Page 30 of What Should Have Been Ours

Cam: I’d rather you just come play nurse if I get injured. Make it worth my while.

My Future Wife: I’ll consider it.

I shove my phone back into my pocket before Wes can get his grubby hands on it again.

Wes watches me, his smirk widening. “Yeah. Just a friend, huh?”

I roll my eyes, taking a long sip of my coffee.

The laughter in the lounge is still going when the sharp ding of a pager cuts through the noise.

I glance down at my waist, but it’s not mine.

I look up and see that it’s Wes’s.

His easygoing expression vanishes instantly. He straightens, already moving as he pulls his pager free and scans the screen. His jaw tightens. “Peds Onc. Code blue.”

The words knock the air out of my chest.

Everything around me blurs, and then the same message appears on my pager, too.

We don’t say anything. We just move.

We sprint down the hall, past nurses, patients, and families in the waiting area who don’t yet know that someone’s worst nightmare is happening just around the corner from them.

By the time we reach the Peds Oncology Unit, the room is already packed—nurses moving quickly, an attending physician barking orders, the heart monitor beeping erratically, faltering.

Dr. Reynolds is at the head of the bed, her face grim. “He coded five minutes ago. We got him back for a second, but he’s crashing again.”

I recognize the little boy in the bed instantly.

No. No, no, no.

It’s Jacob.

Seven years old. Diagnosed six months ago with leukemia. He was responding to treatment. He was supposed to be getting better.

I swallow back the wave of nausea rising in my chest. I’ve gotten really close to Jacob over the last couple of weeks being here.

I don’t think. I just act.

I take over chest compressions while Wes takes the lead, calling for another round of epinephrine.

We do everything we can. Everything. But eventually, the inevitable comes.

Dr. Reynolds exhales, looking at the clock. Then, softly, she says the two words I hate more than anything. “Call it.”

Wes hesitates, his throat bobbing, but then he checks his watch. His voice is hollow when he says, “Time of death…9:52.”

Silence. No one moves. No one breathes.

The only sound in the room is the heart monitor’s flat line, steady and final.

I step back from the bed, my hands clenched into fists. My pulse is pounding in my ears.

Jacob’s mom isn’t here yet. She has no idea that she’s going to come back, and her son is going to be gone. Just like that. With no warning.

And we’re going to have to tell her. That’s always the worst part. How do we tell her that her son, who we thought was getting better, is now gone, and she wasn’t even here to be by his side or say goodbye?