#28: What Remains

Last week you sat at the table with tears in your eyes. You looked at the kids sitting at the island and said, your voice trembling with sadness, “I’m sorry guys. A dad is supposed to be big and strong.”

Our 8-year-old climbed down from her stool and walked over to you. She put her arms around your skeletal shoulder blades, pressed her little forehead against yours, looked into your eyes and said, “You are strong Daddy. You have a hard life. All we need is you here with us. That’s all we need.”

We cried. You frowned. What a cruel thing that the only expression your face can still make is one of sadness. 

After two weeks in the intensive care unit and two times on life support, you made it home for Christmas. 

I was so glad to have you back that I didn’t think about how sick you’d still be, that it takes about one week of recovery for each day someone is on a ventilator and you were on a ventilator for six days, that while you were in the ICU your ALS sped up and ate away at the good arm you had left.

I didn’t realize we would both be awakened by constant nightmares — you of the vent and ICU trauma, me of the night you were intubated and I slept through two phone calls and seven text messages begging me to wake up, of how I spent two days while you were unconscious staring at the last text you sent me, wondering if I’d ever have the chance to say how sorry I was that I missed your calls. 

“Being intubated,” you wrote. “Tried to call. I love you and the kids so much.”

Before the ventilator, you were still so capable. Now, we can’t tell where the ICU weakness stops and the ALS weakness begins. Now, we are scheduling meetings with home care and respiratory therapists. We wondered if you’d ever drive again, but we didn’t, really. We knew the answer. You tried one afternoon. The kids were so excited to see you pull into the garage in your car. Later that night, after they’d gone to bed, you looked at me and said softly, “It didn’t feel safe. I can’t do it anymore.”

Now we will sell your car and say goodbye to a future where two parents shuttle their kids around, where life is beautifully, blissfully busy, where we kiss each other goodbye at the door and go in different directions in order to get it all done. 

Now, everything that makes our family go runs in one direction — through me. 

In a span of three months this disease we had outrun for three years caught up with us. 

We ran so far ahead at the beginning that at times it felt like we would never slow down. Then went your smile and your swallowing. Slowly but steadily, we knew we were losing ground. In October you ended up with a cold that turned into pneumonia and 10 days in hospital. The disease crept closer. With every little thing that got harder — pulling up your pants, putting on your shirt, brushing your teeth, doing your hair — we could feel it behind us, breathing down our necks. 

Finally, in December, you caught a flu that led to pneumonia that led to life support, and the disease overtook us.

People keep wondering if you are “better.” We don’t know how to answer. Sure? Maybe? Not really? With this disease, there are, hopefully, degrees of recovery from a crisis. In other ways, there is no coming back.

When you came home from the hospital you needed my help with everything. In a miraculous turn, your lungs healed quickly. The healing stopped there. ALS decimated your already-ailing left shoulder and took out your left bicep and tricep as well. With this disease, those losses are permanent.

“How is Chris?” people want to know.

I stumble over the same question I ask myself a thousand times a day. What they want to hear and what they don’t understand about this disease hang in the space between their words and my response. 

“That’s complicated,” I want to say. “That’s a loaded question. How much time do you have? Do you really want to know?”

Here is the truth: you’re sad. We’re scared. This is lonely. Many days it feels like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is no winning against this disease. There is only learning how to live with all the loss. You are facing a lifetime — however much longer that lifetime is — of getting worse, of being able to lift a glass to your lips one day and not the next, of taking sips of water one day and not swallowing anything again forever the next, of adjusting your pajamas in bed one night and asking me to do it for you the next. 

People don’t want that truth, and to be honest very few of them deserve it. While my brain spins through all of those thoughts I usually offer a small smile and say, “He’s OK.”

“Chris made it home for Christmas,” they say. “That must have been so wonderful.”

Here is the truth: it was the hardest two weeks of our lives. Harder than the ventilator, harder than the ICU. We didn’t celebrate Christmas. We survived it. There was no energy for cooking a big meal or baking and decorating cookies. We were together and, yes, that was a gift, but we were barely holding on, hardly keeping our heads above water. 

After every single impossible-feeling day we went to bed and I stared at the ceiling and wondered, “Is this life now? Is this all that remains for us?”

