The Body Remembers...

Dear Aaron,

I've been cranky, irritable. My birthday was Wednesday and it just felt odd. There's some things going on with someone that is near and dear to me, and all I can do is pray and listen. So I chalked it up to all that. Plus unwanted home repairs and really hot weather.

But then Facebook reminded me of 15 years ago.

Fifteen years ago last night I was also cranky and irritable, and antsy. I spent about an hour on the phone with the on call pediatrician trying to figure out what to do. You were "sorta" okay. I mean, you looked pretty good except something was bugging me. We decided to just turn up your oxygen when you were eating to give you a bit of a boost. Now at the time, "up" meant from 1/32 of a liter to 1/16, barely a whiff. 

Fifteen years ago this morning, you spit up (not a lot, and not the first time) but I'd had it. I told your dad that I was sure I was neurotic and paranoid, but I needed a professional to tell me that so I was taking you to the ER in American Fork, maybe they'd do a breathing treatment and I'd be back in a couple hours, maybe longer if they were busy. 

Now that statement should have given a clue to my clarity of thought. No four week old baby, and especially one that is compromised, is going to walk into an ER, get a breathing treatment, and leave. Yeah, it didn't happen that way. 

They diagnosed pneumonia, and I was so confused! How could that have happened?? They weren't certain although some ideas were tossed around, but the long and short was they told us they were sending us by ambulance to Primary's to be admitted. At the time, the only thing I knew was that Primary's was somewhere towards the north end of Salt Lake County; good thing the ambulance driver knew where we were going. 

We were admitted to the floor, antibiotics were started, and my head swam. The next morning however, things changed. Your heart patterns changed, the nurse heard things she didn't like, and we landed in the PICU with a new diagnosis: heart failure.

Sigh...

And now I know why I was so on edge yesterday. 

That ten-day stay left its mark on me. The learning curve was sooooo steep! And the lack of sleep was significant. 

When we did discharge, I asked our attending what the outcome would have looked like if I hadn't taken you that Sunday morning. She gently told me that if I had waited until I could identify a problem, they would have been able to make you comfortable but otherwise.... 

That was the first time, but certainly not the last that I didn't know why I needed to get help but went anyway. Each time further reinforced how God knew your days and you would live every one that He designed. 

Even that last admit, December 2023, we sought help in time. But that time, that time Flu A ravaged your already tattered heart. He knew it was your time. He called you home. And I still, still wish it had been different. 

But even though I wasn't done (and never would be), you were. In His mercy, He took you Home. I trust that when it's my turn, you'll come get me. I miss you, Aaron. Thank you for all you taught me.

And I suspect that there will always be dates that my body remembers, even when my brain does not. 

Love,
Mama

"Our bodies are the texts that carry the memories and therefore remembering is no less than reincarnation"

– Katie Cannon 

Held

Dear Aaron,

As I sat in Sunday School yesterday, a painting caught my eye. I've seen it many times, but somehow yesterday, it spoke to me.

The expression on her face, the pain, the sorrow, the weariness and exhaustion, and yet a glimmer of hope. As she held His hands and felt His love, a sense of being seen as she truly was: a daughter of God and cherished by Him. 

Oh Aaron, it resonated within me. He knows our pain, He knows my pain, and He came to bring me hope and love, to see and understand me. 

July 4th brought fun times and memories. There was a flyover by Air Force fighter jets. Linnaea keeps calling them "fighter drones," I guess that goes with what she understands. Anyway, they flew south several miles to the west. We could see and hear them, but it was far away. And then as we came down the hill, they had circled over Pleasant Grove and were flying north, right over our heads! What a thrill! I remember running across the field, not much older than Linnaea is now, as the Thunderbirds flew at the Air Force Academy. It almost felt like I could reach up and touch them. These were higher, but still low enough that we watched them climb to clear Traverse Mountain.  

Hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill that evening and then fireworks at the park brought more fun times with the family. Linnaea and Barrett had a great time climbing up and down, and Barrett tried hard to catch the Black Hawk helicopters that circled over the valley. We made fun t-shirts for the grandkids with Linnaea's and Elend's hands, and Barrett's and Sterling's feet. Do you remember making the Four Seasons prints that hang in my office?   

The flowers in your garden are beautiful, except the clematis which is struggling. I have agonized over it; I didn't plant it well initially and have been fighting to keep it alive. It doesn't look well at all. This morning I dug down to the roots to check them out and they do seem to be okay, so I guess I'll just keep tending it and hope it comes up better next year. I'm told that it is a hardy plant and that even when it seems like it's "done" it can surprise you, maybe like you did.

