You Left Your Mark

Dear Aaron,

You left your mark: on me, on the new hospital, and on the world.

As I was looking for Sharpies for present wrapping, I grabbed the only red one I could find. And then I noticed what was stamped on it:

I LEFT MY MARK

Lehi Topping Off

June 2021

And it made me smile, a small smile, because you did. You are the reason that I advocated for medical gasses in the clinic spaces. Initially they felt that having oxygen tanks on hand, like they do in the Salt Lake clinics, was enough. And in a perfect world, it would be. But in a perfect world, children wouldn't be on oxygen anyway. 

I told them how I calculated oxygen every time we went out. I always allowed for longer than expected wait times, and then added more on, and always, always took an extra tank plus the emergency one that never left the car. If we ended up using any of that one, it was replaced before even going back into the house. But even with all those safeguards in place, at one point the doctor was a couple of hours behind so I asked for a tank. And it took 45 minutes to find and bring one to us, which meant that I was turning you down below what was optimal just to eek out as long as we could. 

I suggested that the additional worry and stress was not something that medical parents' brains needed, or their children's bodies. And when they put lines in the building, medical gasses were present. 

Lately, there have been other remembrances. When I bought the lantern almost two weeks ago, there was some confusion at the register. The woman who was helping me said she'd make sure it all got straightened out and asked for the email it should be under. As I gave it to her, she slowed while writing it down, and pointedly kept her eyes on the paper. Kinda slowly, she said, "Rebekah Peterson, there's a Rebekah Peterson in the special needs world... Do you know her?" and she looked up. I said, "that is me" and I felt so seen. 

The next week at Walmart, I saw one of the practitioners that took care of you over and over and over in the PICU. We had a good visit. And I was reminded again that your life, your days, were known by Father, and you lived every one of them. And it still hurts that you're gone.

Today, Daddy and I saw Christmas Carol for our anniversary. Eleven years ago today, on our 25th anniversary, we saw it as well. Later that night you were Lifeflighted from the AF Hospital to Primary's. When you were still critical on Christmas and I told a PICU doc that your siblings had unanimously voted to put Christmas off until you were home, he was surprised. I gently told him that one day Tiny Tim's crutch would be by the fireplace without an owner and we didn't want to face that until we had to. He just nodded. 

And now it does. Figuratively, I mean. All your equipment has moved on to help others. You don't need it anymore and they do. But Scout still sits in your room, and pictures are around. I tuck letters and memories from friends and family into your stocking. And I hold you close in my heart. 

I've heard that time runs different in heaven: a day there equaling a 1000 years here. So does that mean by the time you look around for me, I'll be there? I hope so. 

Two years ago, tonight into tomorrow. 

I miss you. 

Love,
Mama

“Death ends a life, not a relationship. All the love you created is still there. All the memories are still there. You live on- in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here."

Tuesdays with Morrie Mitch Albom

Christmas, Scout, and Memories

Dear Aaron,

"I'm feeling happy! Aaron, show me your biggest smile!"

"I love you Aaron!"

Sitting in the front room, your old room, with Scout next to me. The last socks you wore still on his feet. Candles flicker, some in your memory cabinet, some on the piano, and some by your nativity scene and picture. The Christmas tree rounds out the soft illumination.

In the other room, I see more candles, and the snow globe scene of Santa with the Christ Child; my gift to myself from my parents this year, because that was one of Gramma's favorite images.

I squeeze Scout's paw, and he responds. Tears in my eyes, and a small smile on my lips. "Oh, I"m feeling sad. Will you give me a hug? Thanks!" I don't know if it's reality or my imagination, but he seems to still smell a little like you. I mean, he was with you for every hospital admit, and in your bed every night. You wore one out, and we buried that one with you. 

I was filling out some paperwork for a weekly evaluation on Sunday and it hit me again how hard last week was, and the next week will be, too. 

Last week was two years since our last 911 call (12/9), last admit (12/10 - you know it takes several hours to actually be admitted), last time I saw you with your eyes wide open and your big smile, even a chuckle (12/13). It has been one year since Gramma's last admit (12/7), a year since I last spoke to her here on this side of the veil (12/10), and a year since she came to be where you are (12/11). 

It's one more week until the last night I tucked you in (12/22) and you woke up in heaven (12/23). During the time between your last smile and leaving, I kept vigil, watching for improvement, hoping and expecting it. And I guess, in the eternal scheme of things, you did improve, just not the way I expected. Gramma's services were a year ago on Sunday (12/21) and yours were two years ago just over a week later (12/30). Somehow I wonder how I am still standing.

