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