You weren't "supposed" to live, and you went to the edge so many times that I think that's why when you did go it was such a surprise. You had cheated death so many times it didn't occur to me that this time would be different. So maybe this plant is more like you than I thought. It has been injured but is stronger than it looks. I hope so... 

I miss you, Aaron. I try to stay busy and mostly I succeed, but still, the underlying rhythm of life thrums with your absence. Like a white noise that sometimes fades into the background and is unnoticed but still there, it permeates the atmosphere. 

Except this is more like the absence of sound which still rings in my ears. 

So I will cling to His hands, knowing that He holds me, holds you. And maybe I'm also like the clematis, fighting to find my way in a world that no longer knows you. 

Miss you, Aaron.

Love you.

Love,

Mama

"You can find peace amidst the storms that threaten you."

-Joseph B. Wirthlin

July

Dear Aaron,

Another month without you, the second July you haven't been part of. 

You came home from the NICU 15 years ago on Sunday, came home to make memories before you died...

Well...

You did that! 

Over and over and over, until you didn't. I cherish those memories, and miss the ones we didn't get to make. 

You came home to a tiny bassinet set up at the foot of our bed. You came home to eight siblings that were beyond overjoyed to have you around all the time! Before that, they could only see you for a short time on weekends, and I think Michael (then not quite 4) expressed what we all felt when he had a meltdown in the unit. He wanted to stay with you, and if he couldn't, you needed to come home!!

You came home and I learned that it took me six seconds to race from my office to my room, and ten from the dining room. The kids learned to jump out of the way if your alarm was going off because I wouldn't even realize they were there. The apnea monitor only alarmed if you already had not breathed for 20 seconds, and I would count the beeps as I ran. That happened over and over, some days more than others, for the first two months and two days of your life (minus the days in the hospital). It's telling that I remember to the day the last time you had a true apnea. 

And at night, I would look down to the foot of the bed and see two blinking green lights, one for your heart and one for your breath. As long as they were going, I knew you were okay. 

As long as I could see the tracings on your monitor in the hospital, I knew you were alive.

And then the day came when the monitor was dark, the room was quiet except for my cries, and you were so, so still...

Oh Aaron, it's July, the month with all our birthdays, the month you were due. I don't want to have my birthdays without you, and you're not here. And Gramma isn't here. Yesterday I missed her so much I pulled up an old voicemail and listened to her voice. And it was regarding your services, your burial. How do I do this?

Some days just really hurt...

The pain is different now, maybe less sharp, less cutting. And yet, still there, maybe deeper, more steady? I don't know. The tsunami doesn't come as often but I'm always wet. It's always there, part of me, in my bones, my flesh. 

It has fundamentally changed me.

And I miss you.

Love,
Mama 

“The grief within me has its own heartbeat. It has its own life, its own song. Part of me wants to resist the rhythms of my grief, yet as I surrender to the song, I learn to listen deep within myself”

~ Alan Wolfelt 

My Warrior

Dear Aaron,

This popped up in my memories yesterday.

In 2016 you were invited to the Warriors over the Wasatch preliminary show. The Thunderbirds were flying and there was even the opportunity to meet and visit with the pilots and crew! So exciting!

Except you had other plans, or your gut did.  You'd been having trouble for several days and finally landed yourself at your own personal favorite playground: the PICU. And somehow, they weren't inclined to grant you a pass for the field trip. 

So you stayed behind and played, and Daddy, Mary, Andrew and Michael picked me up and we went to see them. Michael stood in for you and they sent a pin and a plane (actually several planes) back for you. I pinned it on you but you were much more interested in the jet itself. 

I also got some fun video of you talking and playing. I wish I had taken more video. They make you come alive again for me, for those brief moments when I watch them. I smile, sigh, sometimes laugh and often shed a tear. 

You were and are my warrior, my inspiration, my strength. You taught me that darkness can be overcome, to look deeper, try harder, work, and then rest. You taught me that sometimes tincture of time is the best prescription. And sometimes the answer is simple and as basic as the right kind of food. You taught me to keep moving forward even when it's scary, maybe especially when it's scary. 

79 weeks tomorrow since I told you good night. 79 weeks on Saturday since you woke up in heaven and I stayed behind. It still aches. I'm still trying to learn...

Miss you.

Love you.

Love, 
Mama

“The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering.”

― Ben Okri 

Are You Nudging Me?

Dear Aaron,

It's been a heavy week, and I'm weary. 

Lots of struggles; little sleep. 

And today I completely broke down at the cemetery and started yelling for the first time in a long time.

"How are you gone???"

And then I sat sobbing. 

