The First Trip to the Hospital
By midweek, guessing was no longer enough.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, I drove Mason to the local hospital, a modern building with wide glass doors, bright fluorescent lights, and a faint smell of disinfectant and floor cleaner.
The doctor examining him was a calm man in his forties, listening carefully as Mason described the recurring stomach pain and nausea.
After pressing gently on his abdomen and asking routine questions, he leaned back in his chair.
“This looks like a digestive infection,” he said, reassuringly. “Very common in children his age.”
He prescribed medication and told us to return if the symptoms didn’t improve.
For a moment, relief washed over me so suddenly I almost laughed.
But it lasted only a few days.
Three nights later, I awoke abruptly to a strange sound from Mason’s room.
It took a moment for my mind to catch up. Then I realized—he was vomiting.
I rushed down the hallway, pushing open his door.
Mason sat on the edge of the bed, shaking slightly, sweat dampening his skin.
When I touched his arm, it felt unusually cold—too cold.
My heart pounded with a quiet urgency that replaced the earlier reassurances.
The next morning, we returned to the hospital.
