Journal entry

It’s 3:34 AM. I can’t sleep.

Something’s wrong.

It feels like a finger dipped in vinegar has hooked around my solar plexus and is twisting, twisting. A hot swelling hovers at the base of my throat. Tears sting my eyes.

Something’s definitely wrong. But we did everything right.

The surgeon removed the mass. I cleaned up the rest. The beam films were consistent. We were aggressive, and Dylan responded well. His scans looked clean. No metastasis. No cancer cells at all.

We gave him the parade. He got to wear the cape and ring the bell in front of all the other kids.

But it was premature.

I’m a doctor, for Pete’s sake. I should trust the science. But I can’t ignore the sour taste of fear in my throat. I know you’re still there. It was the same sleepless nights and nausea with Tori, and I ignored you then. And you clawed and crawled your way back into her tiny chest with a vengeance, you bastard. Like wild, angry fire. I could do nothing but stoke the flames and watch her burn.

But I’m watching this time. Closer.

You may be beaten and bruised, but you’re clinging on somewhere in Dylan’s brain, hiding, waiting. I know it.

I can’t quiet seem to find you yet. But I will.