I remember the exact moment the surgeon walked into the room, their face an expressionless mask, hiding behind a veil of sterile concern. “Your son needs brain surgery,” they said, their voice flat, mechanical, almost devoid of humanity. The room grew colder with each word, the air thickening like a vice around my chest. It wasn’t a conversation; it was a decree. There were no options offered, no hint of considering a second opinion or searching for a surgeon who specialized in cases like Kingston's. It was as if they alone held the keys to his fate, and I, his mother, was simply expected to nod and comply.
I could feel the anger and fear surge through me, a tidal wave that threatened to consume my every thought. I wanted to scream, to shake them by the shoulders and demand, “Wait! Isn’t it my right to ensure that this is the best place for him? Shouldn’t I have a say in who holds the knife that will cut into my baby’s brain?” But in that moment, I felt utterly powerless. This wasn’t how it worked—not with pediatric cancer. Not with a diagnosis that seemed to strip away every ounce of control I once thought I had as his mother. My rights, my voice, my instincts were drowned out by the sheer authority of their medical protocol.
I was trapped. Cornered in that hospital, encircled by their procedures and rules. They didn’t present me with choices; they didn’t suggest consulting other specialists or exploring other facilities. If I had so much as hinted at wanting to take Kingston elsewhere, they would have reported me. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air: if you attempt to leave, you will be endangering your child’s life. And in their eyes, that was enough to strip me of any autonomy. It was like a sentence handed down by some invisible judge, leaving me feeling more like a prisoner than a parent.
It wasn’t like when you break a leg and have the freedom to call around, find the best orthopedic surgeon, and choose where you want to go for treatment. No. When your child is diagnosed with a life-threatening disease—especially something as severe as cancer—you lose that freedom. You’re funneled into their system, where they tell you what will happen and when, where questions and hesitations are met with icy stares that make you feel foolish for even asking.
The surgeon didn’t say, “Take your time to consider your options.” There was no mention of “making sure this is where you want to be.” It was as if a lock clicked shut around us, a steel door slamming closed. “You’re here now,” the message seemed to be, “and you’re not going anywhere unless we say so.”
But it wasn’t just about the protocol. Later, I would learn the truth. I would discover that hospitals like these don’t always act in the best interest of the child. They are driven by something else entirely: money. Kingston’s case was lucrative, a rare pediatric cancer that would bring in millions for the hospital. And suddenly, it all made sense. The insistence, the urgency, the way they brushed off my questions and concerns—they weren’t doing this because they were the best, or because it was his only chance. They were doing it because he was worth a fortune to them. He was a commodity, not a child in their eyes.
If I had tried to take him out of their care, they would have used every tool at their disposal to stop me. They would have reported me to Child Protective Services, claiming I was compromising his health—even though they were the same hospital that had ignored my pleas for days, dismissed my worries, and only found the cancer after I had screamed my lungs out for someone to listen. And if I did somehow manage to transfer him, they would make sure it was an ordeal. They would require him to be medically airlifted, meaning months of fighting insurance companies and navigating an endless sea of red tape. By then, who knew what condition he would be in?
It was infuriating. How was it fair that the very hospital that couldn’t even find a vein to draw his blood, the place that forced him through a torturous bowel clean-out while ignoring my pleas, now held us hostage? They hadn’t believed me from the beginning, dismissed me as just some hysterical mother, and now they were the ones dictating our every move. The same institution that had failed to recognize his suffering was now positioning itself as his only lifeline, and I had no choice but to trust them with the most important thing in my world.
I felt betrayed, manipulated, and cornered. My anger wasn’t just a burning flame; it was a deep, gnawing resentment. They had taken away my power, and now I had to stand by and watch, forced to place Kingston’s life into their hands—not because I believed in them, but because they left me with no other choice.
