Wishing on Stars

Aaron's Make a Wish star

Dear Aaron,

It's happening again, without warning. 

The waves come: relentless, overwhelming, drowning, shattering.

Last week I read a book with a client, not a new book. I read it years ago and again recently. It's a middle-grades book about a family whose mom has died and that's not even the focus of the story. But the younger boy discovers that his baseball mitt will pull meteorites from the sky. He is out in the middle of the field, in the middle of the night, wishing on the falling stars. 

"They're falling for a reason, and I know why. To make the wish come true. To bring Mom back." (Tesla's Attic. p 164)

And I actually got through that just fine. A twinge, but no more. I was at work and I compartmentalize really well, kinda have to. And Danny's Mom doesn't come back.

Then Saturday, Linnaea brought me "Ten Wishing Stars" a bedtime countdown book for toddlers. Each sheep makes a different wish and goes to sleep with their dreams coming true... 

And oh, I wanted to wish upon a star that would make mine come true.  I could feel Danny's anguish as he pulled chunk after chunk of burning metal and rock from the sky, wishing and hoping and praying that his mom would come back. And if I thought there was a way to reverse time, go back to when you were still here, I'd be out in the middle of a field right now doing the same thing. 

I ache so bad right now. Sometimes the pain is just a dull ache in my bones, in my soul, barely there, easily brushed aside. And sometimes a giant fist grabs my own heart and lungs and squeezes until I can hardly breathe. 

Sometimes you seem like a dream, a ghost of a lifetime, hidden in the mists. And sometimes as I wake in the morning, I hear the echoes of your machines and forget you're not here anymore.  Only silence.

Two more days until the anniversary of that ultrasound, the one where we learned so much about your challenges. Another "before and after." Before I had no idea, couldn't even imagine what was coming.  After, some of my innocence had been ripped away. But it only foreshadowed what would come 13 years later.

Oh, I miss you so much.

And even though I know wishing on a star won't bring you back, and for your sake I guess I wouldn't want to, I still wish... 

You were done. Your spirit so strong, your body so frail. It held on longer than we had any right to expect or hope for. 

I love you.

Love,
Mama

"Love doth make stars to shine

In the gray, grieving skies of care."

~Julia Cooley Altrocchi 

My Funny Valentine

Dear Aaron,

This is weird.

Or maybe I'm weird. (Okay, yeah, let's go with that one. It's not new.)

I don't know. I alternate between lots of energy and gotta keep moving; and what would happen if I just stayed in bed, or went for a drive instead of going to work and didn't tell anyone. 

I try to stay busy; I try to stay focused. Or maybe just I'm just avoiding.  I mean, I do go to work and I think I do okay there. Some days are better than others. I even mopped the floors yesterday. I try to be a good mom to adult kids. I mean, you're the only one who's not an adult, and you don't really need me anymore. They don't either, not really, but I do what I can to make their lives easier.

But I still need you.

How is that fair??  

Your Valentines are out at the cemetery (there's been some drama with that, but I'm not ready to get into it) and they look beautiful. But still, stark and somehow sterile, at least in comparison to the joy you brought to life. 

It's dark and I miss you. Nights are still the hardest and I suspect they always will be. 

I miss you, my funny Valentine. 

Love, 
Mama

“A beautiful echo whispers into grief’s chill…you loved. you loved. you loved.”

~ Angie Weiland-Crosby 

I've Changed . . .

Dear Aaron,

I was driving down the road, a little south of your school on Saturday when I saw it. In the left corner of the rear window, a butterfly, almost like yours. 

And I wondered . . . 

Does it mean what yours does? Does the woman in the driver's seat share my pain? Does she feel the ache deep in her bones, in her heart? Does she smile at people and tell them she's "fine?" 

I don't know . . .  

I miss ya, kiddo, miss you so much.  

What would it be like if you were here? 

What are you doing there?

Little Miss Rachel is here, so perfect and so loved.

Two more grandbabies on their way, too. Do you play together? Do you teach them? Reassure them that they are loved beyond measure already? These children that will never know you on this side of the veil. 

My arms still ache to hold you. 

This is so hard! 

Lately I've seen a reel about dealing child loss that really hit me. It's two words:

You change.

And that is so true. 

Do you paint the sunsets I see? Every time I think of you is it because you're thinking of me? 

I am so grateful for you, my son.

And I miss you more than words can say.

Love,
Mama

"The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. 

Nor should you be the same nor would you want to."

— Elisabeth Kübler-Ross 

Not Okay

Hey Aaron,

I don't know...

I'm treading water and hoping I don't go under.  Your angelversary is past. It's (slowly) getting lighter. We're not to February yet where I go through the memories of learning you were coming with something "extra." 

