Dear Myles,
Right now you're resting peacefully in the sun room. You've rested there 1,000 times before, but this time it's different.
For the past two days I have mourned the possibility of losing you. I cried while building PowerPoint presentations. I sobbed on my commute to work. I swallowed down more lumps in my throat than I can count. I suffered through conversations about the weather and other things that don't matter all while preparing to lose you.
This morning Jack drew you three pictures. On the last picture, in his best 3-year-old penmanship, he wrote: "Get Well Soon, Myles."
And suddenly, this indestructible hope of a 3-year-old hit me.
Through our 13 years together, you never waivered. Your love for me flowed steadily and consistently like a river through the middle of the woods. You were present when we got engaged, married. When we brought our sweet baby boy home, you greeted us with your signature happy dance. You never gave up on me when I traveled after college sometimes for months at a time. You were always there ready to accept me just as I was.
And that's why I'm not giving up on you.
Sweet boy, if you want to fight, I'll fight with you. If you want to go, I will support that too. I'm here to wrap my 33-year-old arms around your 13-year-old body and hold you when you're anxious. I'm here clean up your accidents, feed you by hand and take this one day at a time with you.
And if you decide you're ready, I'll be ready too.
But if you want to fight, I'll fight with you.
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