I came across a post on Instagram recently. It said something like: no one talks about the grief of giving medications to a child who can’t tell you how they feel.
I’ve been thinking about that. Not for the first time.
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I came across a post on Instagram recently. It said something like: no one talks about the grief of giving medications to a child who can’t tell you how they feel.
I’ve been thinking about that. Not for the first time.
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I was sitting in an AI users group meeting at work recently. We went around the room and people described what they had been using the tools for. It wasn’t a technical crowd. These were people with domain knowledge and good instincts who had previously been blocked by a specific kind of gap. The gap between knowing what they needed and being able to build it themselves.
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I got to the airport early even though I knew the flight was delayed.
I had been tracking it since he left Arizona. Texts from him at the gate. Updates from his mom. A text when he boarded that landed differently than the others. He was on the plane, he was coming home. I had my gate pass in hand before I left the house.
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The neurology appointment is coming up, so I went back through the footage.
This is part of the routine. We have a camera in his room as part of how we monitor his seizures at night and into the morning. I check it most days, usually just the early hours, scanning for the telltale movement and sound that tells me what kind of morning we’re starting. I know what I’m looking for. After twelve years I can spot it quickly.
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He comes home on Sunday.
I’ve been counting down in a way I didn’t expect to. Not dramatically, just the quiet awareness of the days getting smaller. Six weeks is a long time. Longer than I thought it would feel.
I know why he went. He needed time with his mom, and I wanted him to have it. I gave him that space without reservation. We talked every day. I want him to have a good relationship with her. That matters.
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