Because we didn’t know how long he would live (and no one gave us hope that we might have years). We didn’t know how long before we’d see symptoms (only weeks, so they were right to have a plan in place). ��We talked about Hospice and cold rooms and resuscitation and choice. We talked about notifying A&E’s and who to call when symptoms flared.��Eight years on and I feel like sure, this is standard and no big deal. But at the time it was horrific to think my beautiful baby might die.
It’s still horrific to think that. To know that. To have it actually happen. My heart hurts. We had eight years, thank all the powers that be. I wish we’d had more. I wish he hadn’t ever had NKH. I wish NKH wasn’t even a thing.
(I look at these photos and I can’t help but think he was beautiful. I just really want to scoop him up and hug him. He was so loved. Memories aren’t enough. My heart hurts my heart hurts my heart hurts my heart hurts my heart hurts).
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