On Tuesday I picked up your balloons. Stuart is a little worse for the wear and is lying down, but Bob was still going strong. A draft last night caused him to  jump out at me and I startled and laughed. 

This morning I couldn't find him, and then as I turned the corner, there he was. In your room, floating about two feet off the ground. Tonight after work, he was just resting his feet gently on the floor. 

Hanging out where you used to. Is this your way of nudging me? 

Oh, I miss you.

I'm tired.

It hurts. 

Tomorrow is one year since Lucy danced into heaven. Today is 78 weeks since I last saw you awake. And Monday is 18 months since you left us.

It's been almost two weeks since Jillie joined you, too. Having just turned 18, I thought she was one that would live almost forever. But on June 8th, she fell asleep and woke up with you guys. I don't know how to fathom this, and I know I only feel a tiny portion of the pain her family does.

Grief is ugly and painful and so, so hard!

And still, I will pay that price for the gift of having known you, loved you. And count myself blessed.

Oh, Aaron, give me strength...

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."

Earl Grollman 

15 Years and One Day

Dear Aaron,

So many thoughts...

You turned 15 yesterday, at least in earth years. I have no idea how birthdays are counted in heaven. But if you came to earth to gain a body, a principle part of progression, I think it's still appropriate to celebrate that in heaven as well. I hope you did.

We had pizza and cake and ice cream. Daddy thought that was an appropriate celebration meal for a 15 year old boy. Linnaea blew out your candles, but there wasn't the "one to grow on" that we always put on, a tiny bittersweet tug at my heart. 

We put balloons at your spot on Thursday night and I went by again Friday morning. I'm glad I did. I  figured that especially the latex ones wouldn't hold helium well, so I tied them to a dowel along with the Happy Birthday balloon. Well, I was right. When I went by again last night, the red, yellow and blue ones were sagging and pretty sad. Your minions were bopping along just happy as could be. But your Happy Birthday balloon seems to have broken loose and gone for a ride.

Did it come find you? Did you get to play with it?  

On your first birthday, Daddy read a poem (because I couldn't do it through tears) about balloons and then we released hundreds. This year, I want to believe that one special balloon reached out to you? 

Where do balloons go Mommy, when you set them free? 

Do they float into the clouds or get stuck in a tree?

Do they fly high in the sky or get popped by a bee?

Do they soar with the birds and the bugs in he air?

Or stay close to the ground and get chased by a bear?

Does the wind blow them out over the big blue ocean?

Or do the climb up and over small hills and big mountains?

Do they go into space and circle the stars?

And fall back to earth after traveling so far?

Or does GOD collect them all in a big bouquet...

And give them to the children in Heaven each day?

Where do balloongs go Mommy, when you set them free?

I hope they go to Heaven .... As a gift from Me!

Ann Deane

Today I found a rainbow streak on the wall outside my room and smiled as I touched it. You touch so many lives, you are so loved. As time moves on, (77 weeks today) I know you fade from more and more people's thoughts. But you're never far from mine. And there were those who reached out yesterday; a few family members and some nearby friends, but overwhelmingly it was other medical mamas, and angel mamas. 

We know, we carry our angels in our hearts. You are always part of me. 

Love you, little man.

Love,
Mama

"The soul, light as a feather, fluid as water, innocent as a child, responds to every movement of grace like a floating balloon."

 - Jean-Pierre de Caussade

 

 

Dear Mama

Dear Mama,

Six months ago you slipped from this life (it was also a Wednesday). Two days from now is Aaron's 15th birthday. Are you planning his party? Will it be amazing? If you have anything to do with it, I bet it will be. I wish I had an invite. I mean, I wouldn't stay, but coming for a visit would be wonderful, except I don't know that I would actually want to leave. 

Morning walk with the
dogs and Esther.

I'm here with Daddy but I leave today to go back home. It's been good, quiet, introspective and also wonderful to reminisce with him.  He's doing okay but misses you more than any of the rest of us do, and that's a lot. 

We went to see you on Sunday and again today. I've noticed rocks that people have left at Aaron's spot, and I left one by your light-up dragonfly. I have no idea how long it will stay before someone pushes it back into the other rocks, but I know it was there, and I suspect you do, too.

It's weird being here without you. Just not the same. I wander around the house looking at old memories. I found two cross stitch pieces I made you, and while I know you treasured them, I wonder if you knew how much making them helped me. They were a way to change my focus from the stress of college classes and recenter my own self. I saw the little china girl who used to have a small dog attached to a chain and lit up. The dog and chain are now gone, and I don't know if she still lights up, but I seem to remember it came from Nana's. 

So many reminders...