I’ve never seen you as shattered as you were during those weeks. Grief and loss hung so heavy in our home. The air was stale with it. I wanted to run away so I could take a deep breath. So did the kids, begging for playdates and errands and anything for even a brief reprieve. We wanted to escape, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to say what that really meant.

We wanted to escape from you. 

There are times when it is impossible to separate the disease from the person it is happening to, and we were in the thick of one of those times. The guilt that surrounds that feeling, the one of wanting to get away from the person you were so terrified of losing only weeks before, is confusing and consuming. 

For years after your diagnosis, I would catch myself saying, “Oh, Chris never gets sick.” Now, you were. You — the person in our family who has always pushed for adventure, for playing in the snow, for trying something new and seizing the day — laid on the couch without even the energy to turn on the tv and watch hockey. Just waking up in the morning drained you for the day. 

You wanted to escape, too, of course, to run away from what this disease has done to you, to escape to the time when you could brush your own teeth and put on your own deodorant, sure, but, really, you wanted to go back to the time when you walked in the door from work every evening and scooped up one kid in each arm as they screamed your name and you laughed and I laughed and we all hugged and in our minds we thought, “Look at this life we will have together so long as we both shall live.”

Back to that time. Back to when you were whole. Back to when we were whole.

For the first week you were home from the ICU, as you called to me for help, as our kids grappled with misplaced anger and my own grief spilled out in misguided ways, I wondered if I could handle this life. I stood in the shower and cried. I sat in my car and cried. I cried alone and I cried with you and I cried with the kids. I sat and thought about our future and couldn’t see anything that wasn’t overshadowed by desperate, crushing loss.

Then, one day, I heard our daughter giggle.

I looked up and saw you standing behind her, your arms on her chest, dancing her around to the song she was playing. I thought about how bleak it all seemed only days before, only hours before, how it felt like this life would be too much, too hard, too sad, too impossible, how it felt like the disease had taken so much that I wondered what good could possibly still remain.

“What is left of the life I thought I would have?” I wondered when we sat and talked about how you would work now that you cannot drive or put your coat on or attach your feeding tube or button your pants.

“What remains of the life you thought you would have?” I wondered as I watched you try to lift a cup to your mouth, as your body fails you so constantly but your brain remains so sharp.

I watched our little girl giggle and dance with you, and I thought about what could have been only a couple of weeks before. I remembered picking up my phone and seeing those texts, those missed calls with no voicemails, my mind spinning, my body shivering even though I was tucked into our warm bed. I called the hospital and talked to one of your doctors. He started to explain what happened. I interrupted him. 

“Is he alive?” I said through sobs.

Later, when I wanted to crawl out of my own skin because the sadness and fear made my own body feel uninhabitable, I picked up my phone and wrote to you.

“We are so sad Chris. Please wake up. Please don’t die. We need you. I don’t know what to do without you on the other end of this message. I feel lost. Please, please, please love. Please wake up.”

No one survives ALS, but you survived six days on a ventilator. You woke up. You didn’t die. You came home. 

I watched you dance with Willa and remembered what she had told you: “We just need you.”

What remains of the life we thought we’d have? 

The most elemental part — you. 

The world kept spinning and we kept going and, as the days turned into weeks, this new way of life started to feel a bit less overwhelming until one day I woke up and I knew I could fight against this reality or I could surrender to it. 

I choose surrender. I choose you.

How will you work now? How will you exist in this life? You’ll do it with me by your side. It will not always be pretty or smooth or full of grace and unwavering patience. There will be those things, to be sure, and there will also be frustration and curse words muttered and hurtful things said in the middle of the night when we are exhausted and coming apart at the seams, but when the morning comes again, we will start anew, together. 

Together we make one fully functioning human. 

Together is the only way, but, really, hasn’t it always been?

I have been wrestling the last few months with the notion of hope. 

When you were diagnosed 3.5 years ago and we joined this clinical trial, hope meant stopping this disease. Hope meant a miracle that would allow us to be the first family to stare ALS in the face and say, “Yeah, we’re opting out, thank you very much.”

Hope meant outrunning ALS.

Then I walked into the ICU that morning last month and you were there but you weren’t. A tube was sticking out of your mouth, your eyes were closed, your body didn’t move or flinch, and I knew everything had changed. I went home that night and picked up my phone to tell you how the kids were doing, and I remembered you wouldn’t answer. 

