A Quiet Goodbye
Norah and I.
When we laid my precious little Norah’s body to rest, family and friends gathered from across the country and the world to celebrate a life that, though far too short, was lived with love, true empathy, and selfless service to others. A beautiful—no, the most beautiful—legacy anyone could ever leave behind.
During Norah’s eleven-month ordeal, God, in His tender mercy, sent us a message, one delivered through Norah herself.
It happened just a week before she passed. For three days, Norah was remarkably stable; so much so that one morning, the doctors considered moving her to a regular care room. It was the first good news we’d received in weeks, and we clung to it with hope. That evening, a nurse entered the room.
“We have a regular care room available downstairs,” she said. “It’ll be ready, and doctors are moving Norah there in about two hours.”
We were surprised—happy, yet confused. That morning, the transfer had only been a possibility, not a decision. We’d expected to be part of that conversation. I asked the nurse to let the doctor know we had concerns, the biggest being, what if something happens? We felt safer with the closer monitoring in the PICU.
The doctor came and reassured us. “If anything happens, Norah can always be brought back up to the PICU.” But something inside me felt uneasy.
Still, we gathered our things, and Norah was transferred to the third floor (room 318).
As we settled in, Betania looked around and suddenly recognized the room. “This is the same room Norah was in back in March,” she said. She turned to Norah and reminded her of the encouraging notes she had written for other patients during her time there, one of Norah’s many ways of spreading joy. Norah had called it her “Encouraging Happiness” project.
Then Betania remembered something else—something Norah had done in secret.
Before she was discharged in early May, Norah had written a special, secret note for “The Next Patient in the Room.” She’d taped it next to a desk lamp, a quiet offering of hope for whoever would come after her.
Betania, curious, went to check.
The note was still there; exactly where she’d left it. Ten months had passed, countless patients had come and gone, yet no one had found or removed it.
An excerpt from Norah’s note.
We didn’t know what it said. Betania opened it and read it aloud. We wept. We held each other, overcome with love and awe.
Just hours later, Norah’s condition worsened and we were rushed back to the PICU. A few days after that, our precious little warrior was gone.
Today, as I reflect on that moment, I cannot shake the feeling that Norah was trying to tell us something—something she could no longer say aloud. I have no doubt that God arranged it all so that Norah’s final message, her last goodbye, would reach us through that note.
What were the odds? Out of forty-eight rooms, we were placed in the exact same one, at the exact moment we needed to be there. What were the odds that for ten months, no one had moved the note?
Norah, my love, my Little One, even in the days leading up to your return to your Heavenly Father, you found a way to comfort us.
And I will carry that comfort with me forever.
