Memories...

Dear Aaron,

Facebook memories are a two-edged sword. They bring smiles, but also pain. 

Eight years ago we started your inhaled heart med, the one that you responded to so well and so quickly, and that was probably how we kept your heart going the last several months as we increased its frequency. What a blessing it was.

Five years ago someone asked me if the flu really could kill you. Oh boy...

I assured them (and the rest of Facebook) that yes, it could indeed.

Then last December as you were fighting, the doctor reminded me that Flu A kills healthy people, and I responded with, "And Aaron isn't healthy." 

One week later, you were gone.

Tonight is one of those nights that my heart breaks all over again (or still, or something). Maybe I'm more fragile because I'm still trying to regain my strength from my own illness (whatever it was).

Maybe because it's now almost dark when I get to the cemetery, and your solar lights really aren't that bright.

Or because this time of year always raised my anxiety and last year we spent so much of it in the hospital anyway.  Last year we were actually home, but ten days later you began your longest stay yet, minus a 25 hour field trip that ended with another ambulance ride.

This last weekend was General Conference, and Saturday's opening session began with the Primary song, "My Life is a Gift." Do you remember listening to that from your PICU room? I think it happened at least twice. There was something so touching, so poignant about hearing that bedside with you fighting for your life. And then this weekend being reminded that your life was a gift, and mine is too.   

So many reminders. 

And yet, they are also tender mercies. I've been rereading blog posts from 2019. It was a good year! You were overall pretty healthy and the pandemic didn't exist yet. That was the first year, and only year, you participated in the Primary Program. You attended my Christmas concert for the first time. I wanted to remember seeing you in the audience, so we made it work. I haven't sung with them since then which is not something I could have foreseen. And so many other memories. 

You were vibrant, funny, so very alive and so joyful. 

I find myself grateful through tears for the blessing of you. 

Oh, I miss you.

I love you so much. 

Love,
Mama

Recalling days of sadness, memories haunt me. Recalling days of happiness, I haunt my memories.

 ~Robert Brault