Six months ago today...
I didn’t know.

I didn’t rush to the hospital in the ambulance.
I did what I always do.
Packed a bag with snacks and things to keep busy.
Gathered a jacket, my Kindle, supplies for a long night in the ER.
I drove my own car.
Got there about 15 minutes after he arrived.
Because that’s what I always did.

I didn’t know.

I was calm.
I talked to the doctors.
Trusted that they would figure it out.
I cracked jokes. Laughed.
It’s what we always did in hard situations.
It was our strategy to look for the good in every situation.
We always laughed through the hard things.

I chatted with our church leader who was at the hospital with me.
Told him about our goals for the jason&kolette brand.
We talked about podcasts and books and futures and dreams.
At 11:30 p.m. I told him he could go home. Then at 2:14 a.m. Again at 4:27 a.m. I said we would be fine.
He didn’t go.
I kept our parents updated all night long.
"It’ll be a tough recovery but they’re figuring it out," I texted.

I didn’t know.

I snapped this picture as I went in to see him.
Jason looked up at me that last time.
Struggling for oxygen. He couldn't speak.
They were going to give him meds to paralyze his whole body and put him to sleep in order to intubate him.
To help him. To save him.

I smiled at him, touched his head, the side of his face, and said, 
“It’ll be ok.”

I thought it would be.
I thought it would be just like every other time.
We have hard things, but we recover.
We keep going.
We do it.
I thought he would wake up again.

Six months ago today, I just did what we always did.
I didn’t know that this time would be different.

____________________________

Sometimes it seems we are surrounded by darkness.
Like there is no hope.
No chance for joy.
No life beyond pain and sorrow and heartache.
Sometimes it’s just too hard.
Gratitude is a power.
Gratitude can elbow out the darkness, even if it’s just for a moment.
Gratitude is light.
Jason died. It’s really hard.
I still feel every day. I still miss him every day.

But Coleman and I know that he is now free of his limitations.
We can’t see him, but he is near us. He is helping us.
We know that we will see him again.
We know that we will be together again.
We are missing what is missing now.

But in gratitude, hope shines. 
I’m sticking with hope.
And Jas, I still think it will be ok.