Compatible With Joy-Trisomy18

Aaron, I Cut My Hair

2026-08-03T21:01:51.844-06:00

Dear Aaron,

I cut my hair last week.

The only people who knew ahead of time were Daddy and a coworker.

It's short, for me it's really short. I think the last time I had it this short was the summer I was 12 or 13. But I like it.

My coworker said it took ten years off me. I quipped back that it was good, 'cause life keeps just adding.

But then later, I wished it really could take ten years off.

Ten years ago you were here. You were happy, (relatively) healthy. We had a couple stays in the hospital, but not really big deals. We were in the midst of birthday parties, parades, soccer tournaments, one brother coming home and another leaving, plays and trips to the water park. All my kids together for the first time in three years. I was switching your feedings from commercial formula to a blended formula which worked so well for you for a long time!

It was busy, crazy, loud, and good.

You were here.

Now it's not as busy, pretty quiet, and even though you're not here, still pretty good. But I miss you.

Hummingbirds are back in force and I sit on the patio as they swoop and chirp and scold each other, guarding their territory, not aware that the food won't run out.

I wonder if I'm a bit like that, or if I was. Although your time did run out. I still don't understand. My brain still really doesn't comprehend how you're not here with me anymore, although in some ways, I guess I've kinda learned.

I don't hear your machines anymore, and I no longer have a hospital bag packed. I will turn off my phone. I don't even cry when I hear sirens anymore (although that only happened after you died, not before).

I still miss you even if I don't cry every day.

I still think of you every day even if I don't write nearly as often.

It feels deeper, quieter, but more a part of the visceral portion of me. Not as visible, not something people look at me and see anymore. I've learned to say "nine" when people ask how many children I have. Usually they stop there. But recently, some have asked what the age range is, and that stops me a bit. Are you 13? Or 16? I don't have children at home, but you're too young to have left.

And yet you did.

Sending so much love heavenward.

Love,
Mama

“It’s an honor to be in grief. It’s an honor to feel that much, to have loved that much.”

- Elizabeth Gilbert

Do You See Me? See Us?

2026-07-14T21:29:30.318-06:00

Dear Aaron,

Somehow it's hitting harder.

Again.

I'm not sure why. I mean, the pain has been quieter, deeper, less obvious.

But my birthday was last week, and I've been missing Gramma more. How am I supposed to do my birthday without the woman who gave me life, and the son I gave life to?

Yesterday I bought some things for Daddy's birthday and the woman at the register recognized me as "Aaron's Mom." I was so touched. What an honor to be your mom. Today I got out of the car at the cemetery for the first time in a long time and touched your picture, your stone.

And wept.

I don't cry every day anymore. Probably not even every week.

But my body and brain still remember how long it has been.

133 weeks.

Forever it seems.

I sit on the back patio and hear the chirp and twitter of the hummingbirds, the hum of the A/C, the slight rustle of the leaves in the trees, and the sounds of teens playing in the park across town. Peaceful. The soft clouds cover the sky and the last pinks of the sunset touch the undersides of them to the northwest, above the neighbor's playset.

And I wonder if you see it, too.

I remember several years ago declining a candy because it was offered to everyone who would have a birthday that year, and I struggled with the idea that someday I would have birthdays that you would not be here for. Someday, your birthdays on this earth would end, and somehow, inexplicably, mine would continue.

Your Michael comes home from his mission in six weeks. Andrew mentioned that it will be good to have a little brother again. He said with Michael gone, and you gone, he's felt like he didn't have any younger brothers, and that was weird. I hadn't thought of how this affected him, or Michael, at least not in those terms.

Andrew and Zoey's little one will be coming any day now. Are you guys playing? Have you told him all about how much he is already loved? How you know this because you were so dearly loved?

I miss you!!

The waves are crashing again.

And I feel like I'm drowning.

Be close, please...

Love,
Mama

"... Oh, my love will fly to you each night on angel's wings..."

Dixie Chicks “Godspeed”

Bringing You Home

2026-06-29T19:55:26.932-06:00

Dear Aaron,

I woke this morning and the day felt different.

A bit melancholy, bittersweet, and even a little contemplative.

I didn't know why, and then I looked at the calendar.

