Not This Boy

Jack’s classmate, the little boy for whom we had the blood drive, is not doing well.  His liver is reacting negatively to the chemo he had before the marrow transplant.  His tummy is swollen, he’s feeling bad, and his “numbers” (whatever they’re tracking) are “not good.”

Anyway this doesn’t help him, or stop these chain reactions, or unswell his stomach or shrink his enlarged liver, but I have to ask you all anyway to please think of this kid, and send him your prayers or positive thoughts or vibes or whatever you do.  I haven’t truly, fervently prayed myself in years, given my ambiguous attitudes, but I’m doing it now, daily, every hour.  Please God, not this little boy.  Let this one stay.

I don’t even know why I’ve taken on this burden, I’ve never really met this kid or his family.  I guess it’s just transference.  There’s a picture of him in the little pipe cleaner reindeer antlers the kids all wore at their Christmas concert, we have one of Jack just like it, I mean *just* exactly the same picture, and I guess it’s just too close.  Too close for me to bear thinking of it.  It’s not Jack, Jack is fine.  Liam is fine.  We’re fine.  But how quickly, how easily we could be not fine.  Benny and his dad were at the same Christmas concert we were, having the same Christmas cookies, clapping along to the same silly songs, unaware.

You can’t prepare for these things by thinking about them excessively, I know it.  Brooding over it helps no one, it just makes me sad when I don’t have to be.  Nevertheless.  I’m caught up.  Bound up.  Involved.  And terribly, terribly sorry that this could end badly, and soon.  He’s two.

Not this boy, dear Lord, not this boy.  Let him stay.  Not this one, Lord, please, please let him stay.  Not this boy.

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2 Responses to Not This Boy

  1. EH says:

    It’s so heartbreaking. When I was pregnant with P, the perinatal department was in the children’s hospital RIGHT next to the day surgery area. So many emotions – fear, guilt, gratitude – all rolled into one.

    They moved the perinatologists not long after we stopped needing to go.

  2. Pingback: One Sentence Story – The Vigil | The Reluctant Grownup

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