on top of your hospital gown still draped on the chair in my room, your angel hangs on my rearview mirror. The plants we were given dot the house and both offices where I work. Your four seasons paintings and Gramma's butterflies are on the walls in one office while some of your toys and the windchimes she gave me are at the other. You are both with me and I cherish that connection.

I still can't fathom how we get through the years before we're together again, but my headlights are on and I know Who lights the way, so I guess I just keep going with faith that I will find the road.

Love you, little man.

Miss you so much.

Love,
Mama

Through many dangers, toils and snares,

I have already come

'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

 -John Newton

Christmas Eve

Dear Aaron,

It's Christmas Eve, the night we celebrate Christ's birth. 

We listened via zoom to Grampa read the Christmas story from the scriptures, and then a recording of Grandpa Bear reading The Testimony of Mary in 2010 when you were just tiny.

In the background, I heard your vent beep and your pulse/ox go off. And throughout it all was the whoosh of your machines. Now you're gone and so is Grandpa Bear. And Gramma.  

And I find I can hold peace and pain, joy and sorrow, all at the same time. 

Mary brought me roses tonight, yellow with red tips. Gramma's favorite color was red (probably still is) and she loved yellow roses best, so a combination of her two favorites. They brought both tears to my eyes and a smile to my heart. 

Gramma was all about all things Christmas. She loved the lights and Santa and magic, and she rejoiced in the Savior's birth. I have no idea how many nativities she collected but they came from all over the world from their various travels. I honestly don't even know how many I own.  

Tonight yours and Michael's bears overlook the soft nativity she made over 30 years ago for you kids. There aren't so many presents in the living room this year, or as many bears. For the first time since Deborah was born, we don't have any kids here at home on Christmas Eve. and only three will come over for breakfast tomorrow, although Jonny's and Deborah's families will join us at some point. 

Stockings stuffed, presents out, the two advent calendars show it's time. 

I miss you, Aaron. I miss Mama. 

Are you celebrating in heaven? I expect there's a marvelous party there. Are you and Gramma singing with the choirs? You both loved music so much here, I can't imagine that it hasn't continued and been magnified in heaven. Do you sing alleluias and hymns of praise? Does it sound even better than music does here? 

I love you, Aaron.

Merry Christmas.

Love,
Mama 

Mild He lays His glory by, 
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth,

Born to give them second birth.

Hark! the herald angels sing

Glory to the newborn King!

12 Butterflies...

Dear Aaron,

Twelve butterflies...

For the 12 months since you left.

One for each month flutters on your grave.

(again, HOW is that a sentence???) 

I'm not doing so good here. We got home last night from Gramma's funeral and I'm angry! I'm lashing out at people who haven't done anything to me. I hurt and I ache, and I just don't know how to work with this.

Last night Daddy asked me what he could do and I told him to make Grampa's brain work again and bring you and Gramma back...

And I sobbed. 

I know last year was really my first Christmas without you, but I think I was still pretty numb. 

This one just hurts. And my mama is gone, too, and my daddy is struggling. 

So I guess I'll cry (and sob and wail). I feel alone, I mean, I guess that makes sense since grief is so individual. But I've felt like I was on the outside looking in for a long time. When you were here, it was hard (and frankly not safe) to do a lot of thing with a lot of other people, especially during the winter. And after 14 years, it's hard to break that habit. 

It's dark and cold and I don't know, just... hard.

It seems so strange that it's been a year already, and still only a year. 

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

“We all want to do something to mitigate the pain of loss or to turn grief into something positive, to find a silver lining in the clouds. But I believe there is real value in just standing there, being still, being sad.”

— John Green