That
was our life.
Messy, noisy, imperfect, and wonderfully ordinary.
We argued about home renovations, grocery expenses, and whether Ethan was old enough to have his own phone.
We complained about traffic.
We forgot appointments.
We worried about bills.
I never understood how precious those little frustrations were until I began wishing I could have them back.
Then Ethan’s cancer stopped responding to treatment.
One afternoon, his doctor asked Chris and me to speak privately outside his hospital room.
I remember staring at a cartoon football Ethan had drawn and taped to his door.
The doctor spoke gently.
“I’m very sorry. The treatments aren’t working as we’d hoped.”
Chris immediately began asking questions.
Could we try another medication?
Was there a different hospital?
What about clinical trials?
Could we find another specialist?
He pulled a parking receipt from his pocket and began writing everything down.
My husband was an engineer.
