Bubbles of Hope
alone;
Golden light flooded through the spaces between the shades of the window, illuminating a small boy, with blankets carefully placed and tucked around his small frail body. A father sat in an old worn chair, bearing the mold of him, for that chair had seated him for days on end. His calloused hand, the result of hard labor, cupped the small boys face softly, careful not to wake him.
Why him?, thought the father. His lip quivered, and felt a flood of tears building up behind his emotionally masked face. He looked away, he didn't want to awake the sleeping child with his fits of sorrow. He looked away from the child, away from the sight of the dark curls on his head slowly shedding from the extensive chemo, the dark circles embedded beneath his eyes, the deathly pale complexion of a boy that was sick.
The man took in the room around him. The impossible white walls, the sick yellow checkered floor tiles, the beeping monitors. This wasn't home. But we've been here long enough for it to be, he thought.
Why did I not notice earlier?, he thought. The signs were always there.
"Papa, i don't feel well", the small voice of a three year old boy whispered, broken. His head was pounding so hard, it hurt to think. And his eyes were drooping, he was so tired. The boy put his spoon down, and set it aside to his full bowl of cereal, having no appetite, for his stomach was churning horribly.
"I'm sure it's just a cold, Dallon, just sit down and-" but his advice was cut short by footsteps banging on the floor, a door slamming and the sound of a stomach being emptied. The man ran to the toilet, and there was his child, heaving out his guts, and tears rolling down his sickly pale face. The father picked the boy up, feeling the his labored breaths pound onto his chest. He carefully laid him in his bed, and pulled the covers over him. And breathed a sure diagnosis.
"I'm sure it's just a cold"
But it wasn't, the man thought. But oh, how he wished it was.
A knock at the door interrupted the mans thoughts, as a nice man in a long white coat strode in,
"Good morning, Mr Fields, I'm just going to do his bloods today", the doctor said with a small smile. The man nodded in acknowledgment, and remembered the day that he had met the small man with the big heart.
"I don't know what's wrong, Doctor O'Toole, he's tired, he's been spewing, he said that his joints are sore, he has a constant fever, and he's lost so much weight.." he breathed, with Dallon tucked into his arms, sleeping sound. The doctor nodded grimly, and asked,
"Collin, may i please look at his back?" The doctor asked the father. Collins eyebrows knotted together in confusion, but nodded anyway. The doctor slowly pulled up the back of the boys striped t-shirt, and it revealed something that wasn't supposed to be there. Horrible dark bruised, patched along the skin of his back. Collins eyes widened, and whispered,
"What are those?" The doctor looked up, and sad quite sadly,
"We're going to have to run a few tests, sir" Collin felt his head bob up and down, not fully grasping it.
"Just a couple more minutes, Collin" The doctor smiled.
Leukemia
Collin held the phone tightly in his grasp, the cord wrapped around his fingers, so tight that they were going purple. His jaw clenched and he hissed angrily into the phone,
"What do youmean you're not coming?" He heard rustling in the back round, and a sigh.
"Look, Collin, I'm not going to come. I have a family here, and I'm not going to give that up to look after some sick kid" the woman on the other line said, quite snarkily. Collin snapped, and yelled into the phone,
"Some sick kid!? He's your fucking son too, Carrie! Stop being a fucking heartless bitch and come see him!" Anger was rolling off of him, his hands were shaking in anger. A sigh was heard from the other end.
"I'll send a cheque for his medical bills. Goodbye, Collin" The phone started beeping. He was shocked. He was sad. He was furious. He felt all of the anger inside topple over, and his fist connected with the wall, taking all of the frustration into destroying it. When there were five holes punched into the grey wall, he felt like a dam broke. He let himself slide down the wall, and cry. He cried and he cried. Sobs of a broken man echoed through the empty house. No one was there to comfort him. He was in this by himself.
"Papa?" a sweet voice sounded from the bed. Collins eyes fluttered, and widened at the sight of the boy. Rosy red cheeks, and a full smile. He reached out for Dallon's hand, and squeezed it lightly.
"Yeah, Dal?"
"Can you blow some bubbles for me?" Dallon said, his brown eyes sparkling in hope. And how could Collin say no? So he pulled the bright green bottle from his backpack and blew. And as he blew bubble after bubble, and his son reached and smiled and laughed, he knew that he'd done his best.
