If your first thought was "Rory is already a year old?", then thank a teacher, because your math skills have served you well. She's one year and twenty-three days old to be precise. What has happened since the last post of 4 months ago? Much. Much as happened since that time, my friends.
So while you may have assumed (fairly) that this blog was already finished based on the increasing lapse of time between posts, please allow me to close this story with a proper ending. Not a 'Chuck Noland at a cross-roads' ending, leaving more questions than answers about the fate of our intrepid hero. I'm talking about an ending that ties up all loose ends, leaves no questions, and knocks you out of your seat. I'm talking about a 'Bruce Willis is a ghost', 'Verbal Kint is Kaiser Soze' and 'Rosebud is a sled' quality ending here. Alright, maybe knocking you out of your seat is a bit ambitious.
Rory walks, she talks (goo-goo gaa-gaa, baby), she eats (solid foods), she poops (unassisted). Rory thrives. All without the apparent need for modern medicine, surgical support, herbal remedies, or shamanism to cure her ails. She's had her last appointments with her surgeon and GI docs, with instructions not to return. She has been incident free for longer than I can even remember, and our fears that she will relapse are all but gone. Any remaining concerns are more a memory of what could have been than a worry for her future. I can confidently report that Rory is healed. And other than that, there's not much more to say. We thank God for Rory's health and prosperity. We thank you for your thoughts and prayers. And we thank Rory for showing us that our family possesses a strength we did not know we had, nor ever thought we would need.
