What a Difference a Year Makes
Everyone always says that a year can make all the difference and although I’ve always known that, this year was the first that I’ve truly looked back, taken stock, and acknowledged how incredibly different a life can be on the same day, one year apart.
February 3rd last year started out as any normal day. It was Wednesday. A pretty normal day. Or so I thought. You see, I was in the middle of a meeting when Jan came in and asked me to meet with her in the hallway. Honestly, I thought I was getting fired. When she said that I needed to go back to my desk, get my coat, and follow her up front, I was sure I was getting fired. When I got up front and saw Dan standing there I at least knew I wasn’t getting fired, but I had a terribly sinking feeling. Something was wrong. It was written all over his face. He refused to tell me what was going on until we got out to the truck. It’s a good thing because once he told me what I happened, it wasn’t pretty. No one in the office needed to see that.
We spent the next couple of hours at the hospital. And then I spent the whole rest of the evening going through several boxes of Kleenex, drifting in and out of nightmares, without ever really sleeping.
Flash forward to February 3 of this year and I’m driving home after a gigantic snowstorm, sitting in the backseat, videotaping our little man and narrating our drive from the hospital to our home. And just like last year, I’d spend the night not really sleeping, but this time for very different reasons.
A really wonderful person explained to me how I needed to re-script February 3 so that I didn’t spend the day in mourning year after year. I can’t think of a better way to re-script it than by welcoming my son into our home for the very first time. Sure, it will always be the anniversary of the day that I lost one of the most important men in my life, but it will also mark the anniversary that I brought home my little boy.
It’s like you were watching out for me and scripting this for me, big brother. Always watching, always taking care of me. Even when you’re not here physically anymore.