This is all we have, so we may as well enjoy every single bit
Why him?, thought the father. His lip quivered, and felt a flood of tears building up behind his emotionally masked face. He looked away, he didn't want to awake the sleeping child with his fits of sorrow. He looked away from the child, away from the sight of the dark curls on his head slowly shedding from the extensive chemo, the dark circles embedded beneath his eyes, the deathly pale complexion of a boy that was sick.
The man took in the room around him. The impossible white walls, the sick yellow checkered floor tiles, the beeping monitors. This wasn't home. But we've been here long enough for it to be, he thought.
Why did I not notice earlier?, he thought. The signs were always there.
"Papa, i don't feel well", the small voice of a three year old boy whispered, broken. His head was pounding so hard, it hurt to think. And his eyes were drooping, he was so tired. The boy put his spoon down, and set it aside to his full bowl of cereal, having no appetite, for his stomach was churning horribly.
"I'm sure it's just a cold, Dallon, just sit down and-" but his advice was cut short by footsteps banging on the floor, a door slamming and the sound of a stomach being emptied. The man ran to the toilet, and there was his child, heaving out his guts, and tears rolling down his sickly pale face. The father picked the boy up, feeling the his labored breaths pound onto his chest. He carefully laid him in his bed, and pulled the covers over him. And breathed a sure diagnosis.
"I'm sure it's just a cold"
But it wasn't, the man thought. But oh, how he wished it was.
A knock at the door interrupted the mans thoughts, as a nice man in a long white coat strode in,
"Good morning, Mr Fields, I'm just going to do his bloods today", the doctor said with a small smile. The man nodded in acknowledgment, and remembered the day that he had met the small man with the big heart.
"I don't know what's wrong, Doctor O'Toole, he's tired, he's been spewing, he said that his joints are sore, he has a constant fever, and he's lost so much weight.." he breathed, with Dallon tucked into his arms, sleeping sound. The doctor nodded grimly, and asked,
"Collin, may i please look at his back?" The doctor asked the father. Collins eyebrows knotted together in confusion, but nodded anyway. The doctor slowly pulled up the back of the boys striped t-shirt, and it revealed something that wasn't supposed to be there. Horrible dark bruised, patched along the skin of his back. Collins eyes widened, and whispered,
"What are those?" The doctor looked up, and sad quite sadly,
"We're going to have to run a few tests, sir" Collin felt his head bob up and down, not fully grasping it.
"Just a couple more minutes, Collin" The doctor smiled.
Leukemia
Collin held the phone tightly in his grasp, the cord wrapped around his fingers, so tight that they were going purple. His jaw clenched and he hissed angrily into the phone,
"What do youmean you're not coming?" He heard rustling in the back round, and a sigh.
"Look, Collin, I'm not going to come. I have a family here, and I'm not going to give that up to look after some sick kid" the woman on the other line said, quite snarkily. Collin snapped, and yelled into the phone,
"Some sick kid!? He's your fucking son too, Carrie! Stop being a fucking heartless bitch and come see him!" Anger was rolling off of him, his hands were shaking in anger. A sigh was heard from the other end.
"I'll send a cheque for his medical bills. Goodbye, Collin" The phone started beeping. He was shocked. He was sad. He was furious. He felt all of the anger inside topple over, and his fist connected with the wall, taking all of the frustration into destroying it. When there were five holes punched into the grey wall, he felt like a dam broke. He let himself slide down the wall, and cry. He cried and he cried. Sobs of a broken man echoed through the empty house. No one was there to comfort him. He was in this by himself.
"Papa?" a sweet voice sounded from the bed. Collins eyes fluttered, and widened at the sight of the boy. Rosy red cheeks, and a full smile. He reached out for Dallon's hand, and squeezed it lightly.
"Yeah, Dal?"
"Can you blow some bubbles for me?" Dallon said, his brown eyes sparkling in hope. And how could Collin say no? So he pulled the bright green bottle from his backpack and blew. And as he blew bubble after bubble, and his son reached and smiled and laughed, he knew that he'd done his best.
This is all we have, so we may as well enjoy every single bit