It's a hardcover, full-color book version of my Facebook activity.
From November 7, 2013 until December 31, 2013.
The last 37 days of Sam's life.
And the aftermath. (A total of 54 days.)
It's 167 pages.
|All the posts from November 13, after we found about the relapse. This is one of many pages from this day.|
|Posts and pics from December 8, the day we came back from the Make-A-Wish Trip to Orlando.|
I couldn't keep up, and I wanted a less-ephemeral record of the messages and posts and pictures and "status updates." Now I have all of your words, and I can read and re-read, I can share as the kids get older and Facebook becomes passé.
I remember back at the beginning of this whole thing, when Sam would talk about the people who "live in your phone, Mom." How could he even fathom the networks of people that Michael and I know, from so many parts of our lives, and the way that they all intersected in the interwebs to bring us comfort and connection? How could a little boy who couldn't, at the time, even read a book, understand how we could read email after email and derive comfort from distant and sometimes-never-met-in-person friends?
I remember trying so hard to explain it to him.
I remember how you all helped so much, filling his room with cards and letters and photographs of yourselves dressed in superhero costumes. Did I ever thank you enough? Thank you.
|Sam's first room -- E571|
I know how much that meant to him and to all of us.
I'm the keeper of our family history. I'm the teller of our family's stories.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't so keenly and painfully aware of "last year on this date" or "two years ago on this date." Sometimes I wonder, if I hadn't kept such careful records, such detailed logs of our daily existence...would each day feel less weight, less pain? Would it hurt any less?
I'm guessing the answer is no.