Sixteen years ago today we got to bring you home.

Home.

Where I didn't know if you would ever be, and yet you were.

And for almost 13 1/2 years, I brought you home again and again and again. The last time was on November 23rd, just in time for your last Thanksgiving.

Now I have those memories of you, memories you were sent home to make.

You weren't supposed to live.

At two weeks old, you were sent home to die. I knew that. But the goal was to make some of those memories here before it was too late so as soon as you were "sorta" stable, you came home to be with us.

And you were.

Miraculously, wonderfully, and perfectly in your imperfections you did.

Today as I left, I saw a small dove's feather on Deborah's car and smiled.

Your fingerprints are still here, still at the new hospital, still on our hearts.

And they will be until we are Home with you.

Love you, kiddo.

Love,
Mama

“The connections we make in the course of a life--maybe that's what heaven is.”

- Fred Rogers

Two and a Half Years

2026-06-23T21:11:44.619-06:00

Dear Aaron,

It seems so strange that it has been so long...

And yet, like yesterday.

Forever since I held you, and only moments since I ran my fingers through your hair, kissed your button nose, and walked out of the room . . . leaving you behind.

I feel disoriented, confused, bereft, and yet full of love and grateful for you.

Your clematis bloomed this week, except it wasn't what it was supposed to be. I "bought" a white one, for innocence, except this one is not white. It's purple. Not what I wanted. Not what I expected. Not what I planned.

And maybe that's fitting. You were very much wanted and loved, but when we learned about your extra piece of love, well, that was not expected or planned or hoped for. And yet, you were exactly what I needed. You taught me so much, and I suspect still teach me. You changed me fundamentally.

And as Dad said, if the clematis is supposed to represent mischievousness and you, well, maybe it makes sense that the long-awaited first bloom was anything but what I thought it would be.

Your big kids continue to move forward: new babies, new jobs, new friends, new challenges. I love watching them grow. I remember your zest for life, and your love for adventure. I mean, I guess you're on one now anyway. I just don't get to check in with you on what's happening.

I keep on going. I try to make you proud. I hope you're happy; I really do.

You are amazing, my son. You are the gift I never knew I needed.

I pray you know this.

I do wonder how many people still think of you. I mean, I know I do multiple times a day. One of these days I'll tell you the story of losing and finding my stone heart. It sits in my pocket again, where it has been every day since you left except while it was missing. The finding was a miracle that I can't explain, and happened two days before your birthday.

I needed that, and I didn't even realize how much. Your birthday passed quietly, with only three members of the family outside your dad and siblings even remembering. But three reached out, and so did a coworker that I didn't even remember telling. I think that touched me all the more because of those who forgot.

Or maybe they thought it would hurt me too much for them to say something, which is funny 'cause I certainly remembered.

I don't know...

Missing you always, but especially today.

Love,
Mama

"We never bury the dead, son. Not really. We take them with us. It's the price of living."

~ Henry Parrish

Happy 16th

2026-06-13T08:49:27.214-06:00

Dear Aaron,

Sixteen years...

Oh how they have gone by.

What a blessing you were, you are.

And how missed.

129 weeks today since you left (will my brain always know?).

I put balloons out last night for you, after chasing one halfway across the cemetery. Somehow it seemed fitting. And when I tried to get pictures, they kept bobbing and dancing. Again, I smiled as I thought of you and your antics.

Grandma Sandra sent me a picture this morning of her fish flag flying in your honor.

You are not forgotten.

I love you, Aaron.

Happy Birthday, my boy.

Love,
Mama

“With life as short as a half-taken breath, don’t plant anything but love.”

– Rumi

Missing You...

2026-06-03T21:13:02.865-06:00

Dear Aaron,

It's almost time.

Almost 16...

Warm enough to sit out on the patio and wait for the lights to turn on. Your clematis is getting ready to bloom. So is Gramma's rose. I wonder if that will happen before your birthday.

Do you celebrate birthdays in heaven? I always wonder...

I'm grateful for the warm weather, the sun that stays out so late, the hummingbirds that have returned again this year. I planted flowers (so many flowers) and now I wait for them to grow.

Wait for the new day.

Wait until I see you again.

