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Who is that child? What happened to him… or her? My heart aches for the family of that precious little one. Why did I have to turn around at that very moment? Why are the doors to our room open? We always close our doors.

My eyes burn and fill with tears as I cradle Hunter’s limp body and look into his beautiful yet fearful eyes. Realizing that I caught a glimpse of the lifeless child, the nurses rush to apologize. “You weren’t supposed to see that, Mrs. Kelly,” one says. “We’re so sorry.”

I imagine they become accustomed to death around here. Death is an ever-present shadow in the midst of life-giving technology, knowledge, and medicine. I can’t help but wonder if that’s how Hunter is going to leave the hospital this time—his beautiful angelic face and soft white body covered by a sheet?

It can’t happen. This won’t happen. No, Hunter will get better.

Tears pool and run down my cheeks, but I don’t want Hunter to sense that I’m a total wreck so I quickly wipe them off—again. The realization that he hears me crying jolts me from my grief. I must stop, for his sake. Hunter cannot afford to be fearful. My strength must be resurrected for my son. We both need to be strong.

The desire to close my eyes is overwhelming. Exhaustion consumes me, but there’s no time for sleep. I’m beyond sleep. Hunter needs me. Every move the doctors and nurses make must be monitored. He has to get better. We must do whatever it takes.

Watching my only son suffer is more painful than words can describe. And as I ache to take his place, even if just for a moment, the all-too-familiar, unanswerable question looms ever before me: Why does he have to go through all this? Why?

Yet in the midst of our family’s anguish, somehow I know he’ll make it home again, just as he has so many times before. He’s such a brave little soldier. He’ll come off that respirator and we’ll be home for Christmas. He’ll breathe again on his own. I just know he will.

And in that moment, there in Hunter’s hospital room, as I hold my son, I begin to recall the extraordinary chain of events that brought me to this moment.

Chapter 1

Not What It Seems

January 21, 1997

It’s hard to describe the emotions wrapped up in the day. After devoting heart, soul, and life to the game of football, my husband, Jim, had decided to hang up his football cleats. After four Super Bowl appearances, four AFC Championships, six AFC East Championships, and five Pro Bowl invitations, “K-Gun Kelly” would no longer lead the Buffalo Bills as their quarterback.

Throngs of teammates and fans as well as family members and friends filled the Buffalo Bills Fieldhouse on that brisk afternoon. I vividly remember walking through the back entrance and slowly making our way across the artificial turf to the front end of the building where the temporary platform and podium stood. It was impossible not to think about the countless hours that Jim had spent here.

It was also difficult to comprehend what our life would be like without football as the focus. My heart ached for Jim; his life had intimately revolved around this game since he was a boy, and now he was walking away. Football defined Jim—it defined our family. Our lives were consumed with the sport and the passionate man who played it so well: my husband. The more I thought about the uncertainty of the future, the more anxious I became. I didn’t know what to say to Jim as we walked across the field, so I just held his hand.

Noisy chatter from fans and media anticipating Jim’s farewell ceremony surrounded us as we approached the curtain behind the stage that separated Jim from his devoted well-wishers. Jim paused to compose himself before taking the stage and reviewed his speech one last time. Meanwhile, I watched and waited for our cue to enter the roped-off area.

It was an unprecedented moment. For years, Jim had calmly handled the weekly pressure and scrutiny associated with being the quarterback of the Bills, but at this point, he was a nervous wreck.