Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Fortunately for us all, Aiden is truly doing well. Granted, he still has quite the journey ahead of him. Regrowing healthy marrow takes time, and it could also choose not to recover any further. He’s regularly supplemented with blood transfusions to help and he’s still a very sick boy. But overall, he’s is beating the odds. With a less than fifty percent cure rate with the transplant, we have nothing but gratitude for how well he’s done so far.
As we’re walking into the hospital, Dad tugs on the collar of his shirt a little.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Just a little nervous,” he replies. “Last time I saw Aiden, I wasn’t at my best.”
“But you are now,” I remind him. “And Aiden is so excited to see you. He loves you so much and he’s incredibly proud of your journey.”
My dad’s eyes glimmer with hope. “Yeah?”
I stop in the middle of the hall and pull my dad to the side so we don’t impede traffic. “You have an illness, Dad. No one understands that better than your son. You both have been bravely battling. It’s something you two share, so don’t be afraid to bond over that.”
“I just hate that my twelve-year-old boy has a drunk for a dad,” he grumbles. “I missed his birthday, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re not a drunk. You’re a recovering alcoholic. And we can’t do anything about this missed birthday. All we can do is make sure all the future ones are amazing. You do that for him, this twelfth birthday won’t matter.”
My dad nods before pulling me in for a quick hug. I pat his back, whispering, “We got this, Dad.”
“Yeah… we do.”
Although he doesn’t pull at his collar anymore, when we reach Aiden’s room, my father hesitates. I give him a hard push to his back, forcing him to go first into the room.
“Dad!” Aiden yells as I follow in behind, watching as my little brother expertly navigates the tangle of bedcovers and IV lines to roll out of bed.
And then he’s in our father’s arms and they are hugging as if it’s been a decade versus a few weeks. When my dad pulls back, his eyes shimmer with tears and so do Aiden’s. My brave kid brother rarely cries but seeing Dad get emotional throws him over the edge. I’m a complete emotional sap and my tear ducts kick into high gear. I have no choice but to move into the huddle and put my arms around the two of them as we cry out our reunion.
♦
“That hit the spot,” Dad says as he balls up the wrapper from his sub. Georgie brought us lunch from Moni’s—our very favorites. For me, baked potato soup that Charles made yesterday (it always tastes best on the second day) plus a small side salad with poppyseed dressing. My dad always goes with the classic Italian, but he doesn’t like vinegar and oil on his—which is weird—instead preferring mayonnaise. Aiden is all about the meatball sub, but God bless his little stomach that’s shrunk after months of decreased appetite. He barely ate half the sandwich before he was groaning in misery. Georgie also sent along slices of cheesecake we order from an amazing vendor and while Dad and I tore into ours, Aiden’s will go into the nurses’ fridge so he can eat it later. It’s against hospital policy to store patient food there, but lots of rules get broken for the sick kids.
I busy myself cleaning up, wrapping Aiden’s uneaten sub to take home with me. He’s not big on leftovers, but I’m hoping he’ll eat some of the cheesecake later. His sweet tooth hasn’t been satisfied since his birthday party last week.
“Want some ginger ale?” I ask Aiden. He normally drinks ice water kept in constant supply from the nurses’ station, but he looks green from eating too much.
Aiden shakes his head as he crosses his legs in the bed. “Nah. I just need a good burp.”
Dad laughs and I shoot him a stern look as I move the rolling table away. I open the armoire where I keep sanitizing wipes, tossing them to Aiden. He knows the drill and wipes his hands down. Normally, I’d make him get up and wash his hands, but I’ll let him slide until the sub digests. Dad and I wash up at the sink.
Settled back in my chair, I kick my feet up on the edge of Aiden’s bed. “Want to play a game?”
“Not until I burp,” Aiden groans, rubbing his belly and leaning back against the pillows.
Dad checks his watch. “I’ve got that AA meeting in about forty minutes.”
While he had intended to hit one from Harlow’s list, a nurse pointed out that they hold frequent ones right here at the hospital and lo and behold, one is scheduled to meet in the chapel today. Talk about karmic forces presenting opportunity.