Part Two
The sound of the double doors creaking open snapped me back to attention. I saw the paramedics wheeling Kingston’s gurney toward the waiting ambulance. I wanted to run, to reach out, to grab his hand and pull him back to me, but I was tethered by the hospital’s rules and the lingering shadows of the past. Instead, I watched with bated breath, my heart racing as they approached the vehicle that would carry him away from the prison of sterile walls and fluorescent lights. “Just a little longer,” I whispered to myself, gripping the stuffed octopus tighter, as if it could somehow bridge the distance between us. The world around me blurred as I focused solely on Kingston—the little boy who had been through so much, who was now about to embark on a new journey. I was determined not to let anything distract me from the joy of his return. As I stood outside the hospital, clutching a plush octopus in my hands, my heart raced with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Kingston had been in this hospital for three long months, and I had come to refer to it as his prison. The sterile walls, the beeping machines, the constant interruptions—it felt more like a cage than a sanctuary. When he was admitted to the cancer floor indefinitely, I had elaborately decorated his room with sea creatures, particularly sharks, which reflected his vibrant, never-stop-moving spirit. But today, this octopus was my new hope. On sale at Target, its colorful tentacles would wrap around him, giving him all the hugs I couldn’t provide during our separation. With each passing moment, my excitement grew to an unbearable level. I was teetering on the edge of nausea, the overwhelming urge to throw up almost tangible. Kingston was finally coming down from his room, and I could hardly contain myself. The anticipation was almost too much to bear; all I wanted was to have him back with me, away from his dad, away from this hospital—away from everything that had kept us apart. Suddenly, as if to heighten my anxiety, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a message from Dr. Plant. She wanted me to let her know when I was outside so she could come say goodbye and prepare me for what lay ahead. Gratitude washed over me like a warm tide. Dr. Plant had been a steadfast advocate for our reunion, pushing through hospital bureaucracy to ensure that Kingston could transfer to UCLA. The lengths she went to were nothing short of heroic; she even faced reprimand for it. Dr. Plant was not just a doctor; she was a lifeline. She had completed her residency at UCLA and had quickly become a hot commodity in the field of pediatric neuro-oncology. With her connections and determination, she managed to pull strings with the director of UCLA’s pediatric oncology unit, and thank God she did. I felt a wave of relief that we had someone so dedicated on our side, especially in the turbulent waters we were navigating. As the double doors finally opened for Kingston, I held my breath. My heart raced at the thought of seeing Bubby, to finally hold him in my arms again after all the heartache and separation. When the nurses wheeled him out, I could hardly recognize him. The chubby boy I once knew, with sandy blonde hair, was now half his weight, and I could see the toll that his illness had taken on him. An NG tube taped to the side of his sweet little face served as a reminder of his struggles. His hair had fallen out due to the chemotherapy drugs, and as it began to grow back, it sprouted bright yellow—like Eminem. When our eyes finally met, I felt a rush of love that overwhelmed my senses, but Kingston couldn’t speak. The cerebral mutism that followed his surgery had taken away his voice, leaving only a radiant smile that stretched ear to ear. It was as if his happiness could break through the silence, a smile so wide that it could have gone beyond his face if that were possible. His dad had his arms full, a mix of belongings that symbolized the past months of turmoil and struggle. “Here…” he said, almost mechanically, as he began loading me up with all the stuff I had been forced to leave behind the day I was escorted out by the police. My visions of this joyful and emotionally charged reunion were abruptly fanned away like rain and windshield wipers as he handed me the heavy bags and boxes. It felt like a haphazard handoff, as he dumped everything onto me—the octopus still in my hands, now buried beneath a pile of smelly, dirty laundry and blankets, stained with remnants of Kingston’s battles. “Gee, thanks,” I said, sarcasm lacing my tone as I tried to balance the load. His gesture felt both generous and begrudging, as if he were simply eager to rid himself of the weight he had carried alongside Kingston during their time in the hospital. The sea creatures that once surrounded my sweet boy, vibrant and full of life, were now packed away, ready to be moved to a new place, a new beginning. I could see the toll the hospital had taken on Michael. His patience was worn thin from the endless days spent within those sterile walls, the smell of the hospital mingling with the tension that hung in the air like a thick fog. While I was filled with joy at the thought of Kingston finally leaving, I couldn’t ignore the reality of his father’s struggles. His eyes held a weariness that spoke volumes, a silent narrative of fear and uncertainty that would unfold later in our story. As I adjusted the awkward pile of belongings in my arms, I felt a surge of emotion. The octopus—a symbol of my love and the countless hugs I had missed giving to Kingston—was now a burden amidst the remnants of his hospital stay. It seemed to embody the conflicting feelings swirling within me: joy at our reunion, dread for the challenges ahead, and a lingering sadness for the boy I had seen just months before, full of life and laughter, now reduced to this fragile state. I looked back at the hospital entrance, the place that had both sheltered and isolated us. With every step I took toward the ambulance, I felt as though I was shedding layers of fear and doubt. Kingston was finally out