I Carry You

Dear Aaron,

For nine months I carried you inside of me.

For 13 1/2 years (and ten days), I carried you with me.

For 58 weeks now, I carry you, unseen, in my heart, my soul, the very marrow of my bones.

In a very literal sense, your cells still reside in my body and likely always will. 

But I carry you in other ways, too. 

I made a watch band this past week using the beads I made your trach chains from. I use your lunchbox every day at work. I wear the bracelet Gramma gave me after you passed, which also now symbolizes my life without her as well. Your prints hang in one office, your toys are in both. 

I always wear butterflies and your name is on my key ring. Your pictures hang on my walls and keepsakes are in the curio cabinet. Your minion rock is on my desk.

There's a butterfly on the back of my car and an angel crystal hanging from the rearview mirror. Your "hope" bib hangs on the shelf in my room next to the ribbons from your funeral spray. My watch face is yellow roses and a butterfly for you and Gramma as is my lockscreen. 

You are everywhere with me.  

I see your smiles pop up on my computer screen; I miss the sound of your laughter. 

I carry you, and your spirit carries me.

You carry me through the days and nights, through the anguish and the pain, and through the smiles that come in spite of my tears. 

I'm not sure how it has been 58 weeks already, and yet only 58 weeks. It seems like forever since we said goodbye, and yet it doesn't. 

I spent yesterday working on a ceramic nativity from the same mold as one of Gramma's that I've always loved. It was calming and introspective. I miss the two of you so much, and I also feel your strength. You lift me and teach me and make me more than I could ever have been without you. 

You carry me; I carry you.

Forever and always.

Love you so much, little man.

Love,
Mama

"We do not have to rely on memories to recapture the spirit of those we have loved and lost – they live within our souls in some perfect sanctuary which even death cannot destroy."

- Nan Witcomb 

Time Warp

Dear Aaron,

It was a weird weekend, kinda time warp-y.

Saturday I went to a birthday party for JoJean Loflin. She's Andrea's mom. Drea, Sorena, Tara and I were super tight in Alaska until I moved away between freshman and sophomore years. There weren't many weekends where the four of us actually slept in our own beds; we were almost always at each other's house. At least that's the way I remember it. So I saw her mom a lot. 

She's 85 now and actually doesn't look a whole lot different than I remember her, and we're all older than she was when I knew her. I couldn't find Drea at first but then she turned around and I saw her smile. I knew that smile. It's been over 40 years since we spent a lot of time together, but I still knew it. 

Then last night and today, I went to honor another mom. Onalee Wood was mom to four friends; Stacy and Laurie are a year older than me, Michelle is my age, and Brian a year younger. When we moved from Alaska to New Jersey, their dad was our stake president. And man, was their family fun!! They took Aunt Maurie and I under their wing and we spent a lot of time there. She passed away last Tuesday, and once again, we "children" are all older than she was the last time I saw her much.

But seeing people from the past makes me feel like not much time has gone by, certainly not 35-40 years! How did we get to be the older ones? The grammas and grampas? 

Kinda like, how are you gone? How is my mom? Where did the time go and why can't I turn it back? Back to when we were all so young and innocent and the world lay before us just waiting for us to go out and conquer it? 

I mean, I sorta guess I wouldn't turn it back even if I could. I think I've grown . . . I don't know, maybe wiser? I hope more loving and tolerant. Maybe more forgiving. But that growth comes through pain and I don't like pain. It hurts! 

Oh, I miss you. 

Someone said to me last week that they couldn't even imagine losing a child and I hope I wasn't too curt when I said, "Don't, don't even try. You can't. It's impossible. Even when you know it's coming, it is beyond imagining. Spare yourself, just don't." I mean, she's an amazing woman and she has experienced a lot of challenges (and growth) with her own childrens' journeys. But like I told her, until you actually go through it, it is completely unimaginable, and completely soul wrenching. 

So this weekend, celebrating one mom's birthday and another mom's life, seeing old friends that I haven't seen in person in way too many years, well, time seems strange. I'm so grateful to know that even though we have to say goodbye in this life, it's really a "see you later" even though "later" seems so very far away. As I drove to the funeral, music was playing and I found myself reviewing the words to a hymn. 

You and Gramma and Sister Wood have finished your race; you've proven worthy; you've gone Home. We miss you but I know we'll see you again. 

I put out Valentine's decorations at your grave last week. I hope you like them. You gave so much love, you taught love, I think you were all about love. 

And I love you.

Love,
Mama

Fill our hearts with sweet forgiving;

Teach us tolerance and love.

Let our prayers find access to thee

In thy holy courts above.

Then, when we have proven worthy

Of thy sacrifice divine,

Lord, let us regain thy presence;

Let thy glory round us shine.

In Humility, Our Savior

Dear Aaron

Dear Aaron,

It's starting to sink in, or through me, or something. 

I'm learning to swim through the grief? Maybe?? (Swimming never was my favorite. I'm not very good at it.)

This loss, your absence, it still aches but it doesn't throb, at least as much as it used to.

For so long it was a stabbing, gut punching, visceral beating. It felt like it was coming from all sides, all around, relentless.

Now it soaks into me. Less violent, more melding with my soul, an infusion that binds with the marrow in my bones; less of an outside attack and more of an internal long-time battle scar, the kind that always bothers you but more during certain weather changes or exercises.

"Look for Me in Rainbows"

This past week a client asked if she could ask me a question. I told her she could always ask whatever she wants and if I'm not comfortable answering, I'd tell her. She asked if I was okay. I thought and then said, "I think so most of the time, but not always. And then I break down and scream and cry, and give myself permission to do so. But yeah, it always hurts." She just nodded her head. 

"Your sunshine lives with
us forever."