There had been times since you were diagnosed when you were away on a trip and the kids and I were doing things without you, and I thought to myself, “This is what it would be like.” Until I sent you those first desperate text messages knowing you would not reply, that you were not on the other end of the line and that I was now completely untethered, I never truly understood.

At 8 years old, Willa understands. All we need is you.

I stepped out of your room when the doctors rounded that first morning you were unconscious and the doctor with the kind eyes looked at me and, in describing your condition, he said, “For someone on life support.” I felt like I’d been hit in the chest with a sandbag. I tried not to show that I couldn’t breathe. I tried to stand there and look like this wasn’t a revelation to me. 

Life support.

How was it possible that 3.5 years after you were diagnosed with a terminal illness, I hadn’t realized, until that moment, that you were dying?

When the doctors moved on to the next patient I walked back into your room and closed the curtains and held your hand and cried. 

Earlier that day, when I drove the kids to a friend’s house before school, with the seemingly endless darkness of the winter morning making it feel like maybe the world had stopped, too, when your lungs quit working on their own, our son asked me, “Will Dad’s breathing get better? When will Dad wake up?”

I reached for his hand and looked in his eyes and told him the truth, because what else is there? 

“I don’t know, buddy. I hope so, but I don’t know.”

In all of this there has not been a more painful realization than this one: we cannot actually protect our children from the most painful parts of life. We hope we can, but we can’t.

Hope. There’s that word again. In the darkness that swallowed us up after you came home, hope was on my mind so much. I have put so much stock in hope. In messaging with our friend Steve Gleason, who does not ascribe to hope, he told me that the opposite of hope is fear.

He was, as usual, exactly right. The other side of my hope that the clinical trial drug would stop your disease progression was fear that it wouldn’t. The other side of my hope that you would be strong enough to come off the ventilator was fear that you wouldn’t. The other side of my hope that you won’t die is fear that you will. 

At its most elemental definition, hope is just a response to fear. We hope good things will happen to us because we are scared of the bad things.

Still, in the years since you started the clinical trial, in the losses we have endured and in the acceptance I have worked toward, my definition of hope has broadened.

Hope, for me, isn’t just about fear. It’s also about understanding and accepting the full scope of what is happening to us and still finding the good in life. It’s in that bible verse from Psalms that I love so much: “Even in laughter the heart may ache and joy may end in grief.” It’s in hearing our daughter giggle as she dances with you and in watching our son score a goal and look into the stands at you as he beats his fist against his chest. It’s in the people who show up and lift us up, the ones who drop off meals and run errands and walk beside us and cry with us and don’t turn away from our pain. 

Your recovery from the ventilator wasn’t linear. You were extubated and then had to be re-intubated because your lungs weren’t yet strong enough to breathe on their own. 

The morning after you’d been put on life support for the second time, I woke up and told the kids. We cried together and held each other. They asked questions and then they brushed their teeth and packed their backpacks and got in the car to drive to school. My eyes were puffy and swollen from lack of sleep and so much crying. My body ached with physical manifestations of grief, but when I backed the car out of the garage and saw the world waking up around us, I surprised myself with the words that spilled out of my mouth. 

They were words you would have said. They were perspective you taught me. 

“Oh,” I said, “look how beautiful the sky is.” 

And then, maybe for them, definitely for myself, I added, “The world is still beautiful, even when it’s sad.”

50 responses to “#28: What Remains”

  1. Oof… This is beautiful and sad, inspiring and heartbreaking, hard to read and impossible to stop reading. I can’t even begin to imagine what your are going through. This just sucks and I wish we could do anything to fix it. Thank you for writing this and sharing such private moments and thoughts. You are a very gifted writer. You, Chris, and your kids are constantly in our thoughts. Hoping for strength, comfort, and peace as you take this journey you never wanted and don’t deserve…


  2. Such a beautiful and profound piece of writing. Thank you for sharing this whole time with us. This city loves your family so.


  3. I have been following your story for a couple of years and this one broke my heart. I am not new to this disease as we had a very special friend and cousin who passed away from it. To share what all of you are feeling and going through is just unimaginable. I pray for you all every night and you teach us how to be grateful for every second we have. So much love and prayers sent your way.🙏❤️


  4. Thank you for being so Raw and honest with your emotions. I have had 4 family members who have lost their battle against the ALS beast. If you know, you know, and if you don’t then you will never understand. You are brave and strong,even when you don’t feel it. Your writing gives me comfort and peace and makes me feel like someone out there knows what we went through. Your daughter is so wise beyond her years, all she needs is Chris here.


