I used to measure time in medicine doses and thermometer readings.
Every four hours. Every six. Half a teaspoon.
One crushed tablet dissolved in apple juice he was too nauseous to drink.
My son was two years old and terminally sick. Those words felt unreal in my mouth, like I was speaking about someone else’s child. But it was my baby—my sweet boy with the soft curls and the sleepy smile—whose tiny body was fighting something far too big.
I hadn’t slept properly in days.
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