The Best and the Hardest
I just had the wildest, most emotional experience — the kind that overwhelms in the best and hardest ways. This week I’ve been focused on getting our Holiday Giving gifts together for our nonprofit (which, thanks to your generosity, are tripling this year!). I’ve been coordinating with the manager at Ralphs — someone who’s been incredibly kind and helpful over the years — so even though it was out of my way, I drove back to our old neighborhood to pick everything up.
When I pulled in, I saw the Station 24 fire truck parked outside, and my whole body reacted. That was our station — the one that responded to both of our emergency calls with Blake. The ones who helped save him. Twice. My heart dropped and swelled at the same time. And then I thought, “Of course they’d be here today, while I’m shopping for ICU families in Blake’s honor.” You can’t make this stuff up.
Inside, I was working with the manager on my giant stack of gift cards when three firefighters stepped into the next checkout line. I knew instantly I needed to do something. I walked over and said, “Hi guys. I’d love to buy your groceries.” Cue the polite refusals. But then everything inside me cracked open.
“You’ve responded to multiple calls for my family,” I said, “and if it’s okay…I’m doing this.”
They agreed, humbly, and I started telling them the story — the day Blake stopped breathing at the park, how we burst into a stranger’s home begging for help, how they showed up and got him stabilized.
One of them paused and said, “Wait… was this about five years ago?”
“Yes,” I said, “a little more actually.”
His face changed. “I was on that call. I rode on the gurney with Blake to the hospital. I still have a picture of us up at the station.”
My eyes flooded. I asked his name. “Darryl.” I reached out and gave him a huge hug. I recognized the name — I had delivered that photo years ago — but had never met him in person. Until now.
I told them Blake lived almost two more years after that first 911 call. I told them I created a nonprofit in his memory, and that I was literally at the store buying gift cards for families in the ICU in his honor. And then I said what’s been sitting in my heart for years:
“I think about you all the time — how thankless your job can feel, how you disappear after the call or the transfer. But I’m grateful for you showing up. For being there. For being present. For saving our son… twice.”
It was a full-circle moment in every sense. They felt the weight of it. A few people in line wiped their eyes. I paid for their groceries, thanked them, and went back to my gift cards with a heart that felt broken and filled all at once.
Blake’s light is shining bright today. 