Right now, it's softer, the pain. It comes and goes. I could talk about you tonight, your laughter and silliness, and the fear and anxiety when you would get sick. And it was okay, good even to remember you and tell people who never met you who you were, who you are. Because you still are all of the things you were here in our home.

I brought the flowers home from your grave last week and replanted the pansies in hanging baskets. I hope that where they're on the east side, and often shaded, they'll make it through the summer. I guess we'll find out.

Missing you, kiddo.

Thank you for hanging on so long. I have no idea how you did, your body was so weary and tired. But your spirit was strong.

Love you.

Love,
Mama

"Grief moves at its own pace."

~Simon N. Whitney, M.D., J.D.

Still Standing, Standing is Hard

2026-05-18T21:45:57.982-06:00

Dance Festival 2022

Dear Aaron,

I think I've been numb, probably for several days.

"Gray day ... Everything is gray. I watch, but nothing moves today." (Dr. Seuss, My Many Colored Days)

Nothing moving, at least not inside.

Oh, on the outside I'm "just fine." I go to work, to meetings, to church and work in the yard at home. I talk, laugh, sometimes sing, occasionally write.

But I feel detached, static, and unresponsive. Just going through the motions.

Then a series of events caught up with me. Facing some things at work, good things, but hard things. Holding space for people, grateful to be able to do that, and also leaning in and feeling their pain with them.

And then at church (another place I've felt somewhat anesthetized) during Sunday School, Lesa Mecham made a comment. She mentioned how during the many times she was in our home while you were here, she could feel the love and peace your beautiful spirit brought to our home.

And the tears came. Oh, Aaron, I miss that!! I miss you, and I miss how I felt when you were here.

I played the piano and sang tonight for the first time in longer than I can remember. It was rusty, and my voice was creaky, but it softened me a little, I think.

Dad and I just finished watching the Harry Potter series again, and a scene at the end hit me in a way it hasn't before. But then, I don't think I've watched it since you died. Harry sees his parents, Remus and Lupin and asks why they are there. His mom replies, "We never left..." He asks, "Does it hurt? Dying?" Remus assures him, "Quicker than falling asleep."

Are you still here? Did it hurt? It didn't seem to. And you appeared to already be asleep.

And then you were gone.

Dance Festival 2023, your last one

Oh, baby...

125 weeks. Will I always know?

Will there always be times when it feels like a knife in my heart?

Will I always be pulled in two directions? One part of me, a part I think that died and went with you back in December of 2023, and the other part trying to live in the present?

I'm trying. I really am.

It's just that sometimes I wonder if I prefer the numbness. It doesn't hurt so much. It doesn't feel.

In all your frailty, you were stronger than I am.

I miss you so much....

Love,
Mama.

"In the grief of losing someone,

Why do I feel like the lost one?"

~Terri Guillemets

Rough Couple of Weeks

2026-05-03T19:40:17.686-06:00

Dear Aaron,

Rough week, rough two weeks.

And today is Bereaved Mother's Day.

I know why this week hurts; I'm less sure about why the previous one did. But I've cried more the last two weeks than I have in a long time.

And it seems to have gotten to me physically as well.

So a week ago was the annual Primary's Memorial Service. I got to see an old friend there. Somehow I hadn't put together Dr. Chief Medical Officer with Dr. Friend from the PICU until she walked in. I miss those relationships!! Losing you didn't just mean losing you. It meant losing people I'd grown to know and value and even cherish. To hear her talk about you, to say that you still are frequently referred to in the PICU, that when she sees a green Posey bed her first thought is that you're back, and the second is that no you're not....

Well, that hit deep in my Mama heart. To know that you made such an impact on the people there means so much, and I treasure that.

Then Tuesday I learned that Leila is playing with you and all the rest of your friends in heaven. I remember when she was born, when her NICU told her mom that it was futile and it was time to turn off the ventilator and let her go at 35 weeks gestational age! Mom asked me what I thought and I told her to go back and tell them that as long as she was a preemie, to treat her like a preemie. And when she wasn't anymore, then other discussions could be had, but not until then.

I used the poem Aunt Chelle wrote for your homecoming and made a poster for her when she came home. She was feisty and fiery, and her parents were no less amazing. We got to meet at the SOFT Conference in 2015. And at 14 years and 4 months, she danced through heaven's gates.

