I've Changed . . .

Dear Aaron,

I was driving down the road, a little south of your school on Saturday when I saw it. In the left corner of the rear window, a butterfly, almost like yours. 

And I wondered . . . 

Does it mean what yours does? Does the woman in the driver's seat share my pain? Does she feel the ache deep in her bones, in her heart? Does she smile at people and tell them she's "fine?" 

I don't know . . .  

I miss ya, kiddo, miss you so much.  

What would it be like if you were here? 

What are you doing there?

Little Miss Rachel is here, so perfect and so loved.

Two more grandbabies on their way, too. Do you play together? Do you teach them? Reassure them that they are loved beyond measure already? These children that will never know you on this side of the veil. 

My arms still ache to hold you. 

This is so hard! 

Lately I've seen a reel about dealing child loss that really hit me. It's two words:

You change.

And that is so true. 

Do you paint the sunsets I see? Every time I think of you is it because you're thinking of me? 

I am so grateful for you, my son.

And I miss you more than words can say.

Love,
Mama

"The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. 

Nor should you be the same nor would you want to."

— Elisabeth Kübler-Ross 

Not Okay

Hey Aaron,

I don't know...

I'm treading water and hoping I don't go under.  Your angelversary is past. It's (slowly) getting lighter. We're not to February yet where I go through the memories of learning you were coming with something "extra." 

Maybe it's that I'm remembering giving all of your equipment away. Sending that on made sense. But it was also so much a part of you. 

I know you're okay, better than okay. 

But I'm not. 

I go to work, I talk to people, I volunteer at church and at the hospital. When people ask, "How are you?" or "How's it going?" I reply, "Good!" "Fine!" 

I lie. 

But really, those are just niceties, expected greetings and responses. How do I tell them I'm drowning inside? The colors are muted and all I want to do is stay in bed with the covers over my head?

Sometimes, all my energy goes into just trying to survive. And the tears roll down my face.

It's Friday again, Friday into Saturday, over and over and over again. 108 times. 107 times since I last touched your hair, kissed your cheek, covered you with your weighted blanket and tucked Scout in next to you.

I'm not okay.

I'm back to getting out of bed 45 minutes before I have to be at work, and it's a 20-25 minute commute, plus time to unlock and organize files. 

I try to write in my gratitude journal, and I do have So Much to be grateful for. But gratitude isn't a panacea for grief. It doesn't wipe out the pain.

I dreamed about you the other night. It was kinda funny. You pulled yourself to a standing position in a crib, something you never actually did in this life. And then you tumbled over the side (on purpose) and I was so worried about you pulling out your g-tube! As I caught you, you laughed at me. Oh, I miss your smile, your laugh. 

I just miss you.

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.”

Rabbi Earl Grollman 

Hey Superman...

Hey Superman,

I miss you.

I took Christmas down yesterday, and finished putting everything away today. I gently removed your ornaments from your tree, and the ones from the big tree in the main room. 

And I cried.

Everything neat, everything clean, everything ready for the new year, another new year without you.

I remember your strength, your super power of working through the pain, your smile, your giggle. 

I remember your penguins dancing on the ceiling and how we'd turn them off at night so you would finally close your eyes and sleep.

Now your earthly eyes are closed. 

What do you see with your heavenly eyes?

Do you see me?

Do you lend me some of your super strength?

Gramma also loved Christmas: the lights, the gifts, the joy, the music. She loved celebrating the Savior. 

When I was tiny, she painted a Santa that became a core Christmas memory for us children. Because you can't divide a ceramic object six ways, she spent a full year looking for that Santa for each of us. She added her own touches to each one, painting her love for us on them. I wrapped mine carefully, gently and placed him in a box until next year.

Many (most?) of my ornaments come from her. She and Grampa started giving each of us an ornament when I was about eight or nine, and that continued through last year. This is the first year I can remember that she didn't send me an ornament... 

But my brother did. 

We have a saying that when you give a gift that makes someone cry (in a good way), you "win" Christmas. He did. 

Two bells about my angels watching over me in heaven.

Aaron, this hurts, this really hurts. I pushed through putting things away, grateful for the physical pain that distracts me (sorta) from the emotional anguish. I miss you and Gramma so much!!

I see the morning sunrise, your crystal angel in my car refracting the light into rainbows. The snow that comes and covers your grave. Thursday night, I watched as the butterflies danced in the wind, their shadows flitting across your stone as the spotlight illuminated it. 

It seems so strange that this is my life now. It's been just over two years. My second Christmas (okay, technically third) without you. My first (again, really the second) without Gramma. You both left me so close to Christmas that it didn't feel real at the time. 

And so many, many more to go...

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

"Heroes never die.
They live on forever in the hearts and minds of those who follow in their footsteps."

Emily Potter