In 2009 we added a six hundred square foot addition on our home. Rich's mother had just passed away and while neither of us had strong opinions on having our parents live with us, neither of us wanted his father grieving alone. We offered space and assisted living type support in our home. Grandpa accepted.

Working on Grandpa's new room was all our family did that summer. A son moved back from Florida to participate in the construction. A future son-in-law proved his loyalty with long days of concrete work. Our then ten-, fourteen-, fifteen-, and sixteen-year-old sons grew up quickly. We swung sledgehammers, lifted walls, reached for roof trusses, set windows, ran electrical lines and hung drywall. It was a labor of love and changed us. As a family and individuals. The construction project set pieces of Grandpa's heart right again as he was drawn out of his grief and into meaningful work and something bigger than than himself - the power of a family working together.

John Denver's 1966 ballad comes to mind as I stand in Nathaniel's bedroom door watching his nap time sleep. I have not heard the song since my pubescent days.  Once upon a lifetime ago, I was twelve with a mad crush on a college guy named Dave. He played guitar and say Denver into the Lake Erie wind at the end of a dock sticking out from the north shore of Ohio. I was not alone. All the girls gathered there beneath the stars on Friday nights thought Dave was singing just to them. We were naive. We were smitten. We were innocent of the harsh realities of leaving a loved one.

My husband is an Emergency Preparedness Merit Badge Counselor for Boy Scouts of America. I do not remember now why he took signed up for the responsibility, but for years he has counseled young men through the badge. Many of those years our sons' troop dedicated an entire weekend camp out to helping the boys earn the badge, including an emergency with injuries. While sorting campfire smoke laden clothes in the laundry room on Sunday afternoon, I would listen to Rich share about the "accident," find out which boy in the troop suffered severe injuries, and ask questions about how the troop solved the crises. I learned a new application of a word through that process - mitigate. At the end of every drill the troop would mitigate the accident; they would sit around and discuss what could be done next time to lessen the severity of a similar emergency.

Monday morning I told crews at the ambulance house that, "someday Nathaniel will have a very two-year-old moment, probably when he is mad at me or wants to get a reaction, and pull his trach tube out." At 6: 31 Monday night, he proved me right.

Rich, Peter, Nathaniel, and I had gone for a walk and were coming up our sidewalk. Peter was ahead of the stroller; Rich and I behind it. Peter looked at Nathaniel who was in his stroller playing with his Ligntening McQueen matchbox car, then turned to unlock the door. Two hands were on the stroller tray playing with a car. Not angry. Not having a temper tantrum. Nathaniel was waiting happily with a smile on his face. Peter turned the key, pushed the door open, turned back towards Nathaniel and yelled, "He pulled his trach out!"