Documenting (FB Post)

I’ve always loved words. Even Dumbledore told us that words are our most inexhaustible source of magic. It makes sense that in this darkest, most unimaginable time in my life, I’m finding comfort in words. If you have reached out to me, in a message or comment, or through a friend or family member, please know that I find comfort in your words. People are so afraid, that they won’t know what to say. But, here is what I have learned: nothing is wrong when it comes from a genuine place of the heart. If you are even slightly afraid of saying the wrong thing, then you haven’t. Give me all of the words. Say Levi’s name. I promise nothing is going to make me more sad than I already am. Don’t second guess your words to me. 

As my friends all know, documenting is also vital to my life, particularly remembering and reflecting and celebrating life through WORDS. Each of my three babies has a notebook with notes and letters written to them. I have Levi’s book- recorded snippets and moments of time and love. Now, it has turned into my “memory journal,” as I frantically write down anything that pops into my head from his last days or any tiny tidbits about his personality that I never recorded. The reality that there will be nothing new to document is crushing. 

I know people who don’t know me well are probably trying to figure out why I don’t have a filter, why I’m grieving so publicly. But, I just believe in a shared human experience, and to me, we are all connected by language, by the ability to communicate with each other, by words. 

This is Levi’s book. The spine says “Our Precious Boy, Levi.” I allowed myself to glance in it today, just to read one entry, because I know that’s all my heart can bear right now. I am so grateful for these recorded memories- I chose a regular entry: January 2017, when he was 2 years old. On this day, I wrote how Levi said “Apple” for the first time, chest puffed out, accepting of accolades from his adoring big sisters. He must have said “apple” twenty more times that day just to be able to shrug off the cheers from Lily and Reese and nonchalantly walk away, secretly thrilled with himself. And, I had forgotten (but now remember) when, as a 1 year old, he grabbed the Oreo package from the pantry, walked RIGHT PAST ME, climbed up the stairs to Lily’s room, and handed them to her, because he knew she would never turn him down. He simply said “ILLY?” She said “you want me to open these? Sure, Buddy.” 

These memories of a happy childhood bring me such comfort. But, my heart also shatters for that Mom, the one I was before June 10: the mom who was writing in the journal, after rocking my baby and tucking him into his crib, checking every night to make sure he was still breathing. I was the mom who thought I was recording in the journal for me to read when he was a teenager and headed to prom or when he left for college or got married. How could that Mom ever have known she would have to plan a funeral for him when he was only 3 years old?

I WANT to sink. Grief is so much more physical than I expected. Hearts can ACTUALLY break, it seems. Just reading the one entry was physically hard to read. But, I read it, and I’m still breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. 

I woke up this morning, and he was still not here. How is he STILL gone? Mornings are horrific every day. But , every time, if it meant three years of being Levi’s mommy, I would choose this pain.