[vc_row content_placement=”top”][vc_column][vc_custom_heading source=”post_title” font_container=”tag:h1|text_align:left|color:%231e73be” use_theme_fonts=”yes”][vc_custom_heading text=”By Naomi D. Williams and Noah S. Williams ” font_container=”tag:h4|text_align:left|color:%23000000″ use_theme_fonts=”yes” css=”.vc_custom_1683042070130{padding-bottom: 30px !important;}”][vc_column_text]
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2014. A challenging, life-changing year
filled with sickness, hospitals, trauma.
Summer was a tailspin. Uncanny, unsavory.
Something was definitely wrong.
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2009. Five months in NICU.
How could I know
what I was being prepared for?
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Noah had been diagnosed. So
lethargic, long stretches of sleep,
and utter unresponsiveness
were “normal.” They didn’t
see the cascade coming:
constipation, impaction, toxicity,
septic shock.
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“Normal” was a happy, mischievous
smiling boy. It took years of care,
collaboration, conversation and confidence
to help him get there.
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And so much uncertainty. No one knew
what was wrong. He slept. His body swelled.
He was diagnosed again. No one knew
what to do, but they came—family, friends—
and sat with us on plastic chairs
in intensive care. They brought food.
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Never underestimate the value
of a real meal, home-cooked,
hand-delivered—how it sustains
the spirit and calls you back
from the edge of despair.
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Amy came. A dietician.
Only later did I know how loss
led her to her work, to church,
to me—sister, friend, and guardian
to Noah if he ever needed someone,
if something happened to me. If my family
couldn’t care for him, Amy and Rob would.
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Humor helped, and laughter.
“A cheerful heart is good medicine.”
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They moved him. More room, more machines
dialysis ready. Again, big-hearted people gathered—
parents, speech therapists, physical, occupational
therapists, physicians, chaplains encouraging, enabling.
And even then, Noah smiled. He was ready
to spread his wings and feel fresh air.
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We are changed now. I hit rock bottom
in that hospital. Then I found
a new way to see and receive the life we are given
each day. Each morning I remember:
“Live your best life today.”
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Disabilities do not define this child.
They cannot be “fixed.” He does not
need to be. The best that is in him
keeps unfolding into the spaces
so many help open and hold.
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Our “normal” isn’t. But it’s ours.
Our bond is unbreakable. We are encircled
by people who rally and show up and know
how to help in hard times.
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Our story matters. The pictures matter.
The memories matter. All of it
is becoming a gift for someone
we may never know.
[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_empty_space][vc_column_text]This article is dedicated in memory of our friend, Evan John Laughlin, who died unexpectedly on November 27, 2018.
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.[/vc_column_text][vc_custom_heading text=”About the Author(s)” font_container=”tag:h3|text_align:left” use_theme_fonts=”yes”][/vc_column][/vc_row]