Miss you so much. Give Aaron a hug for me and tell him "happy birthday," 'k?

Love,
Rebekah

“My mother is a never ending song in my heart of comfort, happiness and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune.”

– Graycie Harmon 

Your Birthday is Coming

Dear Aaron,

Yesterday I picked up all the flowers and butterflies at your site. This is the week that they do a full cleanup and everything that is not permanently attached is removed. Since I leave this morning for Arizona, I got it all last night.

But it was hard to leave it with nothing so I didn't. I scattered rose petals from Gramma's rose in the garden and left one big butterfly that had lost a wing in the wind. Placed sideways on your stone, it looked like it was still intact so I left it. And it didn't look quite so lonely that way.

I'm going to see Grampa today and I'll be there through Wednesday. It's a pretty quick trip, but I'm glad for the opportunity. I miss him, I miss Gramma.  I miss you. Wednesday, the day I come home, it will be six months since she went Home. It still seems weird to be in a world where she is not, where you are not. 

Be close, okay?   

One week from today is your 15th birthday. Three years ago, I finally sent out invitations just five days before your party. You were turning 12 and I actually didn't dare send it earlier in case you were in the hospital, or even not here at all. I felt like it might be your last one with us, and it almost was. 

This time two years ago we were in a fight to keep you and you teetered on a knife's edge. The NP who put in your arterial line had said he wasn't sure you would even tolerate that, meaning survive it. I guess that's why they handed me the gown, hair net, mask and gloves and let me stay by your side. You did make it through, and by your 13th birthday, your golden birthday, you were able to sit in your wheelchair. 

But that was the last one with you here, and now your second birthday since leaving approaches. Honestly, I'm not sure what or how to feel.

I know I miss you, beyond words.

Love you beyond words, too.

Love,
Mama

“Sorrow is so easy to express and yet so hard to tell.”

- Joni Mitchell

Butterflies and Baby Steps

Dear Aaron,

Your birthday is approaching. The weather is warm, sunny, and it stays light until about 9 at night. AND it's light when I wake, too. 

I do better in the warm, the light. 

But there was something else, too.

I wrote about finding the butterflies destroyed at your spot. Oh, that hurt. A few friends offered to help me put more out, but I have to find the "safe" place I put them. Sigh...

So anyway, on Monday when I stopped, I could tell there had been a change. 

I got out of the car to water the flowers and look closer.

Butterflies. More and more butterflies!! 

I have no idea who did this, but someone, or maybe a few someones, came by and left so many. 

I cried again, but this time was an overwhelming sense of care, of love.  This is the kind of community we live in. I guess that's part of why the destruction hurt so badly. I didn't expect it here. I see lots of mementos left, lovingly placed, and not bothered at all. 

And your butterflies, the ones that we've put out since you left almost 18 months ago, they had never been bothered. 

And my mama heart cried out in gratitude when I saw your beautiful place.

You know what else I did? Today I actually listened to "Okay" again. Man, I played that song constantly over the years, for you, for me. Singing it at the top of my lungs, music blaring from the speakers, reminding myself, giving myself courage to continue to fight for you.

And then, when you left and I was so lost, I just couldn't. I couldn't. I tried a few times but never got more than a few beats into the song before I had to shut it off. 

Today I listened to it. I couldn't sing it, but I also didn't cry. Baby steps. Stutter steps. And I'm sure I'll crash down again. (That's kinda a given.)

But still, my soul was at peace. 

I miss you, Aaron. I always will.

Love,
Mama

“Butterflies are like angel's kisses sent from heaven.”

— Malia Kirk

June 1st

Dear Aaron,

A crystal pendant hangs in my window where it catches the morning sun and sends rainbows into the room. 

"Look for me in rainbows...

And I do.

Another that Gramma and Grampa gave me for Christmas a few years ago hangs in my office window. Another on the back door. An angel on my rearview mirror.

I see rainbows everywhere. And I see you, too. Not with my eyes, with my heart.  

June 1st, and Facebook reminded me today that once again, you were admitted to the PICU on this date. It was a lights and sirens call, bagging you on 20 liters all the way there. A few days later I placed a call to Andrew's mission president to let him know that you might not make it.  

June 2023

But you did. Your golden birthday wasn't what I had planned in my mind, but we held it. Child Life and Social Work brought decorations for your room and we sang "Happy Birthday" (through tears).  

Three years ago I felt like that birthday, your 12th, might be your last one. It had been a rough few months and you were struggling; I worried. We had a big party where friends and neighbors came by. I wanted to do it again for your 13th, but there we were, in the hospital trying to nurse you back to health. 

June 2022

Last year, this year... You're not here.

