Three years ago today was the last time I laid eyes upon or touched my beautiful boy’s body.
I’ve read posts I wrote on that day in the hours before I was to set foot in the funeral home. Posts that speak of the raw pain. The vomit churning inside me at the thought.
I keenly remember not being able to move and leave the room after people left until his sister Omri broke down and I had to escort her out and hold her.
Leaving Leif there. To be taken to be cremated.
He was dressed in his daddy Mason’s suit on this day.
Laid on an adorned table because he was so big for his age.
Being in that room, the memory of it it seems as though I was there only minutes. When in fact it was hours and hours.
I don’t remember many of the faces now. Everyone glossed over from the aftereffects of the brain being in shock.
I’ve had to ask people how I conducted myself that day. If I looked like the crazed mom in movies clamoring and climbing and weeping over her son’s body. They all tell me no. I was fairly composed.
I’m sure shock does that to us in trauma for sure.
I read posts I wrote about wanting to die so I could be with him. About having to will myself to breathe. A post begging god to make the pain stop.
It overcame my body, as if the pain was all that remained. It’s a pain that has no words in any language to even begin to touch it.
Shattered. Like broken glass.
Every single piece of me.
I don’t recall the hours after.
The evening of.
Except for the baggie of his hair my family cut after I was pulled away from the room.
Out the door, into the drizzle, and put into the car with my daughter. It all fades to black from then on.
Bits and pieces if the coming days and weeks to follow.
I’m amazed now how we, as humans, can navigate those waters to any degree.
Some don’t. Some go.
Some stay but remain stuck within the trauma space, the pain body forevermore. It isn’t hard to do. I give Leif credit for my healing that started to come three months after.
That first day I realized he wasn’t really gone at all despite the fact that I could no longer touch him. See him. Hear him through my five basic human senses.
Now, today, three years later, I can walk into this space, read these posts, and shed tears for the experience that shaped who we now are.
Tears of sorrow that we had to live it.
Tears of gratitude for the awe-inspired experience of healing, growth, and expansion that has taken place.
Tears of gratitude for the gifts and knowledge this experience bestowed on me and on my daughter.
What I now know and give gratitude for is that Leif never really left. He dropped his body because he truly is larger than life. He is loud in a new way.
I do get to see him, glimpses, glances, and meetings when I can get into the space that resides somewhere between here and there in the door of my now known sixth sense.
I’ve learned to speak a new language. The language of spirit communication. Of signs and synchronicities.
Of non-random occurrences and the fact that coincidence doesn’t exist in my world any longer.
A language that flows through loving presence and the continued relationship with my son.
Not forever 16 – as we celebrate his 20th birthday in five short days.
This day three years ago, I touched his body for the last time this go around.
But it isn’t forever. Our forever still goes on.
Life, after life, after life that we embrace each others’ presence and learn and grow and ascend.
Together. Eternally. Cycle after cycle.
I am grateful for my life. For all my experience and pain. Because Leif gave me rebirth the day he dropped his body. He baby-stepped me into my full power and remembering what I came here to this planet to do, beside him, with him.
There is healing after child loss. It’s slow. It’s painful. It’s shedding layers you never knew even existed. But it is there.
Deep inside the mysterious universe and the love that is at its core. Love truly never dies.
It’s a conduit for a new relationship. New language. New memories and new experiences together as we learn to transcend the five senses of this physical realm.
And for that, my heart swells. And I am grateful.
Never give up. Keep going. You’ve got this mom, he tells me every single day.
From that day three years ago – a journal entry:
His hair was so soft today. I ran my fingers thru your hair over and over knowing it would be my last day to do it in this life. I traced my fingers over ur full eye lashes. I kissed ur lifeless lips. Laid my head on ur chest. I wanted to stay there, in that room, forever with u. Not letting u leave me never to return. I pray I find my peace in this someday. I pray for answers. My heart is no longer whole. My soul has deflated. I can’t find u. I can’t see u again and today, I feel like I died too. Please surround me son. Embrace me with ur spirit. Watch over ur sister as her warrior heart is broken. We are No longer whole. I love u my beautiful bold angel boy.
Keep going. Always.
They are near.