This year marks the sixth anniversary. The night before, our son Liam had shown slight signs of improvement at CHOA in his battle against C. diff. Filled with cautious hope, I decided to return the following evening, May 10, with my friend Shane. I expected to see a little boy full of renewed energy and joy.

But when I opened the door to his fourth-floor hospital room, I was met with something far more heartbreaking. His albumin levels had plummeted. His lungs had filled with fluid. He was barely conscious. The sound of his voice had become sharp and strained—a result of the fluid building up in his pleural space, a clear sign that his condition was worsening.

Sometimes, things happen for a reason. Having Shane with me that night was no accident—it was grace. His presence helped lift me emotionally, even in the heaviest of moments.

When I got home, I was shattered. I walked into Liam’s bedroom and, for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I took a photo of the room. That photo remains with me to this day. It was—and still is—a symbol of hope and, at the same time, a cruel reminder that he might never return to it.

Whenever life throws me something hard, I look at that photo. It reminds me that things can always be worse.

There is no fear like the fear of losing a child. There is no joy like the joy of being a parent. And there is no greater sorrow than the pain of a parent losing their child.

That night—May 10, 2018—changed me forever. I’m grateful for the pain because it reshaped my entire outlook on life. That day taught me more than years of peace ever could.

“Dad, remember how much fun it was when we rode in the monster truck through the snow in Iceland?” he said to me later. He didn’t mention toys, gifts, or anything material. He remembered the memories—our time together as a family.

So please—go out and make memories with your children. Take the trips. Choose time over things because the memories are what last forever. Now, every time I walk into his room and see him, I remember that the outcome could’ve been different. 

“In the end, kids won’t remember that fancy toy or game you bought them; they will remember the time you spent with them.” — Kevin Heath

By Dr Peto Fallas, Fallas Family Eye Care