Page 22 of Light

"Mom?" Tyler calls out sleepily from his room.

I quickly wipe my eyes and take in a few deep breaths. My son is incredibly intuitive, he'll no something is wrong if I don't get myself together quickly. I don't want him having to worry about this. I don't want him to be afraid.

"Yeah, baby. I'll be right there."

Quickly, I fold the letter up and slip it into one of the kitchen draws to keep it away from Tyler. Forcing a soft smile on my face I make my way to the back where his room is. I can't stop my eyes from scanning the space just to make sure there are no other surprises for me to find.

Tyler sits up in the bed and I perch myself on the edge of it to give him some space. "I feel good today, do we have to do the therapy this morning?"

I sigh and scoot over a little so I can rub his leg. I know it's difficult for him but if we don't do the therapy diligently day and night he'll end up all clogged up and we'll have to go to the emergency room. It's just not worth it.

"I'm sorry buddy. We have to." My heart fractures a little more when I watch his head drop and his shoulders slump."We’ll get it over with quick, I promise," I add, trying to keep my tone light.

Tyler sighs dramatically, slumping back against his pillows like I just sentenced him to life in prison.

"You’re so mean," he grumbles, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

I grin and reach out, ruffling his hair. "Tough love, kiddo. You know the drill."

Together, we move through the morning routine we’ve built into our lives like a second religion. I help him swing his legs over the edge of the bed, careful to move slow so he doesn’t get dizzy. His arms wrap around my neck without hesitation, and I lift him up with a small grunt, setting him gently on the mat we keep rolled up at the foot of his bed.

"Okay, arms up," I say, raising my own arms like I’m a trainer in a boxing ring.

Tyler mirrors me, stretching as high as he can, his little fingers wiggling toward the ceiling. We move through a few simple stretches, loosening his joints, getting his muscles warm.

He makes a big show of groaning and wobbling dramatically with each movement.

"Are you sure you’re not trying to break me, woman?" he whines.

I laugh. "No promises, old man. Stretch those hamstrings."

Tyler snickers and obeys, bending forward until his fingers barely graze his toes. The sight makes my heart ache and swell all at once. He tries so hard to be strong.

Once the stretching is done, I help him back into the chair beside the nightstand and prep the nebulizer.

The familiar buzz fills the air, and I hand him the mouthpiece.

"Alright, Darth Vader. You ready to join the Dark Side?"

He gives me an exaggerated eye roll but lets out a muffled laugh through the mask.

The medication mist curls into the air around him, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of him, making funny faces until he’s giggling around the mouthpiece.

"Stop," he wheezes between breaths, trying not to spill the nebulizer fluid. "You’re gonna make me snort medicine out my nose."

I hold my hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, you need all the power you can get. What if you turn into a superhero after this? Huh? Super Tyler, the mist monster."

His eyes crinkle with silent laughter.

When the timer on the machine buzzes, I set the mouthpiece aside and grab the vibrating vest for chest physiotherapy. Tyler helps me strap him in, his small fingers working the Velcro with stubborn determination.

"You’re getting too good at this," I tease. "You sure you even need me anymore?"

He shoots me a side-eyed look. "Who else would make me laugh through the torture?"

I grin and turn the machine on. The vest kicks into motion, shaking his little frame gently but firmly, helping to loosen the stubborn mucus in his lungs.

While it runs, we talk about nonsense. About the cartoon he wants to watch, the cereal he hopes I’ll make, how he thinks he’s ready to start "training" for baseball even though the most exercise he gets is during our therapy sessions.

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