And so, another year goes by.

July 30, 2007 was the day. The Day that everything changed. A day that started out like any other summer Monday. And ended with me and Mark sitting on a couch in a hospital room, holding on to each other for dear life, unable to finish our sentences, barely able to catch our breath. Our baby asleep beside us in a cage-like crib, an endless stream of nurses and doctors walking through our space, horrific and terrifying thoughts swirling through our minds.

The months and years that followed proved many of those horrific and terrifying thoughts true, along with some too horrific or terrifying for us to have even imagined on our very first night as the parents of a child with cancer. The twists and turns were steeper and scarier and more stunning than anyone could have prepared us for. And yet that one, that one thought that is too terrifying and too horrific to put into words, that is the one we have managed to escape.

And so today, tonight, on July 30, 2009, we sat in the backyard eating our grilled dinner, Austin dashing away from the table (and his vegetables) wearing nothing but a t-shirt (typical), his little soccer thighs lifting him high and strong. We toasted each other, “we made it this far,” and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. If only we’d been able to see back then, back when our biggest fears occupied so much space in our minds, if only we’d been able to catch a glimpse of this day. Fast forward two years and see the happy healthy boy running and diving across the grass.  We couldn’t see that of course.

And yet, perhaps, we must have seen it. That image of Austin must have been in our heads, or at least our hearts, that day and every single day since. Or we never would have made it.