Two years ago today, life stopped in a way I never saw coming.
My wife found me on the sofa — unable to speak, unable to move, unable to hear.
No words, no response, nothing.
The ambulance came. Everything happened fast, yet everything felt painfully still.
Our two oldest children were out sledding. They knew nothing.
Our youngest, only three, understood only that daddy was taken away —
and he was angry for a long time afterward, thinking his mother had given me away.
My parents and sisters drove across the mountains that night,
afraid it might be their last chance to see me.
They were allowed to visit me in the hospital before continuing on to our home.
When they arrived, they were met with a sight that stayed with them:
my wife, exhausted and terrified, shoveling snow at four in the morning,
trying to keep her mind from collapsing under the weight of the fear she carried alone.
She held everything together at home.
She kept our children safe.
She waited. She hoped. She prayed.
And she had no idea if I would ever come back.
I spent the first week in the hospital without a single memory.
My body had taken a beating, my mind even more.
Medication, painkillers, and a brutal illness had taken over everything.
The children couldn’t visit me right away —
not because they didn’t want to, but because I simply wasn’t myself.
When they finally came, they could only stay a few minutes
before having to leave the room.
It was too hard to see their dad so weak,
covered in wires, tubes, and machines keeping me going.
I was discharged a few days before Christmas Eve.
A different kind of Christmas, fragile and blurry,
but we were together — and that was everything.
That Christmas we celebrated at my in-laws’ house.
They had prepared a guest room so I could rest whenever needed.
And I did — a lot.
I don’t remember everything from that Christmas either,
but I remember the safety.
The care.
The love that held us up.
It has been a long road back.
I have come far — farther than I ever thought possible —
but I still have far to go.
Yet here I stand.
Two years later.
Alive, grateful, and held up by a family that never let go.
This post isn’t just a look back.
It’s a reminder of how fragile life can be —
and how strong it becomes when we walk through the darkness together.
💛 Thank you for still being here.
💛 Thank you to those who carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.
💛 Thank you for the road ahead — even if it’s long, I’m still walking it.
Legg att eit svar