Christmas, Scout, and Memories

Dear Aaron,

"I'm feeling happy! Aaron, show me your biggest smile!"

"I love you Aaron!"

Sitting in the front room, your old room, with Scout next to me. The last socks you wore still on his feet. Candles flicker, some in your memory cabinet, some on the piano, and some by your nativity scene and picture. The Christmas tree rounds out the soft illumination.

In the other room, I see more candles, and the snow globe scene of Santa with the Christ Child; my gift to myself from my parents this year, because that was one of Gramma's favorite images.

I squeeze Scout's paw, and he responds. Tears in my eyes, and a small smile on my lips. "Oh, I"m feeling sad. Will you give me a hug? Thanks!" I don't know if it's reality or my imagination, but he seems to still smell a little like you. I mean, he was with you for every hospital admit, and in your bed every night. You wore one out, and we buried that one with you. 

I was filling out some paperwork for a weekly evaluation on Sunday and it hit me again how hard last week was, and the next week will be, too. 

Last week was two years since our last 911 call (12/9), last admit (12/10 - you know it takes several hours to actually be admitted), last time I saw you with your eyes wide open and your big smile, even a chuckle (12/13). It has been one year since Gramma's last admit (12/7), a year since I last spoke to her here on this side of the veil (12/10), and a year since she came to be where you are (12/11). 

It's one more week until the last night I tucked you in (12/22) and you woke up in heaven (12/23). During the time between your last smile and leaving, I kept vigil, watching for improvement, hoping and expecting it. And I guess, in the eternal scheme of things, you did improve, just not the way I expected. Gramma's services were a year ago on Sunday (12/21) and yours were two years ago just over a week later (12/30). Somehow I wonder how I am still standing.

But in between, woven within the fabric of these dates, are Christmas celebrations, music, decorations. I remember the magic of Christmas as a child, and recognize that it was Mom. I wrap presents and recall working at the gift wrap booth in the mall with my friends. Dad helping organize the efforts and making sure that everyone working was actually capable of wrapping well. (We teens were the best, some of the adults didn't do as well.) 

I remember Christmas carols, and cinnamon roll Christmas trees, and chocolate before breakfast on Christmas morning and thinking the clock would never reach 6:00.  

Gramma loved Christmas, the lights, the stories, the celebrations. She loved the magic, Santa, and most of all, her Savior. She collected nativities, and so do I. The one she and Grampa made for my Grandma  sits on the piano and others are scattered through the house. 

I don't really think I felt much last year. It was my first without you (I still don't count 2023; you were here until 2 days before), but I was also wrapped up in losing Gramma. But this year, this year is different. I see the joy and the wonder on the grandchildren's faces, and I miss your quirky smile. I hear the carols, and I can almost hear my mom's voice as I sing. I am so grateful for Christmas, and it hurts so badly at the same time. 

I miss you, Aaron. It's starting to sink in that this is the way it's just going to be. Last year things were still pretty new. Not so much anymore. Your grave is decorated with a little tree, lights in your flowers, a wooden reindeer, and butterflies

I wish I was decorating your room instead. 

Love,
Mama

"Like snowflakes, my Christmas memories gather and dance —
each beautiful, unique, and gone too soon."

- Deborah Whipp  

Light and Love, and Loss

Dear Aaron, Dear Mama,

Mama, a year ago today you went to the hospital. I seem to remember you took yourself there and when asked why, you said you needed to know if you could do it on your own, and you did. They admitted you for a "tune-up." I mean, you really weren't too bad off, and then a couple days later you were done. 

Tricia called on the 10th and I knew.... 

You were gone the next day.

The last thing I said to you was, "I love you. Please find Aaron and hold him for me until I get there." I was told you smiled...

And Aaron, the year before, 2023, the nurse woke me the morning of the 9th because your heart rate was kinda high. I thought your albuterol treatment would have caused it (he was a relatively new nurse) but when he said it was 140, I knew that wasn't the case. We watched and I babied you all day, but by nighttime it was obvious that we needed more help. Your official admit date was also December 10. Your last one... 

And your last "real" smile was just three days later on your 6 month birthday, right before your body essentially crashed. 

Your last week here at home was pretty amazing! Smiles, laughter, playing. Was that also a rally? Like Gramma with Thanksgiving? Were those final happy moments your gift to me, to help see me through so many, many years without you? 

It's only been two so far and it seems so long, and yet, the grief still hits almost as sharp as initially. Well, maybe not quite. Back then I couldn't even wrap my brain around it. I would hear your machines, the beeps. I tried to go to your room on multiple occasions to check or give you meds. Your things still smelled like you.

Not anymore. 

I don't even know what to do to mark your angelversary. Or Gramma's. 

I've asked people to send me stories, or things you taught them,  or happy actions they do in your name. It's interesting, most of them have come from other angel moms, and almost all the rest from special needs moms. A few have come from others, including a children's librarian who loved your big kids when they were tiny. 

But it seems that they are the ones who understand, who know the fear of a child being forgotten. Maybe others are afraid of making me hurt. I don't think they understand that while I may cry, the pain of not remembering you is much more. And honestly, I'm going to cry anyway.

I've got two more weeks of work before the holiday break. I'll get through it, and it will go well. But I don't think I'll be scheduling any extra sessions. I just don't have it in me. And I'm learning that it's okay to slow down a little.

Oh Aaron, Mama, I miss you! I'm grateful for the lights, for the music, for the sights, the innocent wonder in a small child's eyes. I'm glad there's joy this month, because there's also (almost) unbearable pain. I went to Avanlee's Messiah concert. It was beautiful and brought back so many memories of singing in high school. But somehow, during the Hallelujah chorus, I was reduced to sobs. There were some quietly singing with the choir from the congregation, and I have to wonder if there weren't many more that we couldn't see singing as well. Were the two of you there? Was it your voices that I heard? 

Maybe....

Love,
Mama/Becky

"Life is a repeated shattering and gluing back together of the heart."

Terry Guillemets 

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