I couldn’t keep my son alive, but I keep as much of him alive as I can. As I write this, it has been six years, two months, and 23 days since our oldest son died. Actually, 2,274 days, 13 hours, and 43 minutes. 54,589 hours. The grief ball hit my button today. It was the day each month I log into his Google Voice and send a message to myself to keep a little traffic going. I fear losing that—losing the three seconds of recording on his greeting where he said his name. After he died, I managed to get into his Google accounts and his other social media accounts. I converted his Facebook into a memorial account to protect it from spamming while keeping it up, for his friends and for me.
When Grief Steals Your Breath
When Grief Steals Your Breath
When Grief Steals Your Breath
I couldn’t keep my son alive, but I keep as much of him alive as I can. As I write this, it has been six years, two months, and 23 days since our oldest son died. Actually, 2,274 days, 13 hours, and 43 minutes. 54,589 hours. The grief ball hit my button today. It was the day each month I log into his Google Voice and send a message to myself to keep a little traffic going. I fear losing that—losing the three seconds of recording on his greeting where he said his name. After he died, I managed to get into his Google accounts and his other social media accounts. I converted his Facebook into a memorial account to protect it from spamming while keeping it up, for his friends and for me.