At first glance, the two photos look almost identical.
The same type of hospital light.
Same small size.
That same quiet courage is evident in the features of a child’s face.
But those two photos were taken exactly thirty-one days apart.
Those thirty-one days quietly became the most devastating month in a family’s life.
Nobody knew that at the time.
Not doctors.
Not nurses.
Not the kind of parents who smile politely during morning briefings and thank everyone for “taking such good care of their children.”
When Bryson was hospitalized for his planned chemotherapy treatment, everything seemed to be going normally, as if psychological trauma had finally learned to disguise itself.
They’ve done this before.
The bags were packed to look exactly the same.
Fold identical pajamas.
I carried that same fragile hope into the same elevator that took me to the seventh floor.
They joked that the room was an “attic suite”.
The most expensive apartment in Minneapolis.
They used humor to overcome the fear that weighed heavily on their chests.
Overall, the trip was quite peaceful.
And boredom is a good thing.
Boring means not having a fever.
The word “boring” made his breathing sound a little more even.
Boring means having to wait for the numbers on the chart to increase digit by digit.
They were waiting for his vote count to increase.
They learned to celebrate even the smallest victories as if they were miracles.
An ANC consists of ten people.
Then there were twenty.
Then there are fifty.
Then there were seventy.
Then there’s one hundred and fifty.
Each number is like a promise.
Each time the boy struggled to his feet, it was proof that his small body was still fighting.
They celebrated the New Year right on the hospital grounds.
Fireworks are not allowed.
There was no champagne.
There were only whispered prayers and cautious smiles.
Bryson crawled on the floor on his diaper-covered bottom like a puppy.
A yeast infection had burned his skin, a devastating side effect of antibiotics and a body lacking the ability to defend itself.
They tried one cream after another, hoping to find a way to relieve the pain.
Every annoyance became unbearable because it belonged to him.
His stomach tube, which carries food, looked swollen and red.
A cystic mass forms under the skin, is dark in color, and holds many potential risks.
The term “MRSA” lingers in the minds of every parent without ever being mentioned.
An invisible threat.
A fear too great to put into words.
Intravenous antibiotics are used first.
Next came the ointment.
Then, the oncologist reassured me that my worsening condition could mean I was recovering.
That means his white blood cells have finally started functioning again.
The real war is taking place beneath the surface.
They clung to those words.
They clung to hope as if it were oxygen.
The blood transfusion took place quietly.
Platelets appeared afterward.
Hemoglobin levels drop and fluctuate just above normal.
I will have another blood transfusion tomorrow.
We have to wait again.
Another night spent listening to machines breathing for me.
They dream of home.
There are only six short days left until the next chemotherapy cycle.
The Christmas gifts are still carefully wrapped and waiting to be received.
I remember Bryson’s laughter echoing through those familiar rooms.
They believe they will return.
They always believed there would be plenty of time.
What they didn’t know was that this confession would be their last.
They had no idea that 22 days later, an ambulance would take him home for home care.
They had no idea that nine days later, he would be gone.
Cancer never gives any warning about its ultimate intentions.
It moves very smoothly.
It steals time little by little, so subtly that no one notices, until there’s nothing left.
That month passed in a whirlwind of numbers, procedures, and prayers.
The photographs captured the illusion of resemblance.
But things are changing.
His body was gradually becoming exhausted.
His battle was becoming increasingly fierce.
The hospital, which I previously felt was just a temporary refuge, now feels like my final destination.
When Bryson returned home, it wasn’t the return they had imagined.
There are no plans for a second cycle.
There was no countdown timer to get back upstairs.
All that could be heard was the sound of the ambulance driving away.
The word “hospice” alone is heavy and unbelievable.
Nine days later, silence enveloped the rooms where the machines had once operated.
The house still retains his scent.
His blankets.
His memories.
His absence.
The photos became unbearable.
They are 31 days apart.
A period of life has passed.
The parents kept reminiscing about those days in their minds.
Every moment.
Each choice.
Every breath.
They would readily relive the worst days a thousand times if it meant holding their child in their arms again.
Smell his hair.
Kiss him on the cheek.
I heard his voice calling their names.
Now they live with questions that have no answers.
Why him?
Why them?
Why cancer?
Some loves are so profound that they can reshape time itself.
That month will leave a lasting mark on their lives.
This is not a medical timeline.
But it’s proof that even in the shortest seasons, love can be endless.
