Today is Friday, five days since you left us. I woke up at 5am because there was still a lot left to do. Going back to the hospital, where we last saw you, was not going to be easy.

While I waited outside the registrar’s office, I realized that we were not far from the children’s clinic. There were children running around and doing things that children would normally do… that you could have done one day. Your Mom held my hand and I knew we felt the same, even though we could only see each other’s eyes behind our masks. When the time came, we were given a piece of paper allowing you to finally leave the hospital. What followed was a frantic effort to fill out even more forms and get things signed by the correct people. But we did it anyway because we were doing it for you.

At the start of the day I did not want to interact with or be recognized by anyone; just get in and get out! This approach has worked when I felt stressed about other things in life, but I came to realize that I could not let that continue. Even with my “dad hat” and mask on, people still recognized and waved hello, not having a clue as to what had happened to you. However, who could blame them? They did not know because I hadn’t told them anything as yet.

By the time your aunt arrived, I felt better. She has always been the energy of the family and your uncle compliments her well. Spending some time with them and your grandparents reminded us how important family really is and how much your life affects ours. We actually smiled and laughed for a little while.

I know that your departure from us is still fresh and painful to think about, and look forward to the day when I can say your name without feeling this pain. It likely won’t come now or a year from now. But, like most wounds that leave a scar when they heal some day, they’re there as a constant reminder that we endured pain.

Good night, Lucas.

Love, Dad