By then, I had stopped trying to guess what the medical professionals would tell us.
Every explanation I imagined led to another question.
If they found nothing unusual, why had they asked for more help?
If they had noticed something significant, why couldn't they tell us what it was?
I knew the answer to the second question.
They needed to complete their assessment before drawing conclusions.
I understood that in principle.
Understanding it did not make the waiting easier.
Ethan had become tired.
His head rested against my arm, and his eyes kept closing before he forced them open again.
I told him he could sleep if he wanted.
He shook his head.
“I want to be awake.”
“Why?”
“In case somebody comes out.”
I didn't argue.
I moved my arm so he could rest more comfortably.
His grandmother watched us with red eyes.
“He's always been close to her,” she said softly.
I nodded.
Laura had been the person who could settle him fastest when he was upset.
She knew which stories he liked to hear at bedtime and which stuffed animal he needed beside him when he was frightened.
She knew how to turn an ordinary afternoon into something he would talk about for days.
I had thought I could keep those memories alive for him.
I still hoped I could.
But sitting in that waiting room, I felt the weight of everything I didn't know how to replace.
A father could make breakfast.
He could help with homework.
He could sit beside a child when the child cried.
But there were parts of being a mother that I couldn't simply take over by deciding to try harder.
I would have to learn.
One day at a time.
If only I knew what those days were going to look like.
I looked at the door again.
The memory of Laura's hand returned without warning.
It had seemed warm.
That was all I could honestly say.
I had not checked her temperature.
I had not known how to interpret what I felt.
I had simply noticed something that surprised me and then accepted the explanation I was given.
I didn't want to turn that memory into proof of anything.
It wasn't proof.
It was a detail that had stayed with me.
Ethan's words were another detail.
The medical team's response was another.
None of those things gave me the answer I wanted.
Together, though, they had convinced me that asking for another assessment was the right decision.
I had to leave the conclusions to the people qualified to make them.
A member of the medical team passed the doorway carrying supplies.
He didn't stop.
I watched him disappear down the hall.
My mind began filling the silence again.
I remembered the funeral that morning.
The chairs arranged in rows.
The flowers.
The sound of people speaking about Laura as if her life had already become a story we could tell in the past tense.
I had stood beside Ethan and thanked people for coming.
I had shaken hands.
I had listened when relatives said they were sorry.
I had tried to remain steady because I thought my son needed to see that his father could handle the day.
Now I wondered whether I had mistaken steadiness for silence.
Maybe I had been so focused on getting through the arrangements that I hadn't allowed myself to notice anything that didn't fit.
Maybe I had wanted the process to be finished so badly that I had stopped thinking critically.
I couldn't be certain.
Grief made every memory feel different when you looked back at it.
Some moments became clearer.
Others became confused.
I didn't trust myself to turn the past three days into a neat explanation.
I only knew what had happened in front of me.
Laura had died, according to the doctors.
We had held her funeral.
Ethan had insisted he heard her calling his name.
I had remembered her hand feeling unexpectedly warm.
I had asked for help.
And now medical professionals were conducting an additional assessment because they had noticed something that required attention.
Those were the facts I had.
I held on to them.
Ethan stirred beside me.
“Dad?”
“I'm here.”
“Can we go home after this?”
The question caught me off guard.
“I don't know yet.”
He looked disappointed.
I touched his shoulder.
“We'll find out what the doctors say first.”
“Will we sleep at home tonight?”
“I hope so.”
He was quiet for a while.
Then he asked, “Will Mommy come home?”
My chest tightened so sharply that I had to look away.
I wanted to give him a simple answer.
I wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, that the medical team would explain what had happened, and that we would never have to feel this frightened again.
But I couldn't promise any of those things.
So I held his hand.
“I don't know, sweetheart.”
He looked down.
“I miss her.”
“I miss her too.”
That was all we said.
We didn't need to explain the size of the loss to each other.
It was sitting between us.
A little later, Laura's mother stood and walked to the window.
She watched the rain for a while before turning back.
“I keep remembering her as a baby,” she said.
Her voice was thin.
“I remember carrying her around the house. I remember thinking I had to keep her safe from everything.”
She pressed a tissue to her face.
“And now I'm here, and I can't do anything.”
I stood and went to her.
“You're here with us.”
She looked at Ethan.
“That's not enough.”
I didn't pretend otherwise.
Sometimes being present was all a person could offer.
Sometimes it was all a person could bear.
We returned to our seats.
The room smelled of wet coats and the faint scent of disinfectant.
I noticed that the funeral director had placed his jacket over the back of a chair.
His hands were clasped in front of him.
He looked toward the examination room, then at me.
Neither of us spoke.
There was nothing left to say that would make the next few minutes pass faster.
I thought again about how quickly I had accepted the first explanation about Laura's hand.
I didn't want to punish myself for trusting the people responsible for her care.
But I wanted to remember this feeling.
Not the panic.
Not the shame.
The realization that a question could deserve attention even when the person asking it was frightened, young, or unable to explain it properly.
Ethan had not understood the medical implications of what he believed he heard.
Neither had I.
That was why we had asked for help.
I looked down at him.
He had finally closed his eyes, though his fingers still held mine.
I didn't move.
For a few minutes, I let him rest.
The medical team continued its work behind the closed door.
We waited without knowing what the next answer would bring.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: When the Specialist Finally Returned, I Had to Face the Fact That We Could No Longer Rely on Our Earlier Assumptions
My Son Asked Me to Question the One Thing I Thought I Had Already Accepted
Part 7 of 24