  5. You and Chris have championed every effort to bring ALS to the front and Center of attention across North America. The world should be grateful for your efforts. You have done good things in spite of your connection to the this illness and your personal pain. It’s hard but please keep fighting


  6. This was incredibly beautiful and stirring, Kelsie. I appreciate your candor and beautiful prose equally. Your intimate style of writing immediately brings tears to ones eyes and every complex emotion to the fore.

    Your children fill me with a deep sense of hope – and through your writing I can so clearly see that they are indeed a blend of their incredible parents.

    With love from a stranger,


  7. This was so so raw and full of all the emotions. You are amazing woman and have so much strength. Thank you for sharing you, your family and all of this with all of us. The city is behind you and loves you all. Sending you any strength form my heart to yours and your family


    • I am just so very very sorry, my words echo yours. We have travelled this path and know what you are all living through with so much laughter and tears. Love to all of you.


  8. Your words are so powerful, so real and raw. Thank you for sharing your heart. Continuing to hold your family in our prayers and sending so much love.


  9. Wow…..I’m drinking my tears. I was praying for you and your family before and now I’m praying even more! So sorry you all are going through this. Sad because ultimately we know what the end will be. Praying for all your strength. 🙏🏽


  10. Your words express and reveal so much. Thank you for allowing us to glimpse some of your pain and all of your joy. Much love and compassion to you and your family.❤️


  11. You are amazing Kelsie. I felt many things while reading this. Many some of the others have expressed. But one that stood out was your total honesty about how you felt at times. I expect many have those same feelings but feel guilty for having them. I feel that you helped people realise that these are natural human feelings and are okay to feel. I respect that so much in all of your communications. You have helped so many people over these years. Even though I am another stranger on here I am sending you and your family much love and hugs.


  12. This is so sad and so beautiful all at the same time. YOU are amazing and I feel blessed to just follow your story ❤️


  13. I wanted to write a comment and sat staring at the comment box at a loss for the right words. I’m so sorry this is happening to you and your beautiful family. I am glad you stuck with hope and are able to find glimmers of good in the deep sadness. Sending you all love, positive energy and virtual hugs.


  14. Thank you so much for sharing your most inner thoughts and feelings as your family copes with one journey through the insidious debilitation that is ALS. I believe it is important for those dealing with an afflicted family member to hear some of the most inner thoughts, hopes, fears, coping mechanisms of others who are directly involved as a caregiver dealing with an ALS. family member. I can only hope that writing as you have has been and will remain cathartic for you. Agreed that one of the more difficult things to deal with is the question from others: How is doing? Well meaning of course, but difficult none the less. The inevitable response is O.K. Probably not what others want to hear but now is not the time to go into details – things are way to complex for casual conversations.


  15. Heartbreaking and beautiful, Kelsie. I pray for you all every day. I’m just so sorry you’re going through this.


  16. Your words speak to me on such a deep level, as I walk a similar journey with my husband who is deep in his battle with ALS. Thank you for sharing your emotions and providing raw honesty to what living with ALS in the family is really like. It is important to find those little moments where you can appreciate the little things like a blue sky, because at time I think that is what keeps us from being all consumed by the disease that takes so much.


    • Amanda, you and Kelsie — and your families — are in my prayers. In the Jewish faith, this is (in English) the “Mi Shaberach” prayer for healing:

      “May the one who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah, bless and heal those who are ill [names]. May the Blessed Holy One be filled with compassion for their health to be restored and their strength to be revived. May God swiftly send them a complete renewal of body and spirit, and let us say, Amen.


  17. Kelsie, my dad passed from ALS (actually a combination of ALS and Pick’s demential) 36 years ago when I was 29. Your writing, such brave writing, has brought faded memories and emotions roaring back to the surface. Know that there’s a massive community riding right along side you, and grieving with you.


  18. Thank you Kelsie, I wish you much peace in your journey of acceptance. I am fiercely holding on to hope in our journey yet fear is always there when you least expect it. Shielding your children pulled my heart strings, as we always want to protect them. Mine are young adults, with lives of their own yet I feel the very same. Please know your writing has made see I am not as alone in a similar journey as I sometimes feel. Godspeed to you and your family, you are in my prayers.