On Friday, Daddy and I went to Westlake's ballroom concert. One of the final numbers was the "How to Train Your Dragon" medley. In the middle, one of the dancers falls slowly and the company gathers around mourning. There is a single loud beat, which symbolizes his heartbeat stopping. Your Jonny choreographed that part in memory of you. After the first time they danced that number at a competition last year, he told the dancers the meaning of that part. Friday was the last time that will be danced. My video isn't the best, but I keep watching it over and over.

And my own heart... (or body or something) well, it's not too happy right now. Things definitely pointed to it being my heart, which earned me a golden chariot ride from the AF hospital to the Utah Valley Hospital where you were born in the wee hours of the morning almost 16 years ago. All the tests have come back good now, so I get to go home. But I have once again gained more appreciation for all you went through. I don't like being a patient. I'm not particularly good at it. I mean, when I'm refreshing MyChart every few minutes for a report I've been told will take a few hours to compile... Well, there might be a patience thing that this patient is struggling with.

Don't get me wrong. They've taken amazing care of me here, really. But oh...

I'm glad to be heading home.

I just wish you were there.

I was looking at the mold of our hands while dusting last week, and I couldn't quite feel yours in mine as clearly. That hurt. But I know you're still with me.

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

Grief is reading —

over and over again —

the goodbye poem

Death wrote to you.

~Terri Guillemets

Memories....

2026-04-24T13:07:43.766-06:00

Dear Aaron,

Well, an end of an era.

For 12 years I've served at Primary's on the Family Advisory Council. Years of meetings, gatherings, advocating, trying to serve as the voice for other parents. Years of connection with other parents, with staff, with friends.

And I'm leaving.

Our Lehi Executive Team

It's time, really it is. It is time for some new blood, for someone else to have a chance to serve.

Bittersweet.

Memories of designing the new hospital, of discussing family centered rounding, of sharing your story...

Working at the main campus, transitioning to the Lehi campus.

Lots of memories.

I'm not actually done until after our meeting in May, but it still feels empty somehow.

Another loss...

I feel lost...

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

“There comes a time in your life when you have to choose to turn the page, write another book or simply close it.”

― Shannon L. Alder

Easter 2026, 119 Weeks

2026-04-05T07:41:00.000-06:00

Dear Aaron,

Easter Sunday.

Again.

He is Risen, and again, you are not . . . yet.

I sit here in waiting for the sun to rise, watching as I have so many Easter mornings, thinking of you and of Gramma.

Grief quiets, a bit. Still there, still aching, still longing. But not as bone crushing, gut punching, heart wrenching as early days . . . most of the time.

It's cold again this year, and my spring bulbs have bloomed. I look at the window waiting for those first beams of light and see the yellows and reds, and further down some white and purple. Planted last fall, just before the first hard frost, they slept all winter and now months later are coming up.

A little while ago I pulled up to your spot as "Spider's Web" played. As I rolled down the window, I could see silver threads among the grass from spring spiders, and white moths danced among the evening air. The next day on the way home from the bus stop, a butterfly flitted around Linnaea and me. It alternately followed and led us home.

Is this your way of saying, "hey, I'm here!"?

My sister told me a little while ago that she had the distinct impression that Gramma wanted her to tell me that you were well, happy, content, and busy. And also so very aware of what is happening in my life. I pray that's true. Somehow I feel it is.

Oh, I still miss you, my son. Part of me is empty and will be until I hold you again.

Blessed Easter.

He is Risen.

And someday, I will be with you again.

Love,
Mama

Take the silver thread of a spider’s web

And spin, spin, spin

Silver wings to fly and sing

Upon the wind.

High above the trees, across the seas

And through the sky

To the rainbow’s bend, where stories never end

And dreams never die.

Because Love...

2026-03-17T19:42:56.613-06:00

Because Love...

Dear Aaron,

Trisomy awareness -- Because love...

Because love, you came.

Because love, you stayed.

Because love, we learned and grew and became more.

Because love, we held on tight.

Because love, we let you go.

Because love, we hurt and grieve, and have faith that we will be together again.

Because love, there is no end, no permanent goodbyes.

