The hospital was full of children who needed attention, and even the kindest staff members had responsibilities that pulled them from one room to another.
I never resented them for that.
I was grateful for every minute they gave my son.
Still, I watched Eli become quieter.
His collection of toy cars sat inside a small plastic container beneath the bedside table. He rarely asked for them anymore. When I offered to build a racetrack on his tray, he sometimes shook his head without looking up.
"Not today, Mommy."
I would smile.
"Okay, sweetheart."
Then I would turn away so he wouldn't see my face.
One morning, about two months after his diagnosis, Eli asked me a question that left me standing beside his bed for several minutes.
"Mommy, when can I go back to being regular?"
I looked at him.
"Regular?"
He nodded.
"Like before."
I sat down.
"Before what, baby?"
He glanced toward the IV pole.
"Before all this."
I felt tears rising.
I wanted to tell him that tomorrow everything would be normal.
I wanted to promise that the hospital room would disappear, his strength would return, and we would go back to stepping over toy cars on the living room floor.
But I had learned that promises could hurt when they were larger than the truth.
So I took his hand.
"I don't know exactly when, sweetheart. We're going to keep following your doctors' plan, and we're going to take it one day at a time."
He looked disappointed.
Then he whispered, "I miss racing."
I swallowed.
"Me too."
He turned his face toward the window.
For a while, neither of us said anything.
That was the morning I first saw the enormous biker walking down the pediatric oncology corridor.
It was almost ten o'clock.
I remember because the digital clock above the doorway displayed 9:58 when I stepped into the hallway to ask a nurse about Eli's next medication. The hospital was unusually quiet, and a volunteer was arranging books on a small cart near the nurses' station.
Then the elevator opened.
A huge man stepped out carrying a clear plastic bag.
He had a thick gray beard, faded tattoos covering both arms, and a black leather vest that looked strange beneath the bright hospital lights. His boots were heavy, but he walked carefully, as though he didn't want to disturb anyone.
A nurse smiled when she saw him.
"Morning, Wade."
"Morning."
"You're early."
"Traffic was friendly."
She laughed.
"That's a first."
He held up the plastic bag.
"Got some new racers."
The nurse glanced inside.
"Those look good."
He nodded.
"Figured the kids could use a change."