Idea... Ponyboy is six, Sodapop is eight, and, yeah, if you can do math, Darry is twelve. :P Just a note: I will refer to Mr. Curtis as Darrel and the oldest brother as Darry. And I know nothing of hospital procedures (-spoiler alert)... Sowy... But I did my research on the disease (-super spoiler!)...
Ellen (Mrs. Curtis):
I sat with my three boys and my husband on the couch watching TV one night. It was pouring rain outside. Suddenly, a loud clap of thunder shook the house. Ponyboy, just six at the time, curled up close to me. "It's okay, baby, it's just the angels bowling. One of them just got a strike." He smiled slightly and rested his head on my shoulder. As for my other boys, Darry didn't really think anything of the thunder, but Sodapop thought it was the coolest thing. Although, something struck me as strange; instead of running to the window, Soda just coughed.
After the storm passed, it was time for Ponyboy to go to bed. "Alright, Ponyboy, bath, bed. I'll be in there in a minute." I said to my youngest son.
He nodded and ran off.
"Soda, not much longer." I chided before getting up to help Ponyboy with his bath. He gave me no trouble, though Soda was usually the one for that. Ponyboy got into his pajamas and I left him while he brushed his teeth. I entered the living room and gazed contently at my two boys and my husband sitting on the couch together. Only, Sodapop was acting different; he was sitting completely still, with his head on Darrel's shoulder. And come to think of it, he hadn't eaten much at dinner. "Hey, Soda, come on, bed time."
He stood slowly and sulked over to me. "I can't go to bed, momma," he complained.
"Why not, baby?" I inquired.
He rubbed his eye. "I don't feel good."
I knelt down and looked at him closely. "What doesn't feel good, honey?"
"My throat, and my head, and my chest." He coughed hard.
I felt his forehead. "Hmm, you feel warm. Alright, baby, why don't you go get in your pajamas then come back in here, okay?"
He coughed and walked off to his room. I found Ponyboy waiting on his bed. "'Night, baby. Love you." I kissed his forehead and shut off the lights on my way out. I took out the thermometer from the medicine cabinet before going back into the living room. "Alright, Soda, open wide."
He opened up his mouth and I stuck the small tool under his tongue. Five minutes later, I checked the thermometer. 101. "Well, sweetie, I think what you need is a dose of late-night TV."
He nodded and I led him to the couch. Darry sat next to Darrel, Soda curled up next to him, his head on my shoulder. He shivered and moved closer to me. "You cold, honey?" He nodded. Darrel looked at him, then me. "I'll get him the blanket." He offered. A few minutes later, he returned with our old knitted quilt, spreading it out over my middle son. I stroked his hair, coaxing him into sleep. Soon his breathing became light and regular. "Darrel, will you take him to bed?"
"Sure, Ellen." He scooped up Sodapop, quilt and all, and took him off to his room. I noticed that he didn't wake up, he's usually a very light sleeper, unless he's sick.
The next morning, Darrel had gone off to work before I had awoken. After waking up Ponyboy and Darry, I poked my head into Soda's room, already with the thermometer. I touched his shoulder gently. "Soda, honey, wake up." He stirred a little and opened his eyes. "How ya feelin'?"
He answered by squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in his pillow. I pushed his hair back. "Come on, baby, sit up."
He obeyed. I felt his forehead and frowned. "Oh, baby, you're burnin' up. Alright, open." I did the same routine, only this time I had to double check the reading. 105. I admit, I wasn't quite sure what to do.
Soda coughed hard and moaned. "Does it hurt?" He coughed and nodded. "Come on, let's go wait in the living room, I think we need to go to the doctor."
He groaned, but got up anyway, slowly as he did. I gave him a blanket and sent him off to the couch.
"Boys," I called to my other, healthy babies, "are you almost ready?"
"Uh... define ready?" Darry replied smartly.
I rolled my eyes and went into the kitchen to pack Ponyboy's lunch. "Darrel, help your brother with his books."
"Course, momma."
Eventually, my oldest and youngest were almost ready, gathering the last of their things while I checked on Sodapop, bringing his jacket with me. He was curled up in the blanket, and upon closer inspection I noticed he was crying. I knelt down beside the couch and put my hand on the back of my eight-year-old's hair. He was shaking and sweating and breathing hard and fast when he wasn't coughing. I was trying not to let on how worried I was. "My poor baby. Hold on, honey."
Darry came in, followed by Ponyboy. "Ready to go?"
"Yes, momma." Ponyboy answered eagerly.
"Alright, Soda, time to go. C'mon, baby," I urged. He sat up and slipped on his jacket.
I put my hand on Soda's shoulder, I knew how much he hated going to the doctor. Ponyboy smiled at Soda, slipping his little hand into his big brother's.
We all got in the car and I dropped the boys off at school. Soda promptly laid down in the now otherwise unoccupied back seat. I drove quickly but carefully, deciding the fastest route to the Tulsa Regional Hospital. Soda's coughing almost broke my heart on the way there. Eventually, we pulled in and I urged my son out of the car and into the building. I was told to fill out a sheet for Soda, and the nurse seemed a little concerned with his symptoms. They took him in and did some tests, checking his breathing with a stethoscope, taking an X-ray, and then taking a blood sample. I was right there the whole time holding his hand. The doctor left to check the results, so I was alone with my sick little Sodapop. He stood up from the pristine white bed, came over to where I was standing and wrapped his arms around my waist. I rubbed his back as he cried. "My poor baby. My poor, poor little boy."
Suddenly, Soda pulled away, his eyes wide and frightened, his breathing rapid and shallow. "Soda, what's wrong, honey?" I knelt down in front of him. But before he could answer, he collapsed.
*ooooh! Cliffy, i know :)