Now I was watching grown men learn how to listen without interrupting.
How to accept no without feeling insulted.
How to keep private information private.
And how to show up for a family without expecting applause.
It was some of the hardest work we'd ever done.
And some of the best.
Tucker didn't know much about the program at first.
His treatment remained demanding, and Angie wanted his daily life to contain as much ordinary childhood as possible.
When he felt well, we played games.
When he was tired, we read.
When he wanted quiet, we left him alone.
One afternoon, he asked why I seemed happier than before.
I sat beside his hospital bed, holding a picture book about a runaway motorcycle.
“What makes you say that?”
He studied my face.
“You smile more.”
I considered that.
“Maybe I do.”
He looked toward the little white star on his vest.
“Is it because Sarah's helping?”
I felt my throat tighten.
I smiled.
“In a way, buddy.”
He nodded.
Then he held up Captain Chomp.
“I think she would like him.”
I laughed.
“I'm sure she would.”
He placed the dinosaur beside the little star.
Then he whispered, “You can tell her we're still fighting.”
I looked toward him.
“Yeah.”
I reached for his hand.
“We are.”
Autumn arrived slowly that year.
The Oklahoma heat gave way to cooler mornings, and the trees surrounding the hospital began turning yellow and red. On days when Tucker felt well enough, Angie took him outside to sit in the courtyard, where he watched birds hopping between flower beds and pretended the fallen leaves were tiny boats traveling across the pavement.
I visited when his schedule and energy allowed.
Sometimes we talked for an hour.
Sometimes five minutes was enough.
There were afternoons when Tucker wanted to play and evenings when he didn't even want the television on. I learned not to take those changes personally.
The illness was exhausting.
His body was working hard, and the treatments could leave him feeling miserable.
But through it all, he remained interested in the smallest things.
One afternoon, he asked me whether motorcycles slept.
I told him they did if their owners remembered to turn off the engines.
He frowned.
“That's not real sleeping.”
“Neither is what Ron does during club meetings.”
Tucker burst out laughing.
Another day, he wanted to know whether grown men ever got frightened of thunderstorms.
I told him Ron was terrified of spiders.
Tucker didn't believe me.
So I called Ron and put the phone on speaker.
“Ron, you scared of spiders?”