We gave him a vest. A tiny leather vest with patches on it. “Little Warrior” on the back. “Iron Guardians MC” on the front. He put it on over his hospital gown and laughed for the first time since I’d met him.
The nurses took pictures. The doctors stopped by to see what the commotion was about. And for one afternoon, Ethan wasn’t a dying child. He was a biker. A brother. Part of a family.
I was alone with Ethan, helping him eat his lunch, when the man appeared in the doorway again. He looked worse than before. Unshaven. Clothes wrinkled. Eyes red.
“Can I talk to you?” he asked me. “Outside?”
I looked at Ethan. “I’ll be right back, buddy.”
In the hallway, Ethan’s father broke down. Slid down the wall and sat on the floor, sobbing into his hands.
“I can’t do it,” he cried. “I can’t watch him die. I watched his mother die in this same hospital. Same floor. Same hell. I can’t do it again.”
I sat down next to him. Didn’t say anything for a long time. Just let him cry.
Finally, I spoke. “Your boy is dying. Whether you’re there or not, he’s dying. The only question is whether he dies alone or whether he dies knowing his daddy loved him enough to be there.”
“I do love him.”
He looked at me. “How do you do it? You’re not even his father. How do you walk in there every day knowing he’s going to die?”
“Because he asked me to,” I said simply. “A little boy asked me to be his friend because nobody else would. I couldn’t live with myself if I said no.”
“I’m his father. I should be the one…”
“Then be the one. It’s not too late. He’s still here. He’s still fighting. He’s still waiting for you.”
The man didn’t say anything. Just stood up and walked away.
I went back to Ethan’s room. He was wearing his biker vest over his hospital gown, looking at the patches.
“Is my daddy okay?” he asked.Continue reading…
