By Amy Keyes 
I am writing this at the hospital bedside of my dad, who just had quadruple bypass surgery, feeling endless gratitude to those incredible doctors and nurses who have kept his heart beating over the last few days that have felt like years. And by the time you read this, he will hopefully be back to begging my mom to let him eat a Superdawg and fries. (The answer will most definitely be no.)
Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in this hospital scene with my parents. But it is the scariest. Living far away, getting frantic calls—news that requires hopping in the car for a six-hour drive, or worse yet, so urgent I’m booking a last-minute plane ticket to O’Hare—is hard. Being away for almost 30 years, I’ve realized I’m lucky it hasn’t been more often those moments arise.
But when they do happen, even though I’m terrified beyond words, I know my parents have a village holding them up until I get there, one that will continue to do so long after I leave. It’s always been this way. It’s hard to pull out any of those treasured childhood memories that don’t also include the faces of one of their seemingly millions of friends.
I’ve always thought that if you’re lucky enough, you find a few amazing people to walk by your side in the good times and the bad. But my parents have been on a train of friends with every passenger car overflowing. People who have never exited, and who I know will continue with each other for the entire journey.
When these scary life changes arise, all their friends blanket our family with love, food, calls, and texts—endless reminders that no one walks these hospital halls alone. I don’t take any of that for granted and have so much love and gratitude for the way my parents and their friends care for one another’s children like their own.
But the thing I’m reflecting on a lot right now is the village my parents and their friends have created among their children. The village we never knew we needed until moments arise when we see our parents in distress.
We are the kids of the ’70s and ’80s who grew up at backyard barbecues. The holiday parties they dragged us to even when we’d rather be somewhere else. The Fourth of July pool parties where we awkwardly came together a few times a year at the beginning, then looked forward to attending as years went by. We were brought together, time and again, by the older generation . . . for decades. The bond between us that those moments in time cemented takes my breath away.
Because now we are grown-ups with our own families. With years and miles of time and distance between us. We’ve lived decades without backyard barbecues or holiday parties together, but we’re still bonded by the roots our parents planted.
We are all there for each other. Over and over. Another generation is nurtured in the love our parents feel for one another, love that has transferred down to us. Passengers in the caboose of that train car, filled with people who share history, stories, and a love for the community our parents built together.
We have watched (and continue to watch) our parents face the things no one ever wants to endure. Losses that come too early. Diagnoses that shatter your heart. Hospital visits that last too long. Through it all, we remember one another. We know each other’s families like we know our own. We love each other’s families as we love our own. We reach for one another. We hold each other’s hearts in the love and light that never grew dim from one generation to the next. It really is something to behold.
I hold gratitude for this village I needed more than I ever could have known. Every text. Every email. Every check-in. No need for pretending. No need to hold back. Being able to wear your heart on your sleeve. It all illuminates the beautiful way we show up for others.
So as I sit by this hospital bed counting every blessing, I’m grateful for every single one of the barbecues and backyard parties and Fourth of July pool parties—the brick-and-mortar for the village built right before our eyes without our even knowing it.
I’m grateful the bond we formed through our parents remains unbreakable and creates a village in times of darkness . . . one I am hoping to prioritize more in times of light.
by Alana Smith 
by Lisa Mullen 
by Alison Wright 