Your birthday is in 12 days. 15 years old. As I think about it, sitting here on the patio, I smile even through the tears. You are an amazing soul, my son. I cannot understand what I did to deserve having you teach me. 

Right now, the crickets are chirping, a bee is buzzing somewhere close by, and the hummingbirds come to sip at their feeder. The dogs are lying on the grass and the sky is blue. I see your butterflies, your flowers, the raspberries growing and I am grateful for the peace, the chance to sit and think about you. 

I miss you, Aaron. I miss you so much.

I'll look for you in rainbows. And everywhere.

Love,
Mama

“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

- A. A. Milne 

Marking Time

Dear Aaron,

Yesterday was your Andrew's birthday. You are so special to him. He had someone ask him how he could believe in believe in God after losing you at such a young age. He replied, "The reality is that I didn’t lose anybody the night he died. Because of God and his son Jesus Christ, families are forever. There is a God and his plan is perfect." I am so grateful for his testimony, for his strength and courage. He is an amazing young man.

I know those things are true, but I also feel like I'm walking through a fog, marking time.

And maybe that's what it is: marking time. Clocks tick, the sun comes up and goes down. Get up, go to work, come home, go to bed. Do other things in between. Weeks pass... Still passing... You're still not here. It's two weeks tomorrow until your 15th birthday. 

It's getting hot again, into the 90's this week. I'm wearing shorter sleeves and your trach beads on my watch band are catching people's eyes. I mean, they just look like a nice beaded watch band and so I've been asked where I got it. Sometimes I tell them where they came from; sometimes I just say I made it. Sometimes I can explain; other times I just can't. 

Someone destroyed about half the butterflies on your grave between Monday and Tuesday. It hurt, and I was angry! I mean, I know I screwed up as a mom, on more than one occasion (even if your siblings won't usually admit it). But I never let them, even as toddlers and babies, destroy someone else's things. When we were out in public, or other places, I watched them or made sure someone else did! Some people suggested that it was unreasonable to expect them to be left alone, or that maybe it was a bored kid. I wanted to ask if someone destroyed things on their loved one's grave if that would be okay, but I didn't. So Tuesday I was angry. 

Yesterday I broke down. 

And now, now I feel numb.

Next week I'm going to see Grampa for the first time since Gramma's funeral. 

I miss you, Aaron. I miss her. Her roses are blooming nicely in the little garden. Your clematis is kinda struggling a bit. It might be too warm where it is, but I'm hoping I can nurse it to a more sturdy plant. Anyway, I feel like I'm rambling, and perhaps I am. 

Your Scout dog is in the front room now and Linnaea found it. She was playing with it, and it caught both me and Andrew a little off guard to hear it say, "My favorite color is red! Is that your favorite too, Aaron?" Both a smile and a tear... 

Oh baby, 75 weeks tomorrow since your eyes last opened.

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”

― Laurell K. Hamilton 

Time...

Dear Aaron,

The seasons have rolled around again. There's more sunshine than darkness in the world right now, the air conditioner is on (sometimes), and as I leave the cemetery there are lots of kids and families to watch for enjoying Snoasis. 

High school graduations are this week and we've made it through our first year with no students in public school. You would have just finished 9th grade.

Seventeen months ago today you left us. 

74 weeks tomorrow.

517 days...

Tonight we'll go to your grave and decorate it for Memorial Day. I got new flowers to replace the ones that have faded over time, and there will be lots of butterflies. Gramma Brown sent bunches last year because she wanted to see it covered with them. 

It seems to be a softer time now. I don't cry every day anymore, but I still think of you so, so much. Like every time I wake up, or go to sleep, or see my screen saver, or your crystal angel hanging from my rearview mirror, or... or.... or....

Well, you get it. 

I'm fully licensed now, Aaron. I passed my test and did the paperwork, and now I have a big ol' "L" to go with the CSW behind my name. But I really don't feel any different. This was a long, long road that actually began before I even realized it.  You did this. You started me on this path. And I'm so grateful.

I miss you, kiddo. 

Love,
Mama

“It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain.
In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens.
But it is never gone.”

― Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy 

Missing our Future Memories

Dear Aaron,

It hit me (again?) today while driving home that there are no new memories to make with you. I mean, it makes sense (as much as anything about you being gone makes sense). But today, somehow, it was more definitive, more "real" I guess.

It was a long day, a challenging day and I didn't head home until almost an hour and a half after I had expected to. And as I thought about your pictures, I was struck again with how there are no new ones to be had. Ever.

Yesterday was also challenging, but in a different way. Yesterday I took my licensing exam. 

And I passed!! 

