Tyler is gone

In all honesty, not a day goes by that there isn't something that reminds me how truly blessed we are. Dad will do something new, or we'll remember those first days in the hospital... Every good conversation he and I have is always a reminder of the doctor who told us 11 months ago that I would never be able to have one with my daddy again.

But a couple of days ago as I was waiting for Dad to come out of a therapy appointment I had a fresh reminder that cut me to the core. It was a quiet day in the therapy office, so I was alone for a bit. Then a couple came in, healthy looking, maybe in their forties. I assumed they were picking up a loved one. We sat together in silence until Dad's speech pathologist came by. The couple stopped her and began asking her some questions. As I eavesdropped, it became clear that they had a son who had undergone some kind of neurological trauma. They talked with the SP about different courses of treatments, and things that would help his memory (he clearly had some major deficits in communication and thinking). The husband's voice took on a light pleading tone as he asked the SP if she thought, at the son's appointment the day before, "he seemed a little better...sometimes he has good days..."

The SP was affirming, but not encouraging. It was clear the couple could not expect much mental recovery for their son. They were very understanding. And the SP left them with a smile. Afterwards, the couple continued to talk with each other and encourage each other that they might try a therapy they had asked the SP about, because it wouldn't hurt and it might do some good. They seemed very at peace and comfortable -- perhaps they had had a lot of time to come to terms with what had happened -- which is why I was surprised when, after the husband reiterated that their son had his good days, the wife folded herself over, laying her head on her knees, and said firmly but flatly, "Tyler is gone."

Her tone and her posture made me think that this was not grief, but rather the shell of grief. That she had moved past the initial trauma and was safely in matter-of-fact "dealing with it" portion of the family's life post-trauma, and yet... There are always those moments where it hits you like a fist through all the busyness and dailiness of recovery that there is a very distinct line between before and after.

The wife quickly sat up and the couple continued their conversation. Their attention turned to me and we chatted for a moment before Dad came out of his appointment. They were back to okay again.

But I told Dad about it when we got in the car and began to sob as I reminded us both of how blessed, blessed, blessed we are. I am daily grateful that no matter how difficult it is to get Dad's body to do what he wants it to do, he is himself. Yes, we have our grief over the difference between before and after, but Dad is not "gone." Words cannot express my gratitude.

And I cannot stop praying for Tyler and his parents.