It's been three years since I walked out the door of the Cowman's life. It's been two years since I scattered his ashes on the mountain side over looking the high valley that he loved.
Will I always feel I failed him, probably. But I learned a few things from that journey:
learned that his doctors didn't expect him to make it to thirty. I
learned that I would not accept that, and neither would he.
I learned that after being thrown across a room, and sliding down the wall, I could get back up. That I could help him, who in the moment, didn't know it was me trying to correct the raging chemical imbalance.
I learned to be on a first name basis with most of the paramedics, flight medics, ambulance services and hospitals in two states. I learned that the time between the start of his reactions and their arrival was fraught with danger for all of us.
I learned that you can do everything right and things can still go to hell pretty darn fast. I learned that if I showed any signs of panic, it simply made things worse.
I learned to be prepared, I learned when and how to approach a situation, and to always know where my kids were in a given moment.
I learned that I could be dead asleep and still feel a slight body temperature change, as long as I kept one hand on him. I learned that it was a heck of a lot more mentally comfortable to wear jammies if there were going to be four paramedics in the room with us.
In the end, I learned that I couldn't save him from himself or his disease. But damn, it's hard feeling that I failed him. It's hard to know that my try, my desire, and my love weren't enough...