Maybe it's that I'm remembering giving all of your equipment away. Sending that on made sense. But it was also so much a part of you. 

I know you're okay, better than okay. 

But I'm not. 

I go to work, I talk to people, I volunteer at church and at the hospital. When people ask, "How are you?" or "How's it going?" I reply, "Good!" "Fine!" 

I lie. 

But really, those are just niceties, expected greetings and responses. How do I tell them I'm drowning inside? The colors are muted and all I want to do is stay in bed with the covers over my head?

Sometimes, all my energy goes into just trying to survive. And the tears roll down my face.

It's Friday again, Friday into Saturday, over and over and over again. 108 times. 107 times since I last touched your hair, kissed your cheek, covered you with your weighted blanket and tucked Scout in next to you.

I'm not okay.

I'm back to getting out of bed 45 minutes before I have to be at work, and it's a 20-25 minute commute, plus time to unlock and organize files. 

I try to write in my gratitude journal, and I do have So Much to be grateful for. But gratitude isn't a panacea for grief. It doesn't wipe out the pain.

I dreamed about you the other night. It was kinda funny. You pulled yourself to a standing position in a crib, something you never actually did in this life. And then you tumbled over the side (on purpose) and I was so worried about you pulling out your g-tube! As I caught you, you laughed at me. Oh, I miss your smile, your laugh. 

I just miss you.

Love,
Mama

“Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical, and spiritual necessity—the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.”

Rabbi Earl Grollman 

Hey Superman...

Hey Superman,

I miss you.

I took Christmas down yesterday, and finished putting everything away today. I gently removed your ornaments from your tree, and the ones from the big tree in the main room. 

And I cried.

Everything neat, everything clean, everything ready for the new year, another new year without you.

I remember your strength, your super power of working through the pain, your smile, your giggle. 

I remember your penguins dancing on the ceiling and how we'd turn them off at night so you would finally close your eyes and sleep.

Now your earthly eyes are closed. 

What do you see with your heavenly eyes?

Do you see me?

Do you lend me some of your super strength?

Gramma also loved Christmas: the lights, the gifts, the joy, the music. She loved celebrating the Savior. 

When I was tiny, she painted a Santa that became a core Christmas memory for us children. Because you can't divide a ceramic object six ways, she spent a full year looking for that Santa for each of us. She added her own touches to each one, painting her love for us on them. I wrapped mine carefully, gently and placed him in a box until next year.

Many (most?) of my ornaments come from her. She and Grampa started giving each of us an ornament when I was about eight or nine, and that continued through last year. This is the first year I can remember that she didn't send me an ornament... 

But my brother did. 

We have a saying that when you give a gift that makes someone cry (in a good way), you "win" Christmas. He did. 

Two bells about my angels watching over me in heaven.

Aaron, this hurts, this really hurts. I pushed through putting things away, grateful for the physical pain that distracts me (sorta) from the emotional anguish. I miss you and Gramma so much!!

I see the morning sunrise, your crystal angel in my car refracting the light into rainbows. The snow that comes and covers your grave. Thursday night, I watched as the butterflies danced in the wind, their shadows flitting across your stone as the spotlight illuminated it. 

It seems so strange that this is my life now. It's been just over two years. My second Christmas (okay, technically third) without you. My first (again, really the second) without Gramma. You both left me so close to Christmas that it didn't feel real at the time. 

And so many, many more to go...

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

"Heroes never die.
They live on forever in the hearts and minds of those who follow in their footsteps."

Emily Potter 

Goodbye 2025

Dear Aaron,

2025 ends tonight. Another year that didn't know you, at least in the flesh.

The first year that didn't know Gramma here.

I spent the last week trying (and succeeding) in staying busy, distracted, avoiding introspection. I guess it worked. I didn't cry, much. But my soul still feels the heaviness, the emptiness that missing you entails. And tonight is quiet.

2025 was the year I passed my boards and became fully licensed. It was also the year I tried to remember I couldn't call Mom when I needed to hear her voice. It was a year of growth, of trials, of supporting loved ones through their own heartache and heartbreak, as well as other medical moms and friends. 

It was also a year of celebration: a wedding and grandbabies on the way. 

I learned a lot about myself, some things good, some things I really need to work on. 

This time of year is so dark, but the light is slowly returning (although it's definitely getting colder still). It's quiet at home, most of the time. I've slowed down. The things I planned for the holiday break mostly didn't happen, but other good things did. Time with family, with grandchildren. A road trip to see the new baby and soak in her sweet spirit. 