  19. Kelsie and your beautiful family .. thank you for allowing us into your precious world.
    You are grieving and coping and allowing us all to see this unfair ,painful part of your life.
    There are no words, no one has walked this life but I’m sure I speak for so many who want you to know you are loved , cherished and so important even to total strangers.
    Sending you so much love from Texas and wishing for more and more good days for you when you can smile, laugh and for just a while feel a little less overwhelmed.


  20. I have never been able to put into words what it’s like watching this dreadful disease take the life from my husband one day at a time.
    The symptoms started almost 3 years ago , early in Covid. The diagnosis came a yr later. It’s not familial, it’s not bulbar so while the disease manifests and progresses differently it always ends the same .
    Thank you Kelsie for putting into words the feelings and emotions of living , loving and caring for someone with ALS . ❤️


  21. Beautifully written, so sincere and eye opening. I will share this with my sister in law in Texas as my brother is suffering from Lewy Bodies Dementia. I’m sure she will find similarities with you and your family. Thank you for sharing.


  22. I have never met the Snow family. Most of what I know of them is from local media or their story being told from hockey broadcasts. However after reading your latest update it feels like we have all been invited into your home. To share your hope and to feel your fears. As a dad of 3 there is sadness that a share with people I have never known. There is a pain I feel for all of you when I think of the days the laughter isn’t there where your son will look to the sky when he scores and not the stands and I truly hurt for your family. A family of strangers but a family like everyone else’s only different. As I sit here at my desk with tears running down my cheaks. I hope the best for your family but we all fear the worst. I hope Chris’ story helps me become a better dad I fear it won’t change me. However we when let go of hope then what’s left is fear. So I will take my Hope for you and Chris and the kids and hold onto mine tonight a little tighter and hope this story has many more wonderful moments that you guys share as a family.

    FU ALS. Is a slogan my friend that lost his brother to ALS has on hats and shirts and I think we all share that thought.


  23. Kelsie, as a Boston guy I’ve been following Chris’ and your family’s battle with prayers and admiration and reading your posts and updates thru tears. Your shock at the doctor’s comment about ‘life support’ gave me a kick in the gut. My mother was diagnosed with several cancers in ’82 and given 5 years. It was in the summer of ’92 she was back in the hospital ICU for what she called her ‘vacations’ where she said she would be a pin cushion for a week. I’d stop by on my way home from work and one day her doctor came in and said ‘we almost lost her, but she is in recovery. I almost lost my mind.. that was the first time that I realized what was happening. She held on for another couple weeks and I was with her when she passed. Your reaction was just like mine was, I’m not a big prayer guy, buy I do pray for Chris and your family.


  24. Kelsie Snow you are a rock. If we have hope, we have everything. Sending the love to you and your family and it’s a journey. We are supporting you through your journey Kelsie.
    Maureen and Don


  25. Kelsie, I read and understood every brilliant, mesmerizing word. I’ve been in that same place with this unrelenting disease. Try to just hang on. That’s what Chris is doing. Lesley


  26. This is so emotional for the reader. We can’t walk in your shoes, but we can share your sadness and hope good days may come. You’ve embraced the most difficult job in life. I pray for peace for you and your family.


  27. One thing that came to my mind is your braveness,, courage and love as I read your story. I don’t think I need to say to stay strong because you already are. Will pray for Chris, you and your two kiddos. XOs


  28. I feel every single word you wrote to my core. I have walked your road, in your shoes. Not with my spouse but with my daddy. My mother died unexpectedly at 57, my dad was diagnosed with sporadic ALS 2018 @ 69 yrs old. I am so sorry you’re family is here. If I could say anything it would be “I get it” I get every. Single. Bit. Of it. There were days that a trip to the mailbox felt like a vacation. I felt like we lived (existed) in some alternate universe but the real world still spun as normal & somehow we were expected to balance that … I waved a white flag a million times, screamed, cried, got angry, said horrible things that I certainly didn’t mean. Exhaustion is a tricky thing. Fear is even trickier. Strength is hard. Faith is harder. But, in the middle of all of that, there becomes an intimacy in caring for someone that is hard to explain. If someone had asked me if I could bathe my dad, feed him, operate medical equipment etc, I would have said absolutely not. Until, I did exactly what you wrote about, I chose to surrender my vision of what should be & chose to step up to what was. Years later & almost 2 years after his passing, I can confidently look myself in the mirror & know I honored my father. Please know that I am praying for you & your family. Please reach out if you ever just neee to vent, cry, talk …


