Gastro

Lukas, when we first moved into our house on Munro Street, you got violently ill. It started with gastro, but when you threw up, some of it got into your lungs, and the gastro turned into pneumonia.

I remember how you wouldn’t eat or drink. We’d try giving you water, crackers, or plain bread, and you’d try, but you just couldn’t keep anything down. You were so weak you couldn’t even walk. Your mom and I thought maybe some fresh air would help, so we put you in the sandbox outside. But even then, you just sat there, pale and listless, and it became painfully clear that something was seriously wrong. You’d grown so skinny your arms looked like twigs.

We rushed you to the hospital, where they told us what was happening. Because you weren’t drinking any liquids, they had to put you on an IV. When they inserted it, you completely lost it. You screamed and cried, thrashing so much that by the time it was done, stress marks had appeared all over your face, back, and legs like acne. Your little body was drenched in sweat, and the whole ordeal left you exhausted.

The nurses told us you’d need to stay overnight.

At the time, I was working the graveyard shift at the mill, and your mom offered to stay with you. But I told her no—I’d do it. I was already on a night schedule, so I thought it made the most sense. More than that, I just wanted to be there for you.

I packed a bag with books, a little portable DVD player loaded with some of your favorite shows, and a few snacks. That night, I stayed by your side. When you finally fell asleep, I climbed into the tiny hospital bed with you, wrapping my arms around you. I hated seeing you like that—so frail, so unlike yourself—but I was glad to be there. It felt important to hold you close, to let you know you weren’t alone.

By the next day, you were strong enough to go home, and the nightmare was over.

It was one of the scariest moments of my life, and something I hope we never have to go through again.