Losing Javi

Last week, the unthinkable happened. Friends of ours lost their young son in a choking accident. He was 23 months old and was giggling with his sister when a carrot lodged in his throat. The obstruction couldn’t be removed in time and Javi’s short time with us came to an abrupt end. 

Javi’s celebration of life was yesterday at a church in the neighborhood. At the service, New Orleans style jazz musicians dictated our emotions with their songs. Some upbeat and celebratory, others reminding me of a Dixieland funeral procession. The pastor offered words of comfort. She said Javi’s spirit lives on in our memories of him. She reminded us that Javi was able to save three people’s lives through his organ donations. His heart beats on in the body of another child. Amazing Grace filled the church during communion, overwhelming us with sadness. Javi’s mom sobbed at the front of the church.

Sidewalks in front of the church decorated to honor Javi. 

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried over these past ten days. I keep referring back to Javi's GoFundMe page to read the story and look at photos again and again. Some days have been harder than others. One day, I cried publicly at work. The next, I tried to not think of Javi as much in an effort to be more productive. As a result, an odd thing happened. I missed the grief. In my grief, I was a better person. More appreciative. More patient. More present. Sure it was more painful, but grief is meant to be felt, not ignored. I expect it will fade with time, but I am in no hurry to give up this grief and the awareness that comes along with it. Awareness of the things that matter and the things that truly don’t. 

Last night, after we put the kids to bed, Chris asked me, “Why is this so hard? I didn’t know Javi well, but it’s so, so hard.” I’ve wondered the same over these last ten days as I’ve struggled with emotions. Here’s what I’ve come up with: 

It’s hard because he was a child. 

It’s hard because he must’ve been so scared. 

It’s hard because we have children. 

It’s hard because our family dynamic is the same as theirs – we also have three children. 

It’s hard because this is real life. Not someone else’s friends, but our friends. People we know. Who live in our neighborhood. Who have been to our house and who have played with our kids. 

It’s hard because they’re just like us. 

It’s hard because Javi and our boys resemble each other – brown eyes and hair, big cheeks, and super adorable. 

It’s hard because this shouldn’t have happened. 

How could it be anything but hard?

I cannot imagine the grief and sorrow Javi’s parents and sisters are enduring right now. It’s surprisingly difficult for me and I am an outsider. They are living it. Yesterday, I noticed how strong they were to welcome and receive friends and family at church. Everybody wants to offer support and comfort knowing full well there is no cheering up from this. There is only moving on. 

In honor of Javi, blue balloons and ribbons rose in tribute throughout community. I noticed them on the way home from swimming lessons yesterday and for the umpteenth time since Javi’s death, swelled with emotion. He touched so many people. Looking forward, I don’t think I’ll ever see a blue balloon and not think of sweet Javi.