There was a long silence.
Then Ron answered, “Only the ones that are bigger than my motorcycle.”
Tucker laughed until his cheeks turned pink.
Those ordinary moments became precious.
Not because they distracted us from reality forever.
But because they reminded us that Tucker was still a child, not simply a diagnosis.
He had opinions.
He had terrible jokes.
He could be stubborn about bedtime.
He hated certain vegetables.
He loved dinosaurs and wanted every motorcycle in the world to have an unnecessarily loud horn.
The cancer occupied much of his life.
But it wasn't the whole of who he was.
Then, just before Thanksgiving, another difficult stretch began.
Tucker developed complications that required more hospital care. His doctors adjusted his treatment and ordered additional tests to understand how he was responding.
Angie called me late one evening.
Her voice was so quiet that I barely recognized it.
“Bear, can you come?”
I was already reaching for my keys.
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
“Is he all right?”
She was silent.
Then she whispered, “I don't know.”
I drove through the dark streets with both hands gripping the wheel.
I didn't speed.
I didn't run traffic lights.
But every minute felt impossibly long.
When I arrived, Angie was sitting outside Tucker's room.
Her face was pale, and she held a paper cup of coffee that had gone cold.
I sat beside her.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she leaned against my shoulder and began crying.
I wanted to ask a hundred questions.
I wanted to know whether Tucker was getting worse, whether the treatment was working, and whether the doctors had discovered something new.
But I waited.
Eventually, Angie explained that the latest findings had raised additional concerns. The medical team was reviewing the next steps and had told her they needed more time to assess the results.
She kept repeating the same sentence.
“I thought we were making progress.”
I looked toward Tucker's room.
“So did I.”
She shook her head.
“What if it isn't enough?”
I swallowed.
“I don't know.”
Angie closed her eyes.
“I hate that answer.”
I nodded.
“Me too.”
We sat together until a nurse came to explain that Tucker was resting comfortably and that Angie would be updated as soon as the medical team had completed its review.
The nurse was gentle.
She answered the questions she could.
She didn't make promises about the future.
And when Angie began crying again, she pulled up a chair rather than rushing away.
I watched her.
It reminded me of the nurses who had cared for Sarah.