The prospect of reintegrating myself into customary activities loomed over and unnerved me. How would I face so many people expressing their concerns and queries about Matt?

Respectively, at church and work on Sunday and Monday, and in subsequent days and weeks, encountering so many friends, neighbors, and colleagues was mentally draining, taxing, exhausting, and so much more. People of various backgrounds expressed anguish and sympathy; some cried or hugged me, and others were simply at a loss for words or downcast by their inability to assuage my grief and fears. It was like ripping an adhesive bandage off a nasty, unhealing wound, repeatedly exposing my heartache and emotional instability. It required all my reserve not to break down until they walked away, and I could find a place to cry and quietly regain my composure.

There was an unrestrained demonstrative intensity that hung in the air. The cold realization that such a crisis could happen to someone they knew personally—not simply a distant stranger—exposed people’s vulnerability and mine. Perhaps secretly, some felt guilt prick at their subconscious because they were grateful that it wasn’t their son, daughter, or even them confronted by this overwhelming adversity. It was a wake-up call, really—to cherish the ones we love and be fully present in our moments together. Although arduous, these engagements were meaningful connections with people who cared about me and my family. And when I needed it most, their compassion and reassuring hugs, like a lifejacket, kept my head above water.

Surprisingly, the familiar work routine was a nice distraction from the high-octane stress and worry that enveloped me and offered a brief reprieve to clear my head.   That first day at church was a different story. I was welcomed with open arms, but despite everyone’s support and the uplifting music filling the sanctuary, I was despondent and melancholy—my worship lackluster. My spiritual clarity was inadequate to comprehend how God had our best interests at heart. In the past, when life was uneventful, that seemed reasonable, but now I questioned it, and me. If God provided what we needed but less than what I wanted, what then? Would I still believe, or would I jump ship? If I was willing, my years of church training and worship had prepared me for such a time as this. I was being offered an opportunity to act on what I professed about Jesus Christ, accept his offer to carry my burdens when I faltered, and rely on his promise never to leave me nor forsake me.

I wish I could say I triumphantly marched out of the church and into battle. Rather, I conceded, again, that there would be no quick fixes, no “get out of jail card”—not even a glimpse into a crystal ball showing Matt smiling contentedly as he taught a classroom of eager students sometime soon. I was a novice facing Mt. Everest—climbing up a sheer rock face with nary a foothold in sight and the summit concealed by storm clouds, entirely dependent on God—my belay anchor.

On another front, a joyous milestone was fast approaching in stark contrast to, and out of place with, our unhappy circumstances, a 180-degree about-face. Choosing seemed unfathomable—leave Matt or forego Megan’s commencement ceremony? The quandary, Raleigh, was 11 hours and 678 miles of highway from home— light-years away in my mind. What would we do if something happened to Matt that required our immediate attention? After due consideration, Mike and I chose to go. Tuesday, five days after starting rehab—we abandoned Matt and relegated him to the care of the facility, relatives, and friends in New York to travel to North Carolina. These words may seem harsh—yet the distance and time elsewhere felt like betrayal and nagged at our fundamental premise of being good parents to our son in his time of need. Yet, Megan was graduating from North Carolina State University with a hard-fought-for, sought-after Ph.D. in Mechanical Engineering—an honor deserving of her parents’ attendance, a jubilant celebration, and different circumstances.

Matt loved her and would never have intentionally missed this opportunity to recognize her hard work and perseverance, nor would it have ever crossed our minds before, but it did. Ultimately, its significance and our family tradition of highlighting each child’s success outweighed our concerns, prompting us to leave one child behind to be there for another. We consoled ourselves that our presence wouldn’t be missed and our five-day absence would not adversely impact Matt’s health and recovery.