Because love, you are always part of us, and we are part of you.

Because love, I keep your memory alive.

Because love, I didn't give up, and I won't give up now.

Because love, grief and love, pain and joy, life and death, and love forever.

Tomorrow is March 18 -- Trisomy 18 Awareness Day. And I haven't even written to you yet this month.

Spring is here, at least it seems to be but this is Utah so who really knows.

I sit outside on the patio and see tulips coming up, pansies blooming. In my mind, I plan the flowers to plant.

The rainbows shine on my walls again and in the car as the sun hits the crystal hanging in my window and from the rearview mirror.

Sweet Baby R was given her name and blessing ten days ago, and Baby M joined the family a few days earlier. I wish Matthew and Kensey weren't so far away, but it did my soul good to hold Baby R as she snuggled in and slept. Something inside of me healed, just a little bit, and I was at peace.

This is weird, Aaron. I don't know what I'm doing. Often I feel numb, or that the ache has buried itself deep in my bones, my soul.

I still find myself masking and the mask depends on my relationship with people. I don't want anyone to think I'm wallowing in misery all the time because I'm not.

Those who have lived (if we do actually live) through child loss get it in a way that others cannot. Even in the pictures I choose for Facebook reflects the different relationships. For my"normal" one, it's you and me grinning at each other after one of your dance festivals. For the medical one, I rest my cheek on your head, close my eyes, and hold onto the sensation of having you in my arms.

Both are true and also masks, reflections, but... well... different, I guess.

It's almost time for the hummingbirds, for the solar lantern, to refresh your garden. Spring is here, summer is coming. New life, sunshine, warmth.

I hope it warms me, too.

I miss you.

I love you.

I'll wear blue tomorrow for you (even though you prefered red).

Love,
Mama

"Because of Him, guilt becomes peace, regret becomes relief, and despair becomes hope,"

President Russell M. Nelson

Cha-cha?

2026-02-27T10:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Aaron,

Step forward, step back. I always prefered quickstep to cha-cha. This has been (and continues to be) hard!

No, not hard like you did it. But again, I think I'm a wimp, and it's hard for me.

I did make it home on Tuesday, the last time I wrote you, but I was a weak as a newborn kitten. I couldn't walk from one end of the house to the other without sitting down to rest. And then standing up again was another battle. Two to three naps (long ones) per day. I was finally able to shower on Thursday with the help of a shower chair but made sure someone knew I was in the shower so they could help if I ran into trouble. I didn't, but I also went right back to bed after.

I was however, doing a little better every day. I've never been sick before where I could tell a difference from day to day. That continued until about Tuesday. Then my (left) shoulder hurt. Wednesday morning I woke up with a left-sided backache that took my breath (yeah, that I'm still struggling with) away. Sigh...

I had quit taking Tylenol and ibuprofen on Sunday. This was totally new. Hauled myself to the doctor who ordered a CT scan stat, and there was good and not as good news. Pneumonia has largely (but not completely) resolved. And I have a small subpulmonic effusion.

Why didn't I remember that all those times you struggled, they'd turn you so your "bad side" was up? Why do I always lay on my left side? Where is the residual pneumonia and effusion? Yep, left side.

So back on pain meds, using a heating pad, watching my sats (which are generally fine) and feeling crummy and exhausted all over again. Filed for short-term disability and still not back to work. Hoping that when the pain is under control, I can start doing some telehealth sessions from home, but we'll see.

I can tell I'm sick because I'm not leaving the house much and I'm not going stir crazy.

How did you do this over and over and over?

On a positive side (I guess?) I'm actually not missing you as much as usual. I dream about you frequently. Apparently, vivid dreams and nightmares can be a side effect of sepsis. I don't think I've had nightmares, maybe because I've already lived one. But I have incredibly realistic dreams of being with you.

A few nights ago, I dreamed you were dancing on my lap in my arms, and then snuggled in close and fell asleep. You would have been about two or three. Then the next night, I dreamed I was trying to put together your vent circuit. I recognized that it had been a while, but muscle memory took over and I got it, and you laughed at me from your wheelchair.

Sometimes I begin to wonder if I'm napping to spend time with you as much as I'm napping to recover.

