This morning as I left for work, the bright morning sun shone in my eyes. Shortly after, dark, low clouds rolled in and my headlights turned on. To the northeast, blue sky behind the mountains. To the south dark gray hiding the mountains that were right there. Kinda felt like a metaphor for my life.
Bright moments of joy and clarity, and then unexpected shadows, pain, sorrow. And still, work waited for me so I continued on. And stuck my grief in a box until the end of the day (mostly).
I've got most of Christmas put up. Every year when we take it down, it seems there's an ornament that's missed. No matter how hard I try, the next year I find it. Last year was one that Grampa made, probably one the last ones. This year it was your Chinese Tiger that Gramma and Grampa sent from China. June 13, 2010 was in the 5th month of the year of the Tiger, and you were one in so many ways. And you made me into a Dragon Mother. I learned to advocate fiercely, and love deeply. And somehow, inexplicably, breathe through unbearable pain.
I heard the term "season of grief" the other day and oh it fit.
November into December just hurts.
It's dark.
Christmas is coming.
You're not here and neither is Gramma.
On this day in 2018, I wrote about our holidays. You'd been a turkey yourself. My good china platter held the turkey and it was close to the edge of the table. Disaster was narrowly averted when I realized you'd grabbed it and pulled it towards you. Not that you'd eat it or anything, you just wanted to play. But then I wrote (in naivete and ignorance):
"Holidays are kinda weird for medical mamas. You're so grateful for each one, but mindful that even the close ones aren't really guaranteed."
Sigh...
Never in my wildest dreams did I think you would go two days before Christmas. Even in your last few hours, I planned to spend Christmas in the PICU and bring you home a few days later. 2023 was the one year I decided to take the Christmas picture later, after Christmas when it would be quieter. The one year I didn't plead with God to give us another Christmas.
It was quieter... Too quiet.
I miss you, Aaron. This time of year hurts. Lights, music, joy, and sorrow. I told someone today that it's kinda strange to hold both joy and sadness together, and it is.
But I do it.
There really is no other option.
Love,
Mama
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