Matthew Nguyen Norris

Eulogy for Matthew "Jay" Nguyen Norris

Our little boy, Matthew Nguyen Norris - better known to us as Jay - was born on July 28,

2023 at 5:42 in the morning.

Na's water broke at 4:45 a.m. We grabbed our go-bag and rushed to the hospital, hearts racing

faster than the car. The roads were quiet, and the few cars we passed moved aside when they

saw our hazard lights. It felt like the world itself was making room for him. And it was a good

thing we left right away - Jay was ready. Less than an hour later, we were holding him in our

arms.

He came early - 34 weeks - weighing just 4 pounds, 10 ounces. So tiny... but already so

strong.

From the moment he was born, Jay had to fight. He went straight to the NICU, where nurses

and doctors worked around the clock to keep our precious boy alive and safe. Seventeen days

later, we finally got to bring him home. I will never forget that drive, or walking through the door

with him in his stroller, not knowing what we were doing but knowing we would do anything for

him.

When I later came home from deployment without him, that same memory rushed back -

where the stroller was parked so the dogs could sniff him, where I first sat and held him. The

house remembers him, just like we do.

Na carried Jay not only in her body, but in every moment of his life. From the moment he arrived

early and fragile, she became his constant - learning medical terms no parent should have to

know, giving medications, soothing seizures, waking through the night again and again without

complaint. While I was away on deployment, she carried the full weight of his care on her own

shoulders, and she did it with quiet strength and endless love. She fought for him in hospitals,

held him through fear and exhaustion, and still found the energy to smile for him when he

needed it most. Jay knew his mother's voice, her touch, and her presence - and it was there

for him every single day of his life. The love she gave him was not just motherhood; it was

devotion.

Jay went through more in his short life than many people do in a lifetime - surgeries, therapies,

procedures, and countless seizures. But none of that ever stole his joy. He found comfort in our

voices. He would cry until one of us came to get him - and then he would be all smiles. His

laugh and his grin could light up an entire room.

He loved being tickled.

He loved being tossed gently onto the bed.

And more than anything, he loved his family - and he showed us every day, with his kisses, his

bites, and his bright, beautiful eyes.Some of my favorite memories are of holding him up to help him stand. He would light up and

start to coo, so proud of himself. Even though he never learned to walk, he knew how to try. He

would lift his knees high and balance on the sides of his feet - instinctively reaching for

something more.

Jay had this look - this look of anticipation - when we played with him. I would toss him onto

a pillow, and he'd laugh and coo. Then I'd pick him up again and he would go perfectly still,

waiting... just waiting for the next toss. And the moment I did it, the joy would come pouring out

of him again.

I made up a silly song for him to the tune of "Ring Around the Rosie,

" and at the end I would

tickle his belly. It became his favorite. No matter what he was doing, if I started singing it, he

would pause and listen. And by the time I reached the end, he would already be laughing -

even before the tickles came.

Even while I was deployed, I could sing that song to him over FaceTime, and he would still stop

and listen... and still laugh. That was how I knew he remembered me. That he knew I was his

dad.

When his aunts, uncles, and cousins came from Vietnam, Jay blossomed. I watched from far

away as he grew from a baby into a toddler in just one month. I was counting the days until I

could come home, sing him his song in person, and meet this new little boy he was becoming.

We were so close.

Not being there when he needed me most will forever be my deepest regret. I missed the last

six months of his life. But it brings me peace to know that he spent his final days surrounded by

family, cousins, laughter, and love - the happiest I had ever seen him. His life ended full of joy.

Jay taught us something sacred:

No matter how much pain you are in, no matter how heavy life feels, there is always room for a

smile... and always room for love.

It took a village to raise him. We will forever be grateful to our families and friends who stepped

in without hesitation, day or night, to help us care for our precious boy. Without them, we could

not have given Jay the beautiful life he had.

And even though he needed so much, he was never a burden.

He was never too much.

He was perfect.

Jay will always be our little boy.

Our miracle.

Our joy.

Our son.

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