He listens to everything the oncologists and surgeons say so he can explain it to me over and over again later. He is the one who Googles now. He doesn’t tell me what he reads, but I learn later it’s not good.
Halfway through Aiden’s first round of chemotherapy, he vomits bright green. At midnight I ask for an MRI, and it shows swelling in Aiden’s brain. We transfer to the ICU, and he is scheduled to have a shunt put in the next morning, my 40th birthday. On a rare night home after Aiden’s second round of treatment, he spikes a fever. We drive to Children’s Hospital at 2 am, and Nick sleeps on a gurney built for a child while I sleep in the back of our SUV in the parking lot. We don’t know that soon we will leave the hospital with an empty car seat.
I wake up in the middle of the night gripping my chest and crying for my son. Nick is next to me helpless while I squirm and kick my legs reaching for Aiden. Eventually, I tire and settle with my head on Nick’s chest.
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