of this shithole, and I was back in charge. Thank God. He was with me, and I could do this. Despite everything, I held on to the hope that together we would navigate this next chapter, rebuilding the pieces that had been so brutally shattered by childhood cancer. As they carefully maneuvered him into the back of the ambulance, I felt a mixture of joy and heartache wash over me. I longed to reach out, to hold him close and reassure him that everything would be okay. But the hard reality was that I was still not allowed in—not until we were off the property. I had to stand there, watching as they secured him and prepared for the drive to UCLA. I handed off the octopus to his father, my voice firm as I commanded, “Make sure he gets this.” “Sure thing.” His reply was curt, and in that moment, I felt a wave of resentment wash over me. God, I hated him so much. I couldn’t go give it to Kingston myself; the hospital warden had made that clear, keeping me at a distance, treating me like some kind of threat. “Please, just make sure you tell him I’m right behind you guys.” The urgency in my tone betrayed my frustration. I wanted to be there, to reassure my son that everything would be okay, but all I could do was stand back and watch. I don’t think I had even finished the sentence when I saw him already climbing into the back of the ambulance, fastening his seatbelt with an air of indifference. He never listened to me, not then and not ever. As his father turned away and slowly lurched towards the ambulance, a knot formed in my stomach. I was left standing there, helpless, wondering what would happen next. To this day, I have no clue what happened to that octopus. Did Kingston even see it? Would it comfort him in the way I had intended? Or would it become just another forgotten toy in the chaos of our lives? The distance between us felt insurmountable. The hospital had built walls around us, not just physically but emotionally too. I was a mother yearning to comfort her child, yet I was kept at bay, like a prisoner, forbidden from crossing the threshold into the world where Kingston now lay. The irony was not lost on me: while they had tried to protect him from me, they were, in fact, keeping us apart when all I wanted was to be near him. When the doors of the ambulance closed I spotted Dr. Plant just across the driveway. She hurried toward me, obviously trying to catch me before I sped off to chase this ambulance. She had a warm smile on her face and as she approached I felt a sense of relief wash over me. “We did it,” she said softly, as if to affirm that all our struggles had led us to this moment. “You two can do hard things. You guys are together again. He needed his mom.” I nodded, unable to find my voice. My heart was a shitstorm of emotions—fear, hope, love, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the doctor who had fought tirelessly for Kingston’s care. We said our goodbyes and I took another deep breath and we parted ways. I stumbled to my vehicle, a mess covered in smelly linens and toys that no longer made sense. As I sat behind the wheel, the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the bustling city of Los Angeles. I watched the ambulance disappear in the distance, its lights flashing like a beacon of hope amid the chaotic traffic. Kingston was inside, and although his dad was with him, I felt a profound emptiness without him by my side. Even as he left Children’s Hospital Orange County, I was still banned from being near him, a painful consequence of our tumultuous circumstances. It was Friday afternoon, not quite rush hour, but the traffic ahead promised to be horrendous. The gloomy fall skies and smog distorted my view, heightening my anxiety about the long drive. I knew the trek to UCLA could easily stretch into two hours, especially on a Friday night when everyone flooded the roads. With the ambulance in the carpool lane, I found myself trailing far behind, the distance between us seeming to stretch into an insurmountable chasm. I switched on the radio, and the haunting melodies of the A Star is Born soundtrack filled the car, wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. The film had just been released, and the tragedy of its story resonated deeply within me. As I drove, I listened to the lyrics on repeat, my heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty. The voices of Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper echoed in my mind, their pain and passion intertwining with my own. I felt a surge of emotions—fear, hope, and love—all vying for space in my heart. With every note, I tried to convince myself that I had made the right choice in transferring Kingston from one of the best children’s hospitals in the country to UCLA. The gamble weighed heavily on my shoulders; I knew I was risking everything for the sake of us being together, not so much the quality of care. Yet, something deep within me insisted that without a mother’s love and presence, even the best doctors in the world couldn’t save him. I knew Kingston needed me more than ever, and I was determined to be there for him, no matter the cost. The music played on, each song a reminder of resilience and the unbreakable bond we shared. As I navigated the labyrinth of traffic, the city felt like a blur around me. Horns honked, and the frustration of countless drivers filled the air. But within my car, it was quiet, save for the music. Each mile felt like a small eternity, but I pressed on, my eyes fixed on the ambulance ahead. I was determined to stay as close as I could, my heart racing with every passing moment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I approached the entrance of UCLA. I could see the ambulance pull up to the emergency entrance, and a sense of relief washed over me. I parked and rushed inside, my heart pounding in my chest. Though I still felt the ache of being separated from Kingston during the drive, I held onto the hope that together, we could face whatever challenges lay ahead. This was just the beginning of a new journey, and I was ready to fight for my son.