At 12:44am, in the middle of the night, on this date 1 year ago, I was holding your mother's hand, and hearing you cry for the first time. It wasn't much, but it was a cry, and considering the fact that the doctors weren't sure if you'd be able to breathe much, if at all with your tiny, imperfect lungs, that cry meant the world to us.
Over the next several hours, your mother and I tried to sleep as best we could in unfamiliar, uncomfortable hospital beds and fold-out chairs. Your grandparents went home, or back to our apartment to try to sleep as well. Everyone we knew was praying for you.
Around noon, this time last year, I came to visit you in the NICU for the first time. You were so small, but I remember you being feisty and active, even at one day old, and 14 weeks too early. The nurse asked if I'd like to touch you. Of course I would. I couldn't believe they'd let me: surely my clumsy hand would break you, or knock a tube loose. But I didn't hurt you, thankfully. I put my hand on your arm, afraid for all my life that I'd do something wrong and the nurse would pull me away. But I didn't, and she didn't.
It was in that moment that I knew that you knew who I was. You put your tiny hand on mine, almost instinctively. There is a similar moment, on the day you died, when you squeezed my finger twice, immediately after I said "I love you, Aaron" for the final time. In those two moments I know we were together, father and son, and I treasure those moments dearly.
I took some pictures of you once I pulled my hand away. Your mother couldn't come visit you yet - she needed more bed rest - so to assuage my guilt at seeing you before she could, I took pictures with our digital camera and took them back to her. I feel so sorry that the first good look your mommy had of you was on the tiny display of a digital camera, but you know your mommy would have been right by your bedside if she could have been.
After that, you had a lot of visitors that day - grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins - they all wanted a peek at the little miracle that had rushed so much to get into our lives.
We're having a party of sorts for you today, Aaron. Your mommy and I are coming to visit you at the memorial garden in a few minutes, and then we're going to be preparing for a big cookout here at our house. Everyone who is walking in your honor tomorrow is coming, and we're going to celebrate what today is, and what tomorrow will be.
Thank you for being so perfect for the short time you were here, Aaron. I love you, and I always will.
Dad
Over the next several hours, your mother and I tried to sleep as best we could in unfamiliar, uncomfortable hospital beds and fold-out chairs. Your grandparents went home, or back to our apartment to try to sleep as well. Everyone we knew was praying for you.
Around noon, this time last year, I came to visit you in the NICU for the first time. You were so small, but I remember you being feisty and active, even at one day old, and 14 weeks too early. The nurse asked if I'd like to touch you. Of course I would. I couldn't believe they'd let me: surely my clumsy hand would break you, or knock a tube loose. But I didn't hurt you, thankfully. I put my hand on your arm, afraid for all my life that I'd do something wrong and the nurse would pull me away. But I didn't, and she didn't.
It was in that moment that I knew that you knew who I was. You put your tiny hand on mine, almost instinctively. There is a similar moment, on the day you died, when you squeezed my finger twice, immediately after I said "I love you, Aaron" for the final time. In those two moments I know we were together, father and son, and I treasure those moments dearly.
I took some pictures of you once I pulled my hand away. Your mother couldn't come visit you yet - she needed more bed rest - so to assuage my guilt at seeing you before she could, I took pictures with our digital camera and took them back to her. I feel so sorry that the first good look your mommy had of you was on the tiny display of a digital camera, but you know your mommy would have been right by your bedside if she could have been.
After that, you had a lot of visitors that day - grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins - they all wanted a peek at the little miracle that had rushed so much to get into our lives.
We're having a party of sorts for you today, Aaron. Your mommy and I are coming to visit you at the memorial garden in a few minutes, and then we're going to be preparing for a big cookout here at our house. Everyone who is walking in your honor tomorrow is coming, and we're going to celebrate what today is, and what tomorrow will be.
Thank you for being so perfect for the short time you were here, Aaron. I love you, and I always will.
Dad
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