I was in the front room tonight with Linnaea and Elend. Linnaea picked up one of the picture collages and said, "this reminds me of Aaron" and then was showing Elend pictures of him and you, and her and you. He doesn't remember you but she does. 

It's quiet. The dishwasher runs, the dogs are resting, Dad is on the computer (and I guess I am too.) We made it through another week at work and I'm starting to get back in the swing of things there. A friend stopped by yesterday and brought me a crystal hanging she had made for me with a reminder to "Look for me in rainbows." Rainbows only come after the storm. I'm so grateful to be surrounded by so much love.

I'm grateful for your love. You're still with me, everywhere. I wear butterflies, your reminders go with me. You are in my heart and I'll keep you there for always. 

I miss you.

I miss you so much.

Love,
Mama

His shirt at the end says, "Life Is Beautiful."

“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart.
I’ll stay there forever.”

- A. A. Milne 

Renewal

Dear Aaron,

I painted the bluebirds yesterday.

The ones that have sat on the kitchen windowsill for 20 years. 

I don't remember where they came from: Colorado, Alaska? Somewhere else? Probably Colorado because I don't remember them not "being" and Mom did a lot of ceramics in Colorado. 

I'm pretty sure Mama bought them already fired, as bisque rather than greenware, because her initials aren't on the bottom.  My nativity that she and Grampa did so many years ago when they were still engaged has either hers or his on the bottom of each piece, depending on which cleaned it. 

But over the years, like so many of us, the vibrant blue faded, and even more, the paint started to come off in places. 

So yesterday, I painted them again, and used a pen, like she did, to outline the eye area. 

Is that what happens when we die? Do we get remade? Our parts that are crumbling, failing, fading renewed? 

Does your body run and play? Does Gramma have her perfect eyesight back, lungs that won't fill with fluid? 

Do you remember all the good and the love you experienced here? 

I have so many questions, and so few answers.

But I trust you are still you, and she is still herself, and you both still love with all your hearts because that's what you did here. 

I love you so much.

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

"But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

Isaiah 40:31

Kinda Brittle, Pretty Broken

Dear Aaron,

Hey kiddo, have to say, I'm feeling kinda brittle right now. 

I'm tired, physically, emotionally, mentally. There's "stuff" at work that's hard. It's dark. It's cold. I miss you!

I'm afraid I feel ineffectual. I mean, I know I'm not completely, but sometimes it's like I'm spinning my wheels, or maybe not even doing that, just slogging.

Gramma has been with you for four weeks now, four weeks yesterday. You've been gone almost 55 weeks (yeah, my brain still counts the weeks). 

I think you being gone starts to feel normal (whatever that is) and that scares me too! 

I don't want to forget. I don't want this new normal. I want you back!! I want Mama back. I wanted so badly to reach out and call her tonight. There were some things that were overwhelming and hard and I just needed to hear her voice.

And it's gone, like yours. 

So I try to hold it all together, and somehow I break anyway. 

You know, not every day hurts this bad any more, not even most of them. But sometimes, sometimes the tsunami still comes and sends me tossing, head over heels, tumbling through the darkness, alone, in pain. 

I mean, that's the thing about pain; it's so individual, so personal, and so isolating. 

I just feel so alone...

Please come visit me.

Please...

Love,
Mama

"Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim."

Vicki Harrison 

This is Hard

Dear Aaron,

It's snowing outside, kinda the first real snow of the season. I mean, we've had some here and there, but not really much. This is the kind of day where I want to stay curled up on the couch with a good book, hot chocolate and popcorn, at least usually. 

Today I'm restless, and also wiped out. Not sure how those go together but they do. 

It's been a rough week, Aaron. I took down Christmas decorations on the 1st and was reminded of last year. I "thought" somehow it wouldn't be a big deal last year and oh boy, was I wrong. I found myself breaking down in sobs. 

This year the pain is different, deeper in some ways and quieter too. I don't know if it's because I've had a whole year without you, or because grief over Gramma is so fresh. 

When I was about nine or so, Gramma and Grampa began the tradition of giving each of us an ornament every year with the idea that when we left home, we'd have ornaments for our own tree. Well, they continued that through the years. This year, Gramma had everyone come choose their own, including grandchildren. As I packed those away, I remembered so many different years, so many different treasures. 

A couple years ago she gave everyone a large crystal in the shape of a teardrop. Hers hangs over her kitchen island; mine is in my office window. 

My Christmas Hummels are now put away, but I got back out the ones that are on the shelf year round. There are ornaments made by my childish hands, and ones she embroidered and sent. The butterflies she made for you still hang from the ceiling in the front room. Your ornaments also brought a small smile to my face. I caressed the one she and Aunt Maurie managed to find last year the day you left us. 

This year you both spent Christmas in Heaven...

Oh, Aaron, I miss you both so much! You were always here, or if not, I was with you where you were. I honestly didn't talk to Gramma that often, but I think that may be in part because I always knew where she was and that I could. I was secure in our relationship, that she loved me so dearly. I know you both still do, but I can't reach out and talk to you, touch you, and somehow this week it hurts more than it has in a while. 

I went back to work on the 2nd and had a full days Thursday and Friday. It was hard. I didn't feel like I was doing a great job, but I tried. It wasn't as hard as last year, but still....

The grief seems to settle into my bones, into my very being. It doesn't bring the same bone-crushing pain, but the ache is deeper. It feels more like it is part of me, more internal and less external. I'm attending a weekly grief group for parents starting on Tuesday. During the intake interview, the facilitator asked what it was I was hoping to get out of it, and I had to be honest: I don't know.  I just know I need something, and I hope to find it.

I'm trying, Aaron, I really am. I don't feel very strong. 

This is hard...

Love,
Mama

“You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it.”

– Margaret Thatcher