Then I felt Stan’s hand on my arm, comforting me or holding me back, I didn’t know. I wanted to shrug him off. He was supposed to be watching Noah, he was the one at home. He told me Noah had the flu!
My thoughts spiraled into fear, and then regret and shame. I didn’t shrug Stan off, because this wasn’t on him. I didn’t know what was wrong with Noah, but this was no one’s fault. Right?
“Thank you for your patience,” Dr. Garcia began. “Noah is going to be okay,” he began, and my chest tightened. “But let me explain Noah’s situation.”
I tightened my grip on Stan’s hand, bracing myself for what was to come.
“Noah has collapsed due to complications associated with diabetes.” He paused a moment, probably searching our expressions for what we knew of diabetes.
“Specifically, it seems he experienced diabetic ketoacidosis, or DKA.” Dr. Garcia’s voice was steady and soothing, but my head was spinning. “I won’t sugarcoat this. Diabetes is a severe condition that occurs when the body doesn’t produce enough insulin. Without insulin, the body starts to break down fat as fuel, producing ketones, which can build up in the blood and become acidic.”
My heart pounded in my ears. “He had flu,” I murmured. “Just the flu.”
Dr. Garcia nodded, but then he continued. “The immediateconcernwith DKA is the high level of acid in the blood, which can affect vital organs if not treated promptly.” He paused again, giving us a moment to process the information and Stan gripped my arm tighter. “But we’ve started Noah on insulin therapy to help bring his blood sugar levels back to normal. Along with fluids and electrolytes to prevent dehydration and address the acid-base imbalance.”
I wanted to be level-headed and understand what the doctor was saying, but I would make a deal with the devil right now to make sure Noah was safe. “What now?” I blurted.
Dr. Garcia sighed. “Noah has type 1 diabetes, which is a lifelong condition. But with proper management—regular blood sugar monitoring, insulin therapy, and dietary adjustments—he can lead a full and active life.”
“Will he die?” Margo asked softly.
I swallowed hard, images of athletic, vibrant Noah flashing before my eyes. “No,” I said, and pulled her and Eva into my side as best I could. Fear, confusion, and guilt flooded me but was mixed with a fierce determination. Noah was strong. We would help him.
Weweren’tlosing Noah.
Dr. Garcia offered a comforting smile. “What your dad said,” he offered. “Would you like to see him? He’s sleeping.” He shot me a glance that implied it wasn’t so much sleeping as unconsciousness, but to get to go in the room with him was everything.
“Let’s go.”
ChapterSeven
STAN
I am now convinced there is no hell on earth worse than sitting beside your child as they lie in a hospital bed.
If I never have to experience this nightmare again, I will go to meet my maker a happy man. Children should not get sick, not sick like this, not so sick they have tubes and machines attached to them. No. This is wrong. This is not at all in God’s plan for little ones. I refused to believe the Almighty would allow such a thing to happen to a boy as good and bright as Noah. I reached out to touch his arm, careful of the needles bruising his skin, as our boy rested peacefully. Erik sat across the room from me, dark circles under his eyes, silent and still. Too still. I knew he did not pray as I had been doing for hours now. His thoughts were elsewhere, somewhere dark and trying, I suspected, given how tight his jaw was.
I would have liked to press him about where his mind was, what he was thinking, but right now all I could do was focus on Noah as I petitioned God to forgive me for being such a bad father.
The door opened, a slim nurse entering, her dark gaze moving from my husband to me. “We’ll be serving breakfast soon. Would you like trays brought up?”
“No, I am not thinking of food right now,” I replied, my voice scratchy from not using it for hours. “But please bring some for my husband.”
“I’m good,” Erik announced, his tone dour as he rose with a groan that made the nurse glance at him with concern. “I need coffee.” He shifted to the bed, brushed a kiss to Noah’s brow, and then struggled around the nurse standing awkwardly just inside the doorway, her hands folded in front of her as she studied the stethoscope resting on her pink scrub top covered with dancing lemurs. Scrubs, yes? That was what the nurses wore to work? Ugh, my brain was failing as lack of sleep and stress began to set in.
“Would you please grab—” I managed to get out before he gave me a look that could burn through a brick building. I withered under his glare. He too knew this was on me. I should have seen our son’s condition worsening. I’d been home for weeks now. Weeks. Doing nothing but working on my rehab, my only concern returning to the ice. To the game. To the cheers of the crowd. What a pitiful, self-centered slug I was.
Erik left, the nurse exited, and I wiggled around in my chair, my ass and hips aching from sitting for so long. But they would have to use a crowbar to get me from this seat. Here I would sit, my new hips petrifying from lack of use, until my boy smiled at me.
I rubbed at my eyes, dry now, all the tears being shed overnight. My phone lay on the rolling table beside a pitcher of water and a box of tissues, turned off hours ago after I had texted Mama to let her know what was taking place inside Noah’s young body. Diabetes. IknewI should not have let Mama buy all those cookies the children coveted so much. I should not have let Erik treat them to ice cream after a good game. I should not have taken them trick-or-treating all those years. My God above, how had I allowed this to happen to my little boy?!
Someone knocked on the door, a gentle rap, subtle. A doctor perhaps, or the nurse coming with coffee or a Danish. My stomach rumbled but I ignored it. What right did I have to treat myself to sweets when my boy lay sick and weak? None. I had no right.
“Come,” I called, watching Noah in the hopes that my voice would rouse him, but he slept on, his eyelashes gold and thick as they rested on his sallow cheeks. “You can take back any food for I am not hungry.”
“Oh crap, well, I guess I’ll have to eat this Whopper all by myself,” Tennant whispered as he crept into the room. I shifted around on the chair, wincing at the pull at my surgery sites, to see my best friend pause at the end of the bed. “You know that they say Elvis loved Burger King.”
“Yes, I know this. He was the king and so he would love king food. I am not hungry; you may eat it.” I slid forward to take some of the pressure off my tailbone.
