I did not realize until much later that I had started watching my son’s life instead of participating in it.
My husband, Daniel Mercer, had developed his own version of the same problem.
He checked Caleb constantly.
“You cold?”
“You dizzy?”
“Need water?”
“Want to sit?”
“Should we call the nurse?”
“Too much?”
Caleb once looked at his father and said:
“Dad, I’m eating toast.”
Daniel replied:
“I know.”
“You’re watching me like it’s a medical procedure.”
Daniel laughed.
Then asked whether the toast was making him nauseous.
That was where we were when Caleb made his wish.
He was ten years old.
He had cancer.
And the treatment that was supposed to buy us more time had stopped doing its job.