Oh, I miss you!!

Please keep coming to see me in my dreams...

Love,
Mama

"I think the truly natural things are dreams, which nature can’t touch with decay."

– Bob Dylan

My Turn?

2026-02-17T08:56:00.003-07:00

Okay Kiddo,

You know, I had so much love and admiration for you and your attitude and endurance.

I now have even more, and my experience pales in comparison to your easiest admits.

You handled rough times with so much more grace than I have.

Got sick just over a week ago with a minor cold. It really wasn't a big deal and I started getting better about day 4.

Day 5? Not so much.

Day 6 (Saturday) was worse. My chest felt tight, I had a low grade fever and a nasty, gross cough so off to Urgent Care I went. X-rays (really clean) and exam and the diagnosis was viral infection, probably RSV, and I was given a prescription for two cough meds.

I managed to drag myself home and collapse in bed for a while. I only ate two tiny bites of dinner and went back to bed. I felt absolutely lousy and my bedside table looked like a pharmacist's counter.

By 10 pm my cough turned bloody and I continued with that every 15-20 minutes through the night. When I also started getting sick to my stomach (I know I was swallowing some of the blood) and had major chills and cold sweats, I woke Daddy up and told him I needed to go to the hospital.

Well, they got me back pretty quick (not as quick as you, I wasn't that bad) and ran tests and labs. Labs were totally wonky and CT showed bilateral lower pneunomias. Plus I just could not keep my blood pressures up. Yay for sepsis?? I spent the night in the ICU to stabilize my blood pressures and now I'm on the floor.

The good news is they caught it really early. The bad news is I'm a much better medical parent than patient.

Yuck. I hate being weak, being stuck in bed, the exhaustion that hits so hard just getting up (with help) to go to the bathroom. And the interminable coughing is driving me nuts!

I also learned I find it easier to advocate for others than myself, and it's easier if you aren't tied to tubes/wires in a bed, and I can do it anyway.

Fingers crossed that I get to go home today but I'm under no illusions that I'm all better. But I guess you know what that's like, don't you?

I miss you, kiddo. Thank you for all you put up with so we could have you part of our lives for so long.

Love you so much.

Love,
Mama

"It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves."

~Edmund Hillary

Wishing on Stars

2026-02-09T20:15:00.003-07:00

Aaron's Make a Wish star

Dear Aaron,

It's happening again, without warning.

The waves come: relentless, overwhelming, drowning, shattering.

Last week I read a book with a client, not a new book. I read it years ago and again recently. It's a middle-grades book about a family whose mom has died and that's not even the focus of the story. But the younger boy discovers that his baseball mitt will pull meteorites from the sky. He is out in the middle of the field, in the middle of the night, wishing on the falling stars.

"They're falling for a reason, and I know why. To make the wish come true. To bring Mom back." (Tesla's Attic. p 164)

And I actually got through that just fine. A twinge, but no more. I was at work and I compartmentalize really well, kinda have to. And Danny's Mom doesn't come back.

Then Saturday, Linnaea brought me "Ten Wishing Stars" a bedtime countdown book for toddlers. Each sheep makes a different wish and goes to sleep with their dreams coming true...

And oh, I wanted to wish upon a star that would make mine come true. I could feel Danny's anguish as he pulled chunk after chunk of burning metal and rock from the sky, wishing and hoping and praying that his mom would come back. And if I thought there was a way to reverse time, go back to when you were still here, I'd be out in the middle of a field right now doing the same thing.

I ache so bad right now. Sometimes the pain is just a dull ache in my bones, in my soul, barely there, easily brushed aside. And sometimes a giant fist grabs my own heart and lungs and squeezes until I can hardly breathe.

Sometimes you seem like a dream, a ghost of a lifetime, hidden in the mists. And sometimes as I wake in the morning, I hear the echoes of your machines and forget you're not here anymore. Only silence.

Two more days until the anniversary of that ultrasound, the one where we learned so much about your challenges. Another "before and after." Before I had no idea, couldn't even imagine what was coming. After, some of my innocence had been ripped away. But it only foreshadowed what would come 13 years later.

Oh, I miss you so much.

And even though I know wishing on a star won't bring you back, and for your sake I guess I wouldn't want to, I still wish...