But in between, woven within the fabric of these dates, are Christmas celebrations, music, decorations. I remember the magic of Christmas as a child, and recognize that it was Mom. I wrap presents and recall working at the gift wrap booth in the mall with my friends. Dad helping organize the efforts and making sure that everyone working was actually capable of wrapping well. (We teens were the best, some of the adults didn't do as well.) 

I remember Christmas carols, and cinnamon roll Christmas trees, and chocolate before breakfast on Christmas morning and thinking the clock would never reach 6:00.  

Gramma loved Christmas, the lights, the stories, the celebrations. She loved the magic, Santa, and most of all, her Savior. She collected nativities, and so do I. The one she and Grampa made for my Grandma  sits on the piano and others are scattered through the house. 

I don't really think I felt much last year. It was my first without you (I still don't count 2023; you were here until 2 days before), but I was also wrapped up in losing Gramma. But this year, this year is different. I see the joy and the wonder on the grandchildren's faces, and I miss your quirky smile. I hear the carols, and I can almost hear my mom's voice as I sing. I am so grateful for Christmas, and it hurts so badly at the same time. 

I miss you, Aaron. It's starting to sink in that this is the way it's just going to be. Last year things were still pretty new. Not so much anymore. Your grave is decorated with a little tree, lights in your flowers, a wooden reindeer, and butterflies

I wish I was decorating your room instead. 

Love,
Mama

"Like snowflakes, my Christmas memories gather and dance —
each beautiful, unique, and gone too soon."

- Deborah Whipp  

Light and Love, and Loss

Dear Aaron, Dear Mama,

Mama, a year ago today you went to the hospital. I seem to remember you took yourself there and when asked why, you said you needed to know if you could do it on your own, and you did. They admitted you for a "tune-up." I mean, you really weren't too bad off, and then a couple days later you were done. 

Tricia called on the 10th and I knew.... 

You were gone the next day.

The last thing I said to you was, "I love you. Please find Aaron and hold him for me until I get there." I was told you smiled...

And Aaron, the year before, 2023, the nurse woke me the morning of the 9th because your heart rate was kinda high. I thought your albuterol treatment would have caused it (he was a relatively new nurse) but when he said it was 140, I knew that wasn't the case. We watched and I babied you all day, but by nighttime it was obvious that we needed more help. Your official admit date was also December 10. Your last one... 

And your last "real" smile was just three days later on your 6 month birthday, right before your body essentially crashed. 

Your last week here at home was pretty amazing! Smiles, laughter, playing. Was that also a rally? Like Gramma with Thanksgiving? Were those final happy moments your gift to me, to help see me through so many, many years without you? 

It's only been two so far and it seems so long, and yet, the grief still hits almost as sharp as initially. Well, maybe not quite. Back then I couldn't even wrap my brain around it. I would hear your machines, the beeps. I tried to go to your room on multiple occasions to check or give you meds. Your things still smelled like you.

Not anymore. 

I don't even know what to do to mark your angelversary. Or Gramma's. 

I've asked people to send me stories, or things you taught them,  or happy actions they do in your name. It's interesting, most of them have come from other angel moms, and almost all the rest from special needs moms. A few have come from others, including a children's librarian who loved your big kids when they were tiny. 

But it seems that they are the ones who understand, who know the fear of a child being forgotten. Maybe others are afraid of making me hurt. I don't think they understand that while I may cry, the pain of not remembering you is much more. And honestly, I'm going to cry anyway.

I've got two more weeks of work before the holiday break. I'll get through it, and it will go well. But I don't think I'll be scheduling any extra sessions. I just don't have it in me. And I'm learning that it's okay to slow down a little.

Oh Aaron, Mama, I miss you! I'm grateful for the lights, for the music, for the sights, the innocent wonder in a small child's eyes. I'm glad there's joy this month, because there's also (almost) unbearable pain. I went to Avanlee's Messiah concert. It was beautiful and brought back so many memories of singing in high school. But somehow, during the Hallelujah chorus, I was reduced to sobs. There were some quietly singing with the choir from the congregation, and I have to wonder if there weren't many more that we couldn't see singing as well. Were the two of you there? Was it your voices that I heard? 

Maybe....

Love,
Mama/Becky

"Life is a repeated shattering and gluing back together of the heart."

Terry Guillemets