Yesterday I was walking our dog around the neighborhood when I witnessed a kid (about 12-years-old) barreling down the middle of the street on his e-scooter, looking at his phone, NOT WEARING A HELMET.
He crashed out and I was his first responder.
It was traumatic.
Thankfully, he should be okay, but I’ve been spinning out since. Here’s what I can’t get over: The space between life going great and tragedy is so unbelievably thin. Most of the time we don’t notice it, thank God, so we're able to move through our days getting things done and experiencing joy. But it’s times like these that remind me, the people I hold most dear in this world are one accident, one diagnosis, one fluke, one momentary lapse of judgment away from being gone.
This Thursday marks the 13th anniversary of Noah dying.
I have an intimate understanding of what it means to have your life completely turned upside down and the earth under your feet, which held you steady for 31 years, abruptly stripped…. in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re getting the nursery ready, the car seat installed and preparing for a lifetime of happiness and the next minute you’re sitting in an empty house with a heart broken in ways you didn’t know possible.
My pregnancy with Noah was healthy. He had a perfect birth and his first 24 hours on this Earth were pure bliss. Then it was some difficulty breathing, no big deal we were told. A few hours later, an ambulance ride to the local children’s hospital and pretty quickly put on full life support. Two weeks went by watching our baby get sicker and sicker. Finally, after a surgery to biopsy a section of his lungs, they discovered he had Alveolar Capillary Dysplasia - a genetic condition he would not recover from. We said good-bye to him that night.
We were told on the first night we arrived at the children’s hospital that ACD was a possibility, but that the chances were ridiculously low, like 2% or something.
2%.
So, when your child dies from a near impossible condition the world becomes incredibly unsafe. Now anything is possible. There’s no longer the privilege of living a life where “that’ll never happen to me.” The space between fine and tragedy is paper thin, even translucent.
Because of my experience losing Noah, and the delightful fact that I’m an Enneagram 6, it’s hard for me not to constantly live in worst-case scenarios. My senses are heightened. Always. It’s terrifying and exhausting.
It’s also beautiful. Looking at the world without the rose-colored glasses somehow illuminates the miracle of the whole thing. The miracle of life. The miracle that we’re all even here at all.
A rainbow that appears through the spray of a hose.
A rose bud about to bloom after its bush laid dormant for years.
The unexpected hug from your too-cool-for-school middle schooler.
Love is pure magic. It’s heart-breaking, and unfair, and scary. But it’s oh so worth it.
