Warnings: implies Leukemia.
Listen to He's My Son by Mark Shultz to get full impact of fic.
Reviews are welcome.
Can You Hear Me
"Q-Quinn." You had never seen her so defeated. But her eyes seemed to have always held tears in them these last few months. You remember a time when those eyes never held anything but hope and happiness and just pure, unadulterated joy. But not now, not here, not when the suffocating walls of this God-forsaken place laid claim to someone so precious to the both of you.
The pair of you had come a long way from the petty fights in between classes. Senior year did good for both of you as you mutually found a friendship in each other that neither of you knew could have existed. Well—maybe it was just you who couldn't believe in any type of relationship between the two of you due to your cheerleading supremacy phase. But she forgave you and loved you and gave you a life fuller than any life you could have laid out for yourself. She gave you a son.
Over the years, you had lost your faith in God. He seemed to have checked out of your life when you checked out of your daughter's.
But you did what was best for her.
You've grown. You've healed. And you've created your own family.
Your arms envelope Rachel, her head settling in the crook of your neck, as you continue to listen to the Doctor. She reads off her clipboard for a moment before meeting your eyes. You blink once, then twice as words spew from her lips and all you feel is numb.
You manage to hear the words "cancer…marrow…transplant" spout from her lips before you totally check out of the conversation. You couldn't—you couldn't feel. Even with your rock in your arms, her fists clutched tightly over your heart, you couldn't feel.
Over the years, you had lost your faith in God.
You don't know how much time has passed from then until now, but the Doctor is gone and your son has been asleep for about an hour. You watch him sleep with his IV attached to his side, the veins in his arms too weak to hold the needle. You want to cry and weep over your boy but you need to be strong. Because you know he needs you to be strong.
Rachel sits at his side, her hand in his. You kiss her forehead and mutter something under your breath about coffee.
Over the years, you had lost your faith in God…but on this night, you find yourself in the Hospital Chapel with your hands clasped and having a hard time finding the right words to say. You laugh a little at yourself at having forgotten how to pray. But you can sing…you remember how to sing. You sang to him every night. You and Rachel that is.
And so you sing.
"I'm down on my knees again tonight,
I'm hopin' this prayer will turn out right.
See, there is a boy that needs your help.
I've done all that I can do myself
His mother is tired,
I'm sure you can understand.
Each night as he sleeps
She goes in to hold his hand,
And she tries
Not to cry
As the tears fill her eyes.
Can you hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him?
Can you make him feel all right?
If you can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone,
He's my son.
Sometimes late at night I watch him sleep,
I dream of the boy he'd like to be.
I try to be strong and see him through,
But God, who he needs right now is you.
Let him grow old,
Live life without this fear.
What would I be?
Living without him here?
He's so tired,
And he's scared
Let him know that you're there.
Can you hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him?
Can you make him feel all right?
If you can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone,
He's my son.
Can you hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him?
Can you make him feel all right?
If you can hear me
Let me take his place somehow.
See, he's not just anyone—"
Your voice is hoarse which causes you to pause. You stand after a moment and turn to leave letting the song play through your mind over and over forcing it out as loud as possible to God through your thoughts.
The white walls of the hospital almost suffocate you as you walk back to your son's room. Tears well in your eyes as you stand in the doorway just listening to the beeping of the monitors connected to your boy. Rachel turns to you and holds out her hand for you to take. Under your breath you finish your prayer as you stand next to your son's bed, holding your wife's hand and staring down at the 7-year-old boy almost too small for his age but stronger than any man you knew.
"Can you hear me?
Can you see him?
Please don't leave him,
He's my son."