His first foray into the kitchen that is currently my classroom is around lunchtime. “Mom, can you bruise a bone?” He stands just out of the camera’s line of sight, poking at his ribcage. “Yes,” I nod and he heads back to the living room, ostensibly to do more school work.
He returns around 2. I’m still online – now in a meeting. “Can you mute yourself?” he mouths. I do. He pushes at his ribs. “What do bone bruises feel like?”
Oh! I briefly ask about his concern and learn that he has a sore bump near the bottom of his right ribs. If the light hits him just right, I can see the bump. I remind him that he spent much of the weekend practicing flips on a neighbour’s trampoline and then went to his parkour class where he hurled himself up and over things. Repeatedly. I suggest that the bump/bruise is probably from that. He nods and wanders off again.
He lasts about 5 minutes. When he comes back this time, he’s obviously in distress. Tears threaten to fall over his bottom lashes, and the bump is a little red, probably from being pushed repeatedly since he’s doing that right now. I leave my meeting.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Well, only when I really press on it.”
“Do you want a Tylenol?”
His head shakes again.
“I’m sure it will go away if you stop pressing on it, love,” I soothe. At that, the tears spill out and run down his cheeks. He’s not sobbing, just silently crying in front of me. Then I know. I scoop him up in my arms – thank goodness he’s still small enough! – and whisper in his ear, “Are you afraid it’s cancer?”
He nods and begins to cry into my shoulder. Oh, my sweet. Oh, my love. I hold him and rock him and wipe away his tears. He has every reason to be afraid, though we haven’t shared all the details of our friend’s diagnosis. Still, he’s been to the hospital; he’s seen what chemo does; he knows that the grown ups are sad and upset.
“Do you want me to call the doctor?” A quick shake of the head. “Are you afraid of what the doctor might say?” He nods tentatively. “What if we call Grandma Donna or Grandpa Dave?”
He’s unsure of what, exactly, his doctor grandparents can do from a distance, but I have an inkling. We make the call. Grandpa Dave listens very seriously and asks us to send pictures. We hang up, and I sneak onto the back porch to call again and explain what’s happening. I hang up again. Back inside, we wait for Grandpa to call back. This time, he speaks directly with Eric. I’m not exactly sure what he says, but I know it involves Tylenol and ice and follow-up phone calls from Grandpa at least once a day for a few days, maybe the whole week.
That seems to do the trick. By dinnertime, the bump – now largely left alone – is smaller and less red. At bedtime, I remember a technique that Grandpa used on me back when he was just my dad: I draw a circle around the bump with a ballpoint pen so we can see if it grows smaller overnight. Eric seems content, and he reminds me that Grandpa will call tomorrow, just to double check.
Oh, my love, how I wish more things could be fixed with a photograph, a ball point pen, and a few calls from Dr. Grandpa.
Persistence and Pedagogy 
❤❤❤ This is beautiful, Amanda. And heartbreaking. Big hugs to your and your beautiful boy.
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Oh, friend. Those italic words. When a friend’s son died at 13, unexpectedly, of something previously undiagnosed, my 13 year old had some quiet times like this. Those italicized words are so powerful.
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It can be so hard to explain grown up things to kiddos and its so interesting how they all process and interpret things. I hope he’s feeling better!
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This feels like more than anyone should have to carry around. Your son, his friend, you. Her parents… these are the stories that stick with me. You responded with such love.
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I felt the worry inside of
him! I suffer from serious medical imagination attacks, usually about my children but sometimes about me. It’s easy to work ourselves up. Thank goodness for Grandpa Dave!
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There is magic in this telling, in the love of a mom for an aching child, and in the consultation of doctor-grandparents. Just so beautifully told, Amanda. Don’t we wish that so many things could be treated with such simple but incredibly deep caring.
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This line – “This time, he speaks directly with Eric. I’m not exactly sure what he says, but I know it involves Tylenol and ice and follow-up phone calls from Grandpa at least once a day for a few days, maybe the whole week.”
This short line conjures a whole story within the story. This is so clever and so relatable. The story is touching and your instinct to call grandpa is emblematic of your parenting prowess 🙂
This is is such a great story!
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Slice gives new meaning to, “Take two of these and call me in the morning.” In this case, the two is doses of loving attention from a pair of family members. Top-notch *care*!
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This!!! The way you wrote this made me laugh, “the bump is a little red, probably from being pushed repeatedly since he’s doing that right now.” The entire slice made me want to cry. Your ending is absolutely perfect, “Oh, my love, how I wish more things could be fixed with a photograph, a ball point pen, and a few calls from Dr. Grandpa.
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Isn’t this the truth of parenting, though? I’m half laughing at the absurdity of it all (he was literally poking the “bump”) and half heartbroken about the same thing.
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“…when he was just my dad…” Oh gosh. This is such a sweet way to put this. This whole thing just has me bawling. I’m so very sorry that your family is dealing with cancer in a dear friend. It must seem so terrifying and raw to children. So many unknowns, so much obvious, but also invisible. I love how you can pass along the comfort of that ballpoint pen to your sweet boy. He’s so lucky to have you and that dear Dr. Grandpa. Sending hugs.
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What a lovely piece! The details are perfect, the pacing is just right, and the ending… Such a lucky boy to have a Dr. Grandpa.
Kim
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Such a sweet post. I’m glad your little one was comforted by grandpa and I’m sorry he’s seen cancer up close.
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