Suddenly, the fever he had had for two weeks was gone. His temperature was normal. My husband and I were jubilant. I was already planning all the fun things we would do when he was discharged. But then his temperature dropped further and his body stiffened. Through the chaos, a nurse looked at us and said, with her voice full of compassion, “It’s that moment.” 

The moment when we had to choose if we wanted to continue to fight. Of course we would fight. What other option was there?

But it was a fight we ultimately didn’t have control over. Our dear sweet child died the following day. I didn’t know how to breathe let alone live. Sunlight physical hurt. I was in deep grief for three years. I was lost and uncertain how to live. I wanted to feel happy again—and I would get glimpses of it through our younger son, but I couldn’t sustain it.