We are beginning to remember “One year ago” details. For most of the first six weeks of Harrison’s fight we were in a constant fog, so many details are almost lost from our collective memory.
But a year ago today (it was a Tuesday), we had the first conversation with Dr. Weston about a potential bone marrow transplant for Harrison. We knew he was not well, but at the time we didn’t know just how unlikely everyone thought his survival was. I’m glad I didn’t know. The fear and despair was bad enough believing the doctors thought he might make it.
Hope is powerful.
While we were discussing transplant details with the oncologists, our other two kids were donating blood to test whether they would be a match for a bone marrow donation (in the end they weren’t a match for Harrison). I recall reading the literature and swelling with fear. That afternoon I stood at our fridge looking at a picture for Harrison from when he was healthy and just wept. I said to Ginger, “He’s not gonna make it, and I just can’t take it.” It was the lowest point of despair for me. January 17, 2012, was the lowest I’ve ever been.
This day a year ago I lost hope.
I never, of course, told Harrison. I pretended to be strong. I said the right things — “Yes, you’ll be fine.” But I did not expect to be writing a year later that Harrison is still alive. From that day until January 24, I expected the worst. My faith wavered. The light went out.
Hopelessness is powerful as well.