Grief (FB Post)

Grief.

Here is how grief looks in my day, how it ebbs and flows and pierces and punches. 

Waking up is painful. Thankfully, I dream of Levi- he is always in my subconscious, so when I wake up, I’m not startled that he isn’t here. But, the mornings are always difficult, because each day is one away from when I last saw him, carried him, ran my fingers through his hair and commented “how do you need a haircut, AGAIN, buddy?” The day promises (threatens?) to bring new adventures that he will never know. Mornings are hard. 

Most of the day is spent, well, living. We have been blessed beyond measure to have so much family support and time with them. We did “normal” vacation things last week, like go out to eat and wash sand off of our feet, but they felt anything but normal. And, there has still been laundry and my girls fighting and one of them is always hungry. So, days are filled mostly with... just... life. But, the entire time, I’m hearing his commentary in my head, reaching into the backseat of the car to grab his shoes, frantically grabbing for him in parking lots, automatically going toward the bag of M&M’s for him when we stop at the gas station, putting toothpaste on his toothbrush at bedtime. But, he isn’t there.

Sometimes, several times a day, I forget. I have a few seconds, maybe even moments, of a carefree life, of someone who didn’t lose her son. We played laser tag, and I was genuinely engaged, determined to beat my husband’s point total (successful). I unloaded the dishwasher, lost in my own thoughts about coffee mugs. I poured cereal for my girls. All of these moments where I just forgot about it, forgot that my son’s life ended so abruptly. 

These are the worst moments, because the price I pay for that forgetting is steep. It’s a price nobody ever wants to pay: I have to remember. It is physical, like I’m actually losing oxygen myself. I remember it in a flash, like when a character in a movie sees his life flash before his eyes right before death. It’s a reel, a split second reel of images: seeing Levi, in his crab hunting shirt, at the bottom of the pool/ me sprinting down the stairs, screaming / our friends around him, desperate / the sounds of the helicopter / the hospital / telling the girls. Except then the flashing scenes end, and unlike the character in the movie, I am still alive. But, my son is not. 

This is where I am at this stage of grief- barely even two weeks into this journey. I know nothing about grief. I just know I’m still breathing, even though it’s hard. I know that, even though this crab-hunting shirt was part of the worst, most unimaginable night of my life, it still brings me joy to see pictures of him in it. These were from one year ago- he could not have been more proud to have this shirt and finally be big enough to go. Part of me wants to never see this color, again, to delete these pictures. But, when I see them, my initial emotion is joy. The joy does immediately become heartache and devastation. But, how can I look at these pictures, brimming with love, and not want to keep looking? 

For now, for this moment, I’m finding comfort in sharing words and photos. Next week, maybe even in the next moment, I won’t. I can’t predict tomorrow or next month or year. But, I hope when I look at these pictures of him in this shirt that I always have that feeling, however fleeting, of a tiny bit of joy. His little precious face.