Nothing sacred.
Then Caleb got sick.
At first, everyone said treatable.
Then complicated.
Then aggressive.
Then the language changed again.
We learned how much meaning doctors can put into words like response and progression.
We learned to identify the sound of an infusion pump alarm from another hallway.
We learned which vending machine at Bellhaven Children’s Medical Center occasionally gave two chocolate bars instead of one.
Caleb became friends with nurses.
Security guards.
Cleaning staff.
Other children.
People we never would have known if cancer had not rearranged our lives.
The final change came after a scan.
Daniel and I were asked to step outside Caleb’s room.
His oncologist, Dr. Evelyn Shaw, did not sit behind a desk.
She stood with us in a quiet consultation room.
