Hey kiddo, today is General Conference, and it's been a bit hard.
You know, you've been gone now for almost 16 months, 67 weeks (yeah, my brain still counts weeks).
But this is only the 3rd Conference since then, and I found myself wanting to go check on you, make sure we got breathing treatments done, have your meds ready for the intermediate hymns, or check to see if you're awake and want to come in. Even after all this time, muscle memory activates.
You loved Conference, especially the music. There was a talk today on the sanctity of life, on protecting the unborn, and the blessing that this life is. I was reminded of the several times we watched from the PICU, and how one time as we were in there, the choir sang, "My life is a gift, my life has a plan..."It was a gift, it had a plan. Father knew your days, they were numbered from the beginning and you were promised that you would have all the days you needed. And you did. And I still wanted more. I'm trying to be strong, Aaron, but it hurts. The weather is getting warmer and I'm finding energy again. Today Joseph and Andrew and I got started on a garden where we'll put the temporary stone that my friend made. It's not much to look at yet. I mean, this is Utah. It will still be at least a few more weeks before I can reliably plant things, but it's getting ready. Now I have to figure out what to put in there, but at least we got the fence in to keep the dogs out. But I also find myself numbing out. I watch TV shows or read books in an effort to avoid thinking, avoid feeling.I keep saying it: Grief is weird and ugly and just hurts.
But grief is also love, love with nowhere else to go.
And because I love you, I won't numb myself for too long, just long enough to gather strength again to move forward, because you deserve that. You were so strong, so valiant.
I can't be anything less.
Love you, kiddo. Miss you.
Love,
Mama