Guest post by Hedgie @
Princess Hedgehog ChroniclesThey sit, arms entangled, caps tipped on top of their unruly hair as another Saturday T-Ball game stretches out like summer before them. Their heads are pressed together, they confer in some mysterious language known only to them. Every now and then one will tip back his head and laugh, the clear sound sending ripples over the field. Now five years old, the boys have been friends for two years of preschool and carpools, birthday parties and playdates with older sisters bossing the activities. The smaller boy is more expressive with his affection and greets his friend with warm hugs, grins; he's never been refused.
Another day, another boy shares his time. They head to the bowling alley, happy to be just two boys and a mom, no big sisters hovering nearby to take over. The second boy is dark, the same age, and quiet. Only the edge of competition is visible between them and they skirt it with a smile, hefting over the ball or uttering "good one" now and then. There is no challenge between them yet, and parting is time to race and yell "let's go!"
Between bites of our staple of lunches out — chicken strips — he glances up and holds my gaze with his water blue eyes so like his grandfather's. "I love you, Mom." No preamble, no agenda. He seems a little surprised at himself, then admits, "I didn't know I was going to say that until I said it."
"That's the best kind of 'I love you', buddy," I tell him.
Most mornings he is in the bed, sprawled between his father and I, when we awake. Somehow, sometime during the night, he managed to place himself between the covers, not waking us and leaving undisturbed the arthritic cat who has been known to reward unexpected movement with slashes. "Time to cuddle, Mom," he whispers, snuggling his blonde head in my neck and wrapping gentle arms around my waist.
His sister is two years older. The two of them are tightly bound, almost like an old married couple, knowing how to needle each other to blows and cajole the other back to good humor. If he is offered a treat he has never failed to ask for an extra to take to his sister, and he does, proudly offering his bounty to her. This past year he drew a family portrait and the family member who was at center, and the most detailed in his novice art portrayal, was not his mom or dad or cat but his big sister.
We are in the ER, another weekend begun in fun and ending with curved steel threading closed the edges of skin. This time his forehead carries the evidence of exuberance denied. Run, run, thump, sob. The sound brought me from dinner ministrations to the opening of the living room, where he is staggering towards me, a hand to the gaping wound, blood cascading down his cheeks. A warm blanket of calm wraps itself around me and I begin to touch him. As he relates in a cracked voice how he stumbled and flew into the hard leg of the chair I'm shepherding him into the kitchen, directing his father to get a clean towel from the drawer to staunch the flow, wiping the red drips from his blonde hair and dark lashes before they reach his eyes. His sister stands in the doorway, sizing up the scene, leaves and returns with her coat and a statement: "I'm going."
We all go. We are turned away from Urgent Care when they see the wound. The hospital ER requires longer waits: triage, registration, nurse, doctor, cleaning, doctor. While he is being stitched I am leaning on the bed, holding his hands and gazing into his tearless eyes. He is searching mine, seeking reassurance so I cannot look away. I count the stitches (2 interior, 4 or 5 exterior) and pretend he is the toy bunny I have recently sewn up, but the thread is not green, like the color we chose together. I don't think I can ask the doctor for a bright color; black seems to be standard issue. I decide to wink, a skill he has recently mastered. He winks back, and I melt. My little one, his forehead splayed open, already attempting to bridge the gap between boyhood and manhood by reassuring his mother that he is ok.
It is late. I am on the sofa reading, an unheard of pleasure. I hear him before I see the tumbled curls atop his small, sturdy frame in the doorway. "Mom, I can't sleep."
I hold out my arm and he tumbles over the sofa back, wedging himself between the pillows and my side, his breath warm on my cheek. We share the quiet of the slumbering house together. In a husky voice that hints of the boy he may grow to be my son asks, "Mom, do you think you're gonna die from the cancer?"
Oh, Danny, how do I answer you? Because I honestly, at this moment, think that I am going to die from the cancer that found its way into my breast, the breast that you nursed from for two years. The breast that you made such a sour face at before switching to the other side, the favored side. Did the milk taste foul to you? Would I have discovered the tumor sooner had I abandoned the sweetness of nursing you after only a few months, or did those two years keep the cancer at bay?
"No, Danny, I don't think I'm going to die from cancer." His body relaxes into mine, a deep sigh escapes his chest. He believes me. His arm twines itself around my neck like the star jasmine I planted near the front door last spring, the sweet tendrils of his love reaching, reaching far into my heart until I too, believe me.
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