Honestly, I don't remember being more nervous about a test in I don't know when. Like ever, maybe. But I did it, and now there's just paperwork to get my "L".  That doesn't seem quite real either. 

So in the morning, I was trying to stay busy and found myself up in your closet, the one with all your clothes and toys and blankets. It is well past time to remove batteries from those that have them, but I hadn't been able to do that before. I brought the toys downstairs and wrestled them out.

And then I got to Scout, still wearing the socks you wore to the hospital that final time, the ones I took off and put on him so we wouldn't lose them.

I couldn't do it. 

I just couldn't.

Instead, I pushed the buttons and listened again to "5, 10, 15 minutes of lullabies." To "My favorite color is red. Is that your favorite, too?" 

"I'm feeling sad. Will you give me a hug?" I did. 

And "I love you, Aaron!" 

Scout talked and sang so many, many, many times over the years. In fact, you wore one out and we buried it with you. In the hospital, at home, during the night when I was trying to sleep but you insisted on playing. 

And I just couldn't silence him. On Tuesday, I picked up your butterflies at the cemetery. As I did so, I walked around to the back and read the inscription again. "But there is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory and the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ. Beloved son of William and Rebekah. Youngest brother of Deborah, Mary, David, Jonathan, Matthew, Joseph, Andrew and Michael."  

Oh my son, my little boy. I will see you again. I will hold you again. But until that day, my heart aches. I miss you. Somehow, I'm learning to live without you in this world, but it hurts. You are so loved.

You are love.

You are most definitely compatible with joy.

And I miss the memories we cannot make. 

I love you.

Love, 
Mama

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

~Robert Brault

Hummingbirds and Mother's Day

Dear Aaron,

The hummingbirds are back.

I thought I heard one earlier today when I was working in the yard, but didn't see it. Now I'm sitting on the patio, finishing reviewing for my test on Wednesday, and they (or it?) keep showing up. I'm not good enough to tell if it's the same one, or multiple. But they're back, and it feels good. 

The weather is just the right amount of warm. Gramma's roses are beginning to bloom, and I'm hopeful that some of your flowers will come up soon. The sun is going down, but still well above the horizon. The dappled light comes through the trees that are beyond the bud stage, but still have the new spring green color, not fully developed yet. 

I hear the crickets chirping and Sophie is laying by my bare feet. A bird just flew through the yard. The fresh-cut grass smells of summer. 

And tomorrow is Mother's Day. 

Last year, I wasn't here, I was in Arizona with Gramma and Grampa, and the day after, I called the ambulance for Gramma. This year, she's with you in heaven. 

It's my first Mother's Day without my mother, and my first one here at home without you. Last year I avoided it; a new place, different focus. But I'm grateful I was with Gramma, so grateful. I think I took her for granted all those years. I mean, I never knew life without her. She was a constant presence, even if we weren't together.  I figured she always would be.

Like you, I see her in so many things: the wind wheel outside my office window, the blanket on my bed, the fleece shawl I keep in the car that she made with "I Love You" embroidered in the same color so really only I know it's there. And the bracelet she gave me a year ago that was supposed to be about you and now signifies her as well. 

I miss you. I miss her. Two significant pieces of my heart are missing. 

I'm so grateful for my family. All but you and Matthew and Michael will be here tomorrow, and I'm sure the two of them will call. It will be loud and chaotic and crazy. Eleven adults and four small children create that, and it will be beautiful. 

But still...

Oh Aaron.

My last one, my forever baby, the one I meant to take care of for as long as I could imagine.

And I guess in a way, I still do. I carry you with me; your memory, your love, your inspiration.

Is the hummingbird that keeps coming back your way of saying "hi"?  I hope I make you both proud.

Sending you all my love...

Love, 
Mama

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words,
and never stops at all.

- Emily Dickinson 

Jonah Day

Butterfly release

Dear Aaron,

It's been a Jonah Day. 

I mean, I guess not really, but still...   You could call it a comedy of errors but I'm frustrated and not laughing. 

Maybe the universe needed to get some balance back.

Yesterday was pretty amazing! I woke up a little early and had lots of energy. Before I even left for work I weeded your (small) garden and planted a bunch of seedlings, and hoped for rain. And it did! I did two loads of laundry and got to work on time feeling like I had already put in a full day but still with the energy to keep going! Like I said, it was a good day!!

This morning, I woke up at 4 am with a headache, and when the alarm went off I was sound asleep again. And then my glasses were nowhere to be found. Apparently I fell asleep with them on and they fell down the top of the bed. I had to find an old pair to put on to even see them! I had no energy, but still needed to get going.

