From scraps
This little piece was born out of a "scrap"—two words written in a notebook about something my son Daniel did a long, long time ago. It was the result of a writing exercise during a creative nonfiction workshop titled, "This is not (just) a sad story" conducted by Nora Borealis. Someday I may rework it into a longer piece, but for now here it is the way it came into the world.
We all look for solutions, even 4 year-olds. Doctors have said my son will die. For the past 48 hours he has had one apnea spell after another. I am tired. I should go home, take a shower, and rest a little, but "What if he dies?" I ask my husband. "He won't die," answers Daniel in that nasal voice he uses even now when wanting to emphasize something.
On the wall are the post-it-notes the nurse put on display for Caleb as a sweet gift from his older brother. Each one contains a piece of the "blood machine" Daniel has designed to cure him.
There we are—the four of us. Baby Caleb in his crib, Paul holding Daniel, and I next to them. The blood machine is behind us, and the three of us are hoping it works.
We all look for solutions, even 4 year-olds. Doctors have said my son will die. For the past 48 hours he has had one apnea spell after another. I am tired. I should go home, take a shower, and rest a little, but "What if he dies?" I ask my husband. "He won't die," answers Daniel in that nasal voice he uses even now when wanting to emphasize something.
On the wall are the post-it-notes the nurse put on display for Caleb as a sweet gift from his older brother. Each one contains a piece of the "blood machine" Daniel has designed to cure him.
There we are—the four of us. Baby Caleb in his crib, Paul holding Daniel, and I next to them. The blood machine is behind us, and the three of us are hoping it works.
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