  29. This one hits close to home for our family. Your courage throughout this ordeal has been remarkable. Hoping for brighter days ahead for you and your family. CL


  30. My situation was different, it was my child on life support. But so much of what you have written resonates with me. My son ultimately passed away, and what you say about hope and fear was so very true while I watched him struggle to survive. That was 10 years ago and I can say that it certainly hasn’t been easy and I’m not the same person I was before, but as you’ve so eloquently written, there is still joy to be found in this life despite the pain. Thank you for sharing your family’s truth and vulnerability.


  31. I send my love to you and your family from the other side of the ocean: Utrecht, The Netherlands. My husband Peter died from ALS just two months ago after 2,5 years with this more than cruel disease.

    I recognise almost every word you write. Thank you for being so honest. It helps. I hope it helps you also, knowing that you are not the only one.

    As we say here: een dikke knuffel. And take care!


  32. Beautiful and heartbreaking words, Kelsie and I can relate to each and every one. My kids were 10, 12 and 14 when my husband was diagnosed with ALS. A hockey guy who built a rink in our yard every year and taught our kids to skate on it, who coached them and loved them and fought so hard to stay with us for 10 years while that miserable disease slowly robbed us of all the things you have described. Each day is a gift and that is something you don’t really understand until you have lived through this kind of loss. My husband’s mantra was “today is a good day for a good day” – he woke up every day and tried to focus on that particular day and finding whatever joy was available. It feels like “normal” for a family with ALS changes every single day and it’s just so hard to keep up and cope. Your family is in my prayers and I feel your heartbreak as though I’m going through it again myself.


  33. As so many other people have said, I can’t imagine how much you guys deal with on a “normal” day. The hope and fear matrix you mention is so true. I guess the real payoff for recognizing that duality is thankfulness. Seeing things for how they are, even when that changes everyday, will always leave room for being thankful, for what you have and what you had. Praying for all of you!


  34. I have followed your story from the beginning as my husband also had ALS. He lasted 3.5 years which for the most part we’re not too bad till the last 6 months. Your situation is quite different though as my 2 sons were grown and out in their own with their own families. I can not imagine how you have handled everything with such endurance. I did not realize how exhausted I was till it was over. I will continue to follow your story even though it breaks my heart to read of setbacks. You are an exceptional woman and extremely strong. Sending you all my thoughts and prayers.


  35. Kelsie your story about this heart felt disease and it’s affects has me hoping some how You , Chris and your children can continue to cope with this disease. I will keep you in my prayers. You are an incredible woman ! The glue that keeps the family intact. Stay strong.


  36. There are no words strong enough to let you know the profound impact this post had on me. Our family has long, surrounded your family with thoughts and prayers. And for so long, I have found myself so moved by your extraordinary writing. The vulnerability, the honesty, the positivity, and certainly the beauty that you all continue to find in the everyday.

    That said, until this point, I’ve been part of a silent group. I haven’t posted my thoughts before. But I needed to on this one.

    While you are navigating this painful road, I know firsthand that you are inspiring more people than you even know.

    Sending so much virtual love, from our Northstar/NWW (alumni) family to yours.



  37. You have so eloquently described what the true journey of ALS is. As my husband, our 2 sons and I navigated this exact journey 3.5 years ago. Every three days our life would change dramatically, as my husband body would give into the disease, we would still find laughter and joy through the tears. My husbands journey was only 6 months long. We. miss. him. everyday. I, too was so grateful to those who didn’t turn away from our pain – and continue to do so. Life is hard, this disease is harder. We need more research for our collective futures, for our children. There are simply no words to ease the pain. Thank you for bringing your story to the forefront and sharing your journey.


  38. As always, your words dig into the core of our hearts and a true insight into the lives living with ALS.
    Prayers streaming in for continued strength.


  39. I could feel the pain in your incredible writing. My tears flowed for you all. I have followed your family journey. My heartfelt prayers go out to you, Chris and family. Wrapping you all in a huge virtual hug.


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