Primary's Memorial Program 2024

I couldn't find my earbuds which I needed for a Teams call today. I went through my backpack twice. (They're supposed to be in a small bag inside there with other electronic supports, nope.) So I left the house early thinking I must have left them in the Pleasant Grove office yesterday. Drove there, nothing. Drove to Saratoga Springs and emptied my backpack a third time. They were there all along, in the wrong small bag.

BUT I was missing my tappers which I wanted for a later session, and I had also offered to another therapist. Those are big and I knew they'd been on my desk in PG. So I sent a colleague a message and asked her to look on my desk so at least I knew where they were. Nope, not there. When I got home, guess what was on the floor where they'd fallen out. 

Sigh...

And did I mention, no energy? Zip? Nada? I made salads for dinner (which is super easy) but I told Daddy that he had no idea how close he came to scrambled eggs instead. Those would have been fine, but I wanted (needed) the veggies instead. 

And tonight I've been trying to study for my test. I'm super stressed about it. Going through flashcards, I wonder if I even went to school for this stuff. 

Like I said, woe is me, Jonah day. 

But like Alexander in the "Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day," some days are just like that. 

My guess is sometimes you felt that way too, and somehow you kept going.  

Missing you, kiddo. The rain has been good. It watered the grass (the sprinklers are currently not functioning) and cleaned off your headstone. The moisture will help the flowers to grow. Gramma's rose bush has more new buds on it. Your place in the cemetery is greening up.

Life is moving forward, and that's a good thing. 

But still, I miss you. I miss who I was with you. I feel pulled in two opposite directions, forward with the movement of time, and stuck on December 23rd, 2023, still trying to figure out how your heart stopped and mine did not. 

This is weird. 

Love,
Mama 

“Grief is a courtship with death” 

- Jane Edberg

Lend Me Your Strength, Please...

Are you in the stars I see in the night?

Dear Aaron,

My soul hurts. I am weary. This is hard!

Today a few different people, including a caregiver and unit secretary asked how I was doing, and I answered honestly, "I'm okay, most of the time I'm okay, but sometimes I'm not." And it's true! 

But tonight seems to be a "sometime." 

I went to the ward picnic tonight and fought to stay as long as I did. Oh, everyone was great, nice, talkative. Linnaea had a great time and Barrett was so cute. The food was fabulous. And I just felt so alone anyway. 

I miss you so much.

Tomorrow, the Sunday before Mother's Day, is Bereaved Mother's Day. And I don't even want to get out of bed.

How has it been 71 weeks without you, and yet if I hold still and close my eyes, I can almost feel your hand in mine, your soft hair under my fingers, smell your skin. But when I open my eyes, it's all gone, vanished away. 

You were the strongest person I ever met.

Will you please lend me some of that strength?

Love,
Mama

“A broken heart bleeds tears."

Steve Maraboli 

Missing You

Dear Aaron,

I'm feeling meloncholy.

And lost.

And.... I don't know.

So many activities crammed into this weekend, which could not have happened if you were here. I'm grateful I could participate, and yet I wish you were still here.

Friday your Joseph graduated from SUU. Saturday was Sterling's first birthday party and after we went to your cousin's endowment. And my mind went back to yours. As I sat in the celestial room, I saw rainbows on the floor, the biggest one shook gently. A few months ago a friend gave me a prism with "Look for me in rainbows." And so I do. 

I feel like I'm leaving you behind, and yet I don't at the same time. 

Some of my memories fade, but I carry you with me. I wear your trach beads on my watch band, the bracelet that Gramma gave me a year ago. The butterfly on my car, the beaded angel on the rearview mirror. 

I work in a field you brought me to and I'm taking my final licensing exam in two weeks. You brought me to this, and now you're gone. 

Today I volunteer at a memorial for children who joined you in 2024. I did this in 2021 and 2022. Last year our family went. And now I go to help other families in this awful horrible club that no one ever wanted to be part of.

And yet, it holds some of the most beautiful, strongest people I've ever known, strong because that was the only choice we were ever given. 

Love you, my kiddo. 

Love,
Mama

"The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living."

Cicero

He Is Risen

Dear Aaron,

He is risen.

You are not, yet.

The Tomb is empty; your grave is not.

But I have faith that it will be. 

And so will Gramma's.

And so many others.

I honestly don't remember a lot about Easter last year. I remember sitting in the front room, the room that holds many mementos and even more memories, watching the sunrise while snow fell. But not much beyond that. 

This year is warmer (also later) and somewhat quieter in my soul.

At least for the moment.