You were done. Your spirit so strong, your body so frail. It held on longer than we had any right to expect or hope for.

I love you.

Love,
Mama

"Love doth make stars to shine

In the gray, grieving skies of care."

~Julia Cooley Altrocchi

My Funny Valentine

2026-02-05T20:42:00.005-07:00

Dear Aaron,

This is weird.

Or maybe I'm weird. (Okay, yeah, let's go with that one. It's not new.)

I don't know. I alternate between lots of energy and gotta keep moving; and what would happen if I just stayed in bed, or went for a drive instead of going to work and didn't tell anyone.

I try to stay busy; I try to stay focused. Or maybe just I'm just avoiding. I mean, I do go to work and I think I do okay there. Some days are better than others. I even mopped the floors yesterday. I try to be a good mom to adult kids. I mean, you're the only one who's not an adult, and you don't really need me anymore. They don't either, not really, but I do what I can to make their lives easier.

But I still need you.

How is that fair??

Your Valentines are out at the cemetery (there's been some drama with that, but I'm not ready to get into it) and they look beautiful. But still, stark and somehow sterile, at least in comparison to the joy you brought to life.

It's dark and I miss you. Nights are still the hardest and I suspect they always will be.

I miss you, my funny Valentine.

Love,
Mama

“A beautiful echo whispers into grief’s chill…you loved. you loved. you loved.”

~ Angie Weiland-Crosby

I've Changed . . .

2026-01-26T20:35:00.001-07:00

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

2026-01-16T19:53:00.000-07:00

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...

2026-01-10T20:07:00.000-07:00

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

Goodbye 2025

2025-12-31T22:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Aaron,

2025 ends tonight. Another year that didn't know you, at least in the flesh.

The first year that didn't know Gramma here.

I spent the last week trying (and succeeding) in staying busy, distracted, avoiding introspection. I guess it worked. I didn't cry, much. But my soul still feels the heaviness, the emptiness that missing you entails. And tonight is quiet.

2025 was the year I passed my boards and became fully licensed. It was also the year I tried to remember I couldn't call Mom when I needed to hear her voice. It was a year of growth, of trials, of supporting loved ones through their own heartache and heartbreak, as well as other medical moms and friends.

It was also a year of celebration: a wedding and grandbabies on the way.

I learned a lot about myself, some things good, some things I really need to work on.

This time of year is so dark, but the light is slowly returning (although it's definitely getting colder still). It's quiet at home, most of the time. I've slowed down. The things I planned for the holiday break mostly didn't happen, but other good things did. Time with family, with grandchildren. A road trip to see the new baby and soak in her sweet spirit.

This morning as I was returning from an errand, an instrumental version of "He Is Risen" was playing just as the sun was rising. Two seagulls floated on updrafts above the road. The crystal angel on my rearview mirror caught the sunbeams and reflected rainbows. As I went to the cemetery to clean up the Christmas decorations, I caught your smile. My heart ached, but also felt peace.

I miss you so dreadfully, and I know where you are. A new favorite Christmas song is "The Sweetest Gift" and talks about how hard it is without you, but knowing you're with the Son of God, the Prince of Peace is the sweetest gift I could have. Both you and Gramma, missing you both, but knowing where you are gives me some solace.

I don't know what 2026 will bring. Part of moving forward in time is feeling stretched beyond my ability. Part of me is stuck back on December 23, 2023 and then part moves forward. Someone recently said that you don't survive the loss of a child. The person you were before dies; you are not the same, and I feel that. The person I was two years and a week ago is gone; her innocence, her naivete, her invincibility does not exist anymore. But maybe, just maybe, that's okay. Maybe the growth, though painful, is part of the refining process I need to become more like you, and like my Savior.

Merry Christmas, my sweet boy. Merry Christmas, Mama. Please stay close through the next year. I miss you both so much.

Love,

Mama/Becky

I’m not going to lie.

Christmas really hurts this time

Cause you’re not here to celebrate with me.

Tears fill my eyes.

And memories flood my mind,

As I place your ornament upon our tree.

Although this year I have a broken heart,

It gives me hope and joy as I remember where you are.

You’re with the Son of God.

