A thousand thank yous. A million thank yous. A billion thank yous. A thank you from the bottom of my heart, my soul, my wishes and my dreams to each and every one of you for your thoughts, your prayers, your blessings, your support, your metaphysical and medical genius and your unwavering love. A thank you for everything.
I intermittently find time slowing and I relish in those moments, those moments where everything is relatively perfect. Those moments where I am flooded with gratitude, gratitude to be able to take a deep breathe that fills the depths of my lungs, my heart and my soul. To not feel that at any moment I’m on the verge of hyperventilating because it is all just too much.
Because now there are still things that seem like too much, but it is all relative. Life is relative. I hate when people say (usually to me when I’m spinning at 1,000 miles per hour about something incomprehensible to them) to “not sweat the small stuff.” But I encourage you—sweat the small stuff, but keep it relative. Sweat the A- grades, sweat the dirty floors, sweat the spilled milk. Because if you are sweating the small stuff, you are blessed at that moment, blessed that there is no accident, no coma, no pneumonia, no feeding tubes, no hell to sweat. Because the small stuff means you are alive and full of life and love and things are going pretty peachy. Sweat the small stuff and breathe deeply with gratitude and thanks for those little perfect (and sometimes imperfect) moments each day.
Those perfect moments. Those moments when I feel like I am spinning along with the axis of the world, along for the ride again. Those moments like when I am sitting at our dining room table eating a bowl of soup, while the boy is off partaking in outdoor activities and I receive a text from him letting me know he is on his way home and asking if I need anything. It’s perfect. It’s absolutely, scream to the hills, insert swear word for emphasis, perfect that I still receive those texts, those little check-ins, those times when you know there is someone out there thinking of your wants, your needs or the dwindling supply of goat milk.
Those moments like when the boy, our families or I again come across a little card, a sweet note or a message of “keep putting that one foot in front of the other” from the past several months. It is perfect. It is perfect knowing that even in the deepest, darkest of times we are cradled in a ginormous hammock of love from friendship, family and community near, far and long lost. A hammock whose strings stretched further than I ever thought possible and supported the weight of our world.
Those moments like when the boy is driving and Miss Maude Pod has her head resting on the center between the two front seats, music is blasting, the windows are down and we are driving back into the valley. It is perfect. The physical beauty captures us but also the beauty of a community engulfs us. It protects us. A community that never wavered, never faltered and helped put the light back in our eyes and made it all seem doable. Those moments when you know this is home. This is where you are meant to be at that very single moment.
It was all of you. From the extraction team, to the Emergency Care team, to the life-flight, to the trauma doctors and medical team, to the ICU nurses (especially to that one night nurse), to the hospital employees that became our friends, to our families near and far that were always close to our hearts, to the friend who reached out from elementary school with a book recommendation, to the guy who gave me a box of tissues after passing me several times crying hysterically in the stairwell, to the transport team, to the people who got outdoors for the boy, to the friends that shoveled and made us food, to the Pulmonologist that always just stopped by to say hi and talk, to the best friends that were just there no matter what, to the long term physical therapy team, to the security guard, to the coworkers who are more than just coworkers, to the rehabilitation team (especially to that one therapist who wouldn’t let us rot indoors), to everyone that took care of Maude Pod, to the nurses that put up with the never ending jokes to the brilliant and most importantly caring doctors that aided in every step of the way, to each and every friend, family member, well-wisher and to the Wood River Valley Community, it was you. It was you that cradled us, pushed us and gave us endless love, support and shoulders to cry on and ears to listen to us, it was you that helped us back to a world that has light, that has meaning, that has hopes and wishes and dreams. And there will never be enough thank yous for that.
Now don’t get me wrong. The boy is pretty spectacular to say the least in my likely biased opinion. But in my eyes it wasn’t a miracle. Not one ounce of the strength that bubbles inside him and his indomitable will that was fortified by the overwhelming support he and all of #teamcasey received was sourced from a miracle. He did the work, but you all did the supporting. You supported in a way that I hope to one day spread further and further into the world. Because to me, to us, to #teamcasey that support makes everything okay and doable. And it was you, each and every one, that I thank for allowing me to have gratitude, thanks, laughter, tears, deep breathes, small stuff to sweat in those moments in life when everything slows and you know it, everything, life is relatively perfect.
A thousand thank yous. A million thank yous. A billion thank yous.