I planted flowers in your garden yesterday (and I'm super sore today). It was hard work, trying to rip out the stubborn grass, dig holes deep enough. But I also kept thinking of you and everything you endured and figured I could handle it. 

I planted a Gold Medal rose bush for Gramma, and a Henri V clematis for you. Yellow roses were her favorite, and clematis stands for ingenuity and mischief; two characteristics that seem to fit you. The flowers are white symbolizing purity, faith, new beginnings and love. Now I just hope they do well.

There aren't pansies in there because they won't withstand the summer heat, but there will be marigolds, alyssum, and forget-me-nots around your stone. There are sweet peas and snapdragons. And hopefully petunias. A variety of colors and scents; a beautiful garden to remind us of your beautiful soul.

Your last Easter morning here, 2023. You were
so happy to be at church!

This sun is rising. Time for sunrise in Alpine is said to be 6:41 am, but it doesn't seem to take into account how close we are to the very high mountains on the east. And so it seems to take a long time to see the sun. Those mountains comfort me, protect me, help me feel safe, but they also hold back the sun. 

The sun will come up; it is coming up. It's just taking time. 

And so will this. 

Time for my soul to find peace, and time for grief to wash over me, again, and again, and again. 

I will not stop missing you until I hold you again, and yet I also find joy and comfort in this life. 

Happy Easter, Aaron. Happy Easter, Mama.

He is Risen, and someday you both will rise as well.

Love,
Mama

Easter Sunrise 2025

"The very first Easter taught us this: that life never ends and love never dies."

- Kate McGahan

Dreams...

Dear Aaron,

I'm struggling.

This is hard.

It hurts.

And I don't know quite why today feels so different than other recent days. 

Maybe it's the unmet expectations I have for myself. I look around and there's so much I want to get done... And then I sit. Or like today, I get stuck in traffic, both going and coming! Guess I need to be grateful I was the one stuck behind the wrecks and not part of them.

And I'm anxious, too. I finished my hours to be able to take my licensing exam and registered for that on Monday. I'm simultaneously excited and terrified, but it's coming, four weeks from today.

And you brought me here. Somehow I feel like you should be here celebrating with me. 

Are you? 

Is Gramma?

I dreamed of her the other night. She was so young and vibrant. Her hair was so dark, her skin clear and bright. She was sitting on a bed playing with and taking care of some small children, but I didn't really notice them. I was distraught, upset, and told her this was too much, too hard, and I was so tired of doing everything.

And gently she replied, "I know, honey. I know." 

Oh, I wish you could take pictures of dreams. I want to hold onto that image. It was so clear, so real. 

And once I woke, so gone.

I miss you two so much.

Love you even more.

Love,
Mama 

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long.
If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.”

- A. A. Milne

Trying to Learn to Dance...

Dear Aaron,

As I drove home today, I was reminded that four months ago today I got a text from my sister. I was approaching the cemetery when it came through and I listened as I sat in the car near your grave.  In it, she said to "listen and process when you have space," or something like that. The recording was Gramma's nurse saying that she had decompensated quickly, was moved to the ICU and on maximum support. 

I knew, I just knew...

She held on for more than 12 more hours. I got to talk to her, say goodby and tell her to give you a hug from me, and be with you until I get there.

That night was so dark. It was cold. It was December. 

Today was bright and sunny. In fact, when I reached your spot, the sun was still relatively high in the sky in spite of it being 7 pm. I touched your angel that hangs from my mirror and thought of you two. I told her how much it hurts, and I could hear her whisper, "I know, I know." 

I miss you two so much, so very much. 

I was listening to a podcast today about "Bravely Being With Grief" by Robyn Gobbel, mostly for some of my work with clients, but it also hit home for me. I was reminded (again) that grief really never goes away. In her podcast, she talked about it just going somewhere else in the body and then resurfacing, sometimes completely catching you off guard. 

I think that's what happened today.  

Your spot is so beautiful. They're beginning to mow again with the spring warming up. Last year this time, I had to take everything down on Tuesdays because none of it was permanent yet. This year, I remove the butterflies and then put them back on Wednesdays, but your stone stays. And the flowers in your vase stay. And your smile stays.

I'm working on your garden here now. I'm hoping to get seeds planted (inside in pots) tomorrow, and your temporary stone cleaned and resealed. In a few more weeks, I'll start putting flowers in the ground. 

I'm trying, Aaron. I'm trying, Mama.

I guess if I didn't love you, I wouldn't miss you and it wouldn't hurt.

But I do, and it does.

Miss you both so much.

Love,
Me

 “You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

— Anne Lamott 

Third General Conference Since You Left...

Dear Aaron,

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

“life ends, but love is eternal.”

― David Kessler