This morning as I was returning from an errand, an instrumental version of "He Is Risen" was playing just as the sun was rising. Two seagulls floated on updrafts above the road. The crystal angel on my rearview mirror caught the sunbeams and reflected rainbows. As I went to the cemetery to clean up the Christmas decorations, I caught your smile. My heart ached, but also felt peace. 

I miss you so dreadfully, and I know where you are. A new favorite Christmas song is "The Sweetest Gift" and talks about how hard it is without you, but knowing you're with the Son of God, the Prince of Peace is the sweetest gift I could have. Both you and Gramma, missing you both, but knowing where you are gives me some solace. 

I don't know what 2026 will bring. Part of moving forward in time is feeling stretched beyond my ability. Part of me is stuck back on December 23, 2023 and then part moves forward. Someone recently said that you don't survive the loss of a child. The person you were before dies; you are not the same, and I feel that. The person I was two years and a week ago is gone; her innocence, her naivete, her invincibility does not exist anymore. But maybe, just maybe, that's okay. Maybe the growth, though painful, is part of the refining process I need to become more like you, and like my Savior.  

Merry Christmas, my sweet boy. Merry Christmas, Mama. Please stay close through the next year. I miss you both so much.

Love,

Mama/Becky

I’m not going to lie.

Christmas really hurts this time

Cause you’re not here to celebrate with me.

Tears fill my eyes.

And memories flood my mind,

As I place your ornament upon our tree.

Although this year I have a broken heart,

It gives me hope and joy as I remember where you are.  

You’re with the Son of God.

You’re with the Prince of Peace.

You’re with the one we’re celebrating

And that thought amazes me.

Sometimes I still break down,

Grieving that we’re apart, but

But the sweetest gift is knowing where you are.

You’re with the Son of God. 

Craig Aven

You Left Your Mark

Dear Aaron,

You left your mark: on me, on the new hospital, and on the world.

As I was looking for Sharpies for present wrapping, I grabbed the only red one I could find. And then I noticed what was stamped on it:

I LEFT MY MARK

Lehi Topping Off

June 2021

And it made me smile, a small smile, because you did. You are the reason that I advocated for medical gasses in the clinic spaces. Initially they felt that having oxygen tanks on hand, like they do in the Salt Lake clinics, was enough. And in a perfect world, it would be. But in a perfect world, children wouldn't be on oxygen anyway. 

I told them how I calculated oxygen every time we went out. I always allowed for longer than expected wait times, and then added more on, and always, always took an extra tank plus the emergency one that never left the car. If we ended up using any of that one, it was replaced before even going back into the house. But even with all those safeguards in place, at one point the doctor was a couple of hours behind so I asked for a tank. And it took 45 minutes to find and bring one to us, which meant that I was turning you down below what was optimal just to eek out as long as we could. 

I suggested that the additional worry and stress was not something that medical parents' brains needed, or their children's bodies. And when they put lines in the building, medical gasses were present. 

Lately, there have been other remembrances. When I bought the lantern almost two weeks ago, there was some confusion at the register. The woman who was helping me said she'd make sure it all got straightened out and asked for the email it should be under. As I gave it to her, she slowed while writing it down, and pointedly kept her eyes on the paper. Kinda slowly, she said, "Rebekah Peterson, there's a Rebekah Peterson in the special needs world... Do you know her?" and she looked up. I said, "that is me" and I felt so seen. 

The next week at Walmart, I saw one of the practitioners that took care of you over and over and over in the PICU. We had a good visit. And I was reminded again that your life, your days, were known by Father, and you lived every one of them. And it still hurts that you're gone.

Today, Daddy and I saw Christmas Carol for our anniversary. Eleven years ago today, on our 25th anniversary, we saw it as well. Later that night you were Lifeflighted from the AF Hospital to Primary's. When you were still critical on Christmas and I told a PICU doc that your siblings had unanimously voted to put Christmas off until you were home, he was surprised. I gently told him that one day Tiny Tim's crutch would be by the fireplace without an owner and we didn't want to face that until we had to. He just nodded. 

And now it does. Figuratively, I mean. All your equipment has moved on to help others. You don't need it anymore and they do. But Scout still sits in your room, and pictures are around. I tuck letters and memories from friends and family into your stocking. And I hold you close in my heart. 

I've heard that time runs different in heaven: a day there equaling a 1000 years here. So does that mean by the time you look around for me, I'll be there? I hope so. 

Two years ago, tonight into tomorrow. 

I miss you. 

Love,
Mama

“Death ends a life, not a relationship. All the love you created is still there. All the memories are still there. You live on- in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here."

Tuesdays with Morrie Mitch Albom