You’re with the Prince of Peace.

You’re with the one we’re celebrating

And that thought amazes me.

Sometimes I still break down,

Grieving that we’re apart, but

But the sweetest gift is knowing where you are.

You’re with the Son of God.

Craig Aven

You Left Your Mark

2025-12-22T21:08:00.002-07:00

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

2025-12-15T19:58:00.004-07:00

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

2025-12-07T20:14:00.001-07:00

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

Gratitude and Grief, Love and Loss

2025-11-28T20:46:00.004-07:00

Dear Aaron,

Thanksgiving yesterday, my first here at home without you.

Last year Gramma asked everyone to come, so we did. When I walked in, I didn't recognize her. She had deteriorated so much. But she said she was feeling so much better; she planned to see this year, too. One year ago today. She was gone not even two weeks later.

I worked to get Christmas things up earlier this year. Today was just my poinsettia arrangements and the Treepee. I've stayed busy, moving, distracting myself. And yesterday was chaotic, noisy, and amazing. Matthew & Kensey, Michael and you were missing, but everyone else was here, and here most of the day. No time to think.

But in the quiet moments, I find myself remembering. Grateful for you, and missing you terribly.

Here we are again.

Friday into Saturday.

101 times since that night, your last night here, your first day in heaven.

Tomorrow I will go to your grave and decorate it for Christmas. I can't tell you how much I wish I was still choosing Christmas presents for you, juggling medication and nursing schedules. How strange it sometimes still seems to not be, and how painful the realization that those don't seem quite real anymore. They fade, almost like a dream. And then I'm hit with the gut punch agin.

I miss you, and I miss Gramma.

I don't even have words for it.

A friend who also recently lost her mother put this up:

I was reasonably prepared for you to die.

I was not prepared for you to be gone.

And I think that's it. You dying was painful beyond words I have. Excruciating, gut wrenching, heart breaking to the point that every breath physically hurt. But there were things to do and tasks to perform, so amid the tears (and wails and gasping sobs), I did them.

And now, I'm left with "gone." And that won't change.

So I'm limping forward, wearing my mask, and even doing pretty well most of the time.

But Friday into Saturday . . .

November into December . . .

Thanksgiving into Christmas . . . . . . .

I love you. I miss you.

Love,
Mama

“I'm just jealous of the angels

Around the throne tonight”

Donna Taggart

Holiday Time

2025-11-24T20:12:00.002-07:00

Dear Aaron,

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

“Joy and pain, they are but two arteries of the one heart that pumps through all those who don't numb themselves to really living.”

Ann Voskamp

99 Weeks... Forever to Go

2025-11-14T19:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Aaron,

Somehow things seem darker than I remember last year.

Bleaker.

Quieter...

I went by the cemetery and while it was actually earlier than I went last year (I get off an hour earlier because I also start earlier) the light seemed dimmer, the sky blacker.

I went to Arizona to spend Grampa's birthday with him, and it was good.

And hard.

The house seems so different without Gramma. He told stories, many I've heard, some I hadn't. I told stories, too. Ones that featured him that he doesn't remember anymore.

We sat outside and watched a yellow butterfly flitting through the bushes and flowers. It seemed to stay for a long time. Were you and Gramma close by listening too?

Back here, the trees have lost their leaves; they crunch under foot and gardens seem bare. We may see snow next week. Winter is trying to force her way in. November was hard for you. Surgeries, pneumonias, and then storming. We spent one Thanksgiving in the hospital and came close a few other times. I miss those days because it means you were still with us.

It's been 99 weeks now since I last told you goodnight and kissed your warm cheek. And it really was warm; you were fevering again.

Sometimes I close my eyes and I'm right back there, in that PICU room with the little Christmas tree above your head, the banks of IVs, and the machines with their whooshes and beeps.

And sometimes I strain just to remember your smile, your laugh, your wiggles and moves.

Tonight is hitting hard.

Will my brain always count the weeks? It's been almost two years. It seems so odd to have another year that never knew you coming to a close.

Candles flicker on my shelves, lighting dark corners. Your memories light the darkness I feel, but like the candles, the flame is small and sometimes feels like the darkness will overwhelm them.

I miss you.

Love,
Mama

The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow