My five-year-old son, Theo, can’t absorb all that is going on, but he knows this much: His Mommy is sick and he wants to help.
I often wear a tank top around the house. I’m always hot. It’s always been that way.
My incision where my port was placed last Friday is badly bruised and angry, in a 4 inch by 4 inch area just below my right shoulder that is streaked in yellows and purples. An attempt to cover it with a tank-top strap is futile.
This morning, Theo examined it carefully, gingerly, tipping his head to the side in little boy curiosity, wonder, inquisitiveness.
“Ooooooohhhhhhhhhh, Mommy. That’s a real ouchie!”
Then he disappeared upstairs. I thought maybe he’d hit his “overload” button, as has been often been the case lately.
But a minute later, he reappeared, holding a Band-Aid the clear, brilliant turquoise of Carribbean waters.
“Here, Mommy. This will make it feel better,” he said.
I bent down and he studied the boo-boo ever so seriously, then gently placed the bandage over the top, patting it ever so lightly.
“There!” he said with a sense of accomplishment. “All better!”
Anything and everything is better when it comes from the hands and heart of your little boy.
— Amy Rauch Neilson
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