Why is it that I face each milestone by thinking, what was it like this time last year? These anniversaries, one year later, that mark the last time this and the last time that. The fourth of July last year, I spent in the hospital with Harrison-the last time he left his room on 5 south before we left for Stanford-against the rules really-since he hadn't been cleared of his paraflu. I was desperate for him to see the fireworks. The two years of opportunities he'd had in his life, he was always sleeping-on the ride back from my Dad's house-this was the first year he was awake. I put a mask on him and took him to the playroom. He barely lifted his head and just wanted to go back and lay down. I begged him to sit in the window seat with me but he was in pain, and just so tired. It wasn't that I thought it was his last opportunity, I just wanted with all my heart for him to see something special and different than those four walls that he was so sick of looking at. The next day, we packed, got blood and got ready for the endoscopic surgery, the day after that, we went to Stanford-that was the last day we ever spoke to him, saw his eyes open looking at us. The night of the 5th was a night I will keep in my memory, even if somehow every other part of this experience gets fuzzy. That night we talked and laughed and played and watched his dinosaur movie over and over-he was in a lot of pain early in the night and then, for some reason, it seemed to subside and he was his normal playful self for a few hours.
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