Leaving the hospital I thought we were leaving it all behind. I was conflicted. This was home now. The last place Thao said my name. The last place I held my dying boy. The last place we gathered. And yet, part of me was ready for normal again. To leave the death and dying and sickness and meetings and doctors behind. To exchange the sterile smell of the hospital for home.
Here we are now, eleven years in to this new normal. Starting to get used to the ebb and flow of grief and loss when I realize our journey didn’t die with him.
And there are other families in the midst of the dark, scary hospital nights. There are families waiting for a diagnosis, praying for answers, wondering what’s next. Will they come home with their precious child? Will the battle be long? Will we win? Will we survive?
I asked the same questions and got the same answers. I prayed the same prayers and begged and cried and bargained, too. I don’t know how it ends for you. Recovery doesn’t always mean healed. And death doesn’t always mean the end. Thao’s legacy lives on within us because we let it. We have not forgotten him. Our lives were abruptly and unfairly disrupted. The course changed, the plan altered. We are changed. But the Lord is the same. He is steadfast and sure. He is faithful. He was. He is. And will always be.