It was one year ago this week that our lives were irreversably changed. I have no way of knowing what February will come to mean to Jack, in the narrative that he will one day stitch together for himself. To me, it has deep traumatic resonances that have not subsided. I sometimes find myself confronted with very intrusive, vivid memories of the PICU when I least expect it. Yet also, the experience and the full-sight-and-sound memories of it are an odd source of strength. What a tremendous perspective shift the whole experience has been. You learn not to sweat the little stuff when you can smile and say that despite an uncertain future, I still have a family of four.
One year after he lay dazed in PICU, clinging to life, Jack grins toothily as he picks out his proud, wobbly steps into our arms.
What could possibly be better? Jack is walking.