I don’t know how he does it.
One minute, I’m barely holding it together, watching numbers beep and tubes shift and nurses murmur things I don’t understand. And the next, he’s asking if he can have two chocolate puddings today because “being sick should come with perks.”
That’s how my son is. Seven years old and hooked up to more wires than a gaming setup, and all he wants is to make sure no one skips his favorite episode of Paw Patrol.
I remember when the diagnosis came. The world stopped for me. It was like my brain couldn’t process the words. I cried in the car, in the hallway, in the shower. But him? He just blinked and said, “Okay, but can I still go to the arcade on my birthday?”
He doesn’t care. Not about the IV in his hand or the scar under his collarbone or the fact that he’s missed more school this year than he’s attended. He cares about whether the nurses brought grape or orange popsicles. Whether his game tablet is charged. Whether I remembered to bring the blanket with the puppies on it—the one in the picture.
Sometimes it frustrates me. I want to shake him and say, “Do you even get what’s happening to you?” But most of the time, I just sit there amazed. Because while I’m drowning in worst-case scenarios, he’s floating on this weird little island of joy. Unbothered. Unshaken.
And maybe that’s what keeps me going. Watching him face everything with such a carefree attitude, as if life hasn’t just thrown him into a storm he’s too young to understand. He’s brave in a way I’ll never be. I can barely face a cold without feeling like the world is collapsing around me, but here he is, my little superhero, taking it all in stride.
I can’t help but admire him for that.
And yet, it’s so hard to not wish for more. I want him to ask questions. I want him to express fear, to acknowledge the gravity of what’s happening. But I realize, over time, that maybe this is his way of coping. Maybe he’s teaching me something I need to learn.
“Mom, can I get another popsicle?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts, his eyes wide and hopeful. His cheeky smile almost makes me forget where we are. He’s lying in a hospital bed, yet all he seems to care about is the flavor of his treat.
“Sure, buddy,” I say, trying to smile despite the heavy lump in my throat. “What flavor this time?”
He gives me a serious look, the kind that only a seven-year-old could pull off. “Green. It’s got to be green. Green’s lucky.”
I laugh softly. “Alright, I’ll go ask the nurse for a green one.”
As I walk toward the nurses’ station, my mind wanders again to that first moment, when the doctor gave us the news. A rare disease, they said. One that was hard to diagnose, hard to treat, and hard to predict. A disease that no parent should ever have to hear about when their child is still so young.
I’ve spent so many nights lying awake, eyes wide open in the dark, trying to make sense of it all. Wondering if I could have noticed sooner, if I had pushed for more tests, if I could have stopped this from happening. But there’s no rewinding life, no do-overs.
I return to the room with a green popsicle and a smile plastered on my face, even though the fear is still bubbling beneath the surface. He’s already staring at the TV, his small hand reaching for the remote. He’s oblivious to the gravity of the moment, of how his world has been turned upside down.
“I’m going to win this level,” he says, a tone of determination in his voice. “This game’s easier than it looks.”
I watch him for a moment, and my heart both aches and swells. How can he be so unbothered? How is he so strong, while I crumble every time the doctor walks in with news about his progress or lack thereof?
But just as quickly, I see the way he glances at me out of the corner of his eye. There’s something in his expression—something so raw and honest—that hits me harder than any of the medical jargon ever could. He knows something is wrong. He knows things aren’t normal. He’s just not letting it stop him.
“Mom, do you think the nurse can bring me two more chocolate puddings tomorrow?” he asks, his voice hopeful.
I nod, but then a sudden thought strikes me, something that jolts me out of the little bubble we’ve created in this hospital room.
“You’re not worried, are you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyes flicker up to meet mine, and there’s a second of silence. He shrugs his tiny shoulders, like it’s no big deal.
“Not really,” he says, his voice so matter-of-fact it makes me laugh a little. “I’m just thinking about the arcade on my birthday. I mean, come on, what’s a birthday without games, right?”
I smile, though it feels bittersweet. He’s so innocent. So pure in his perspective.
But then, a twist happens that changes everything.
The doctor comes in later that day. A new one, one I haven’t met before, which always sends a shiver down my spine. Doctors come and go, but when they don’t know you, it means your case is special—or worse, complicated. And I know the look in his eyes before he even opens his mouth.
“I’m afraid we’ve had some complications,” he says, and I feel my heart drop into my stomach. “We need to discuss some changes to the treatment plan.”
I try to keep my composure, but inside, everything is collapsing. My head spins with panic as he lists off new procedures, new medications, new risks. I don’t hear much of it, just the rhythm of his voice, like static in the background. My son is still sitting in bed, blissfully unaware, playing his game and eating his popsicle.
But then the doctor pauses.
“Actually, we’ve had some good news,” he says, almost hesitating before continuing. “I’ve been working with another specialist. There’s a chance we might be able to try an experimental treatment—something that’s still in early stages, but has shown promise in cases like your son’s.”
My breath catches in my throat. The words echo in my mind: “good news,” “experimental treatment,” “promise.” It’s a lifeline. A thread of hope in the storm of uncertainty.
“Of course, there are risks,” the doctor adds. “We’ll need to monitor him closely, but it could make a significant difference.”
I feel like I’m floating. This could be the turning point. This could be the miracle we’ve been praying for.
And then, as if on cue, my son looks up from his game, his face full of curiosity.
“Is the doctor giving me more chocolate pudding?” he asks, oblivious to the weight of the conversation happening around him.
I laugh. I can’t help it. In the middle of everything, my son’s innocence, his sheer joy in the little things, pulls me back from the edge. He doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation, but somehow, that’s exactly what makes him so remarkable.
As I look at him, I realize something: His resilience is contagious. His laughter, his small victories, his ability to find joy in the midst of hardship—these are the things that have been carrying us both through this. He’s teaching me to hold on, to embrace the hope even when things seem impossible.
The doctor looks at me, his face unreadable, but I see the slight nod in his eyes. “I think it’s worth trying.”
And in that moment, I make a decision. I’m going to keep fighting, not just for the treatments, the medications, the medical breakthroughs—but for him. For his laughter. For his endless hope. I won’t let fear define this moment.
The rest of that day passes in a blur. I don’t know if the treatment will work, but I know this: we’re going to try. And no matter what happens, we’ll face it together.
As for my son, he’s still worried about cartoons, still making jokes about chocolate pudding. And that’s exactly what I need him to be. His strength doesn’t come from understanding all the details—it comes from his ability to laugh, to be present, to believe that life is worth living, no matter what.
And that’s the lesson, isn’t it? Life is full of uncertainties, but it’s the way we face them that matters most. Sometimes, it’s not about the big battles, but about finding joy in the small things. About staying hopeful when things seem darkest. About knowing that we are stronger than we realize.
So, if you’re facing something difficult right now, take a page from my son’s book: Don’t lose sight of the little joys. The moments of laughter. The hope. The chocolate puddings. Because those are the things that will carry you through.
Please share this story with someone who needs a little reminder that even in the hardest times, there’s always room for a little hope, a little joy, and a lot of love.
