Open Letter to Armand

I miss my Pu.

I know you’re still here, but I already feel like I’m losing you.

I miss our cookie night, when you’d steal a few from me, hide a few more, and happily suck

Our first Daddy-Time picture

down some milk or Instant Breakfast, and munch on a seemingly endless supply of crumblies long after I’d finished my share.  Now you’re not allowed to munch on those, and you can’t share my milk anymore.  Arrowroot cookies and hemp milk doesn’t have the same ring as Soft Batch Chocolate Chip and Vanilla Milkshake.

I miss going for walks, rain or shine, because it was your favorite thing to do.  You’d grab your sweatshirt or your jacket and bring it to me, your way of saying “hey, Dad, let’s go outside”.  Didn’t matter that you still had your PJ’s on.  You’d even fight with me a bit when I wanted to get you dressed first — “Dad, I wanna go for a walk nooo-ooow”.  Now you won’t even go a step or two before turning around to give me the “pick me up now, Dad” look.  I try to make myself think you just wanna be close to me, but I know it’s because you just can’t do it anymore.

I miss your mischievous laugh when you knew you were doing something you shouldn’t.  Messing around with the surround sound speakers, or pulling books off of the shelf, or tugging at your hearing aids — it always came coupled with a little “hehehehe”.  There was no harm in what you were doing, it was just fun and getting attention, “Hey look what I can do!”.  Now, I haven’t seen you anywhere near my bookshelf in almost a year.  Are you bored of books now?

I miss your curiosity.  You used to get into anything and everything, I almost felt like you’d grow up to be an engineer and just fiddle with stuff all day to see how it worked.  “What’s this button do?”  “Hey, Dad, what’s that?”  “What are you keeping back here that I can pick up?”  “What happens if I do this?”  Now it seems you just look around for something to put in your mouth.

But one thing I miss most of all  is the look of joy you gave me when I’d pick you up from Grandpa’s.  I’d sneak in, and once you saw me, you’d get a huge smile, laugh, and scramble down from Grandpa’s lap to try to make it over to give me a huge hug, probably a kiss, and pat my back as if to say “Homeward, Jeeves”.  There might be a tumble on the way over, but you figured out a way and made it over, arms outstretched, sometimes a look of concentration as you measured your steps.  Now it seems like most times I come to get you, you barely notice or look at me like “Yep, there’s a guy here, I think he might be bringing me dinner.  I also hope he holds me upside down, I enjoy that.  Ooooh something shiny.”  And then you sort just look around or stare off, having one of your “talks with God” as Grandpa calls it.

We do still have our fun.  I can’t tell you how much joy your smile still can bring, especially if it’s coupled with one of your patented giggles of random.  Those giggles have been fewer and fewer lately, so maybe they are more surprising or more treasured.  And our morning snuggles make me feel needed, like you’re just content for a while.  We still play, you just need more help now.  We still rumble, I just win more often now.  You still love your bath time, you’re just not as playfully active now.  We still have fun eating together, I just can’t sneak you fast food and doughnuts anymore (don’t tell your mom we used to do that, though).

One thing that hasn’t changed, and won’t change, is how proud I am of you.  People tell me and your mommy that they think about what we’re going through, but none of that compares with what you yourself are going through.  I don’t have to get needles stuck in me, or take daily doses of medicine (and deal with the side effects), or get frustrated at things I can’t do anymore.  I still get to eat doughnuts, just not when you’re around.  I’m sorry you had to hear that, please don’t be angry, I’m just being honest here.  I still love to talk about you, though, to anyone and everyone who will listen.

I never thought I was cut out to be a Dad.  Heck, I’m still not really sure about myself.  But I’m doing the best I can, and having you makes that a bit easier.  You’re a pretty awesome little dude, and there’s still lots of things I want to teach you.  But I need you to keep fighting, just a little more.  Mommy and I are doing everything we can, I just need you to go into Beast Mode and get a little stronger for me, okay?  Don’t give up on yourself, you’ve always been a little fighter, and I’ll try not to give up on myself, deal?

Then we can have Cookie And Milkshake night again.


P.S.  I just realized I haven’t called you Kuato in a long time?  If I started that again, would it help?

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3 Responses to Open Letter to Armand

  1. Tommy says:

    Tim I know I cannot fathom what you are experiencing right now. I’m sitting here trying to hide my tears from my family because this just sucks so bad. I feel guilty that I havent been in touch more with you to know what was going on. For that I am extremely sorry.

    And just so you know. I think you’re one of the best damn fathers I have ever known.

  2. Tiffany says:

    I am right there with Tommy. I agree with everything he said. I so badly wish for something that will help your beautiful boy.

  3. Anonymous says:

    I love this so much. It definitely brought tears to my eyes. I know that you are going through a lot lately. I want you to know that you are not alone. Let the people who want to be there for you, do just that. By the way… You are doing an incredible job as a father and don’t ever second guess that.

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