This chapter ties in a little bit with other Sarah Rogers chapters in this story so I recommend rereading "Love Sticks" beforehand and revisiting "The Long and Short of It" afterwards.

Rosie:

Sarah knew. She could see it in his tanking appetite, the way he braced himself with an arm around his middle whenever he coughed, and the visible bloating of his abdomen. Yet he didn't complain. In fact, he drew no attention to the issue whatsoever, going about his days like any four-year-old would without so much as a mention of a stomachache. Sarah couldn't decide if that was amazing or devastating.

Even when she asked him up front, he denied it. And when she tried to put her nursing skills to good use and palpate his abdomen to make sure it wasn't more serious than she already suspected, he squirmed away and refused to let her touch him. Sarah didn't know if he actually remembered his last bout of "CF belly," but even if he did, she understood why he was so reluctant to accept that it was happening again. She didn't want it to happen again either, but she could already tell they'd have no choice. An abdominal x-ray at his next clinic appointment in three days would only prove her suspicions.

When the doctor broke the news, Steve looked at her, his blue eyes brimming with tears, and said, "But I don't wanna be sick."

He definitely remembered. It was over a year ago and he was so young, but he definitely remembered, whether he consciously knew it or not. She knew that would make it all the harder for him to go through it again. "I know you don't, but I promise we'll get you feeling better."

He crossed his arms with a huff. "I don't want to."

The doctor turned to Sarah and explained their two options: a hospital admission for an NG-tube cleanout or attempting to wash it out with laxatives at home. He warned that if they waited, it was only a matter of time before the blockage made Steve start vomiting and his weight started to plummet. He left the decision up to her, so naturally she left it up to Steve. She knew being able to choose for himself would make him more likely to comply, and Sarah needed to wring out every ounce of compliance in his little body to get this done.

"None," he insisted.

"Steve, you've gotta pick one."

He fell silent, weighing his options. "Fine. I'll drink."

"Okay."

That was only half the battle. Not even half, actually, more like one tenth. The other ninety percent would be getting him to down sixteen caps of Miralax in the next twenty four hours. She called Joseph on the way home to prepare him for what the next day would bring.

"Should I head to the store?" he asked.

"Yeah. Get every clear liquid you've ever known him to voluntarily consume. We're going to need options."

"How many caps?"

"Sixteen."

"Jesus Christ. That's an entire gallon of liquid at least."

Sarah sighed, glancing in the rearview mirror at Steve moping in the backseat. "Yeah. It's not going to be easy. For any of us. But it was this or an NG-tube in the hospital, and Steve chose this."

"Alright. See you soon."

"Mommy, I really don't want to," Steve piped up.

"Don't you want your tummy to feel better?"

"I guess," he said cautiously.

"This will make you feel better, I promise. Maybe not right away, but it will help."

"I believe you."

Sarah hoped her faith in this treatment was founded. If it didn't work and Steve ended up in the hospital anyway, she feared he'd lose all trust in her.

~0~

The first few hours proceeded without incident. Steve was actually somewhat excited to eat nothing but popsicles and Jell-O, since he rarely got to enjoy them otherwise. Sarah never let him waste his appetite on anything with so little fat and calories. It also helped maintain the novelty of those types of food for situations like this. He drank down five capfuls mixed in various flavors of Gatorade and juice without so much as a complaint. Sarah dared to hope that the other eleven would go down just as easily. She was wrong.

Six caps in, he started resisting. Which really sucked, because that was about the same time it started working. The novelty had worn off; he was now tired and hungry, a potent combination for a four-year-old. He'd also inherited her own stubbornness. She and Joseph tried everything. Letting him choose the drinks it got mixed into, silly straws, logical reasoning, and begging.

"I know it's no fun, but it's only going to help," Joseph encouraged. Steve sat at the kitchen table, head in his heads, staring balefully at the full cup in front of him. He sighed and began sipping.

Cups eight through ten went surprisingly well. But by number twelve, Joseph had to hold the cup and straw up for him because his hands were so shaky from low blood sugar. He asked if he could eat real food after that, and it broke her heart to tell him no. Until they X-rayed him again to check the status of the blockage, they couldn't risk making it bigger.

She had to threaten him to get caps thirteen and fourteen down. It went against every maternal instinct she possessed and she wanted to cry in tandem with the first tears falling down Steve's face, but she'd exhausted all other options. At this point, he'd stopped believing them when they said drinking would make him feel better. He was too young to understand that this short-term misery would prevent future discomfort, and after almost a full day he'd firmly associated drinking the medicine with exclusively unpleasant things. Every convincing technique that she'd scraped by with for the past twelve cups failed, and Sarah snapped.

"Steve, if you don't drink, they will make you swallow a tube to drink it for you and trust me, you will hate that far more than this." She hadn't been there for the worst of last time, but Joseph had. And he wept about it in her arms. That in itself was enough to convince her of just how much Steve—and Joseph—hated the tube. After her outburst, Steve downed the next two cups almost frantically, picking up the pace every time she so much as glanced his direction. Sarah wanted to take it back. She'd made him afraid, and a child should never be afraid of his mother.

When he fell asleep after cap fourteen and bathroom trip number…she lost count six hours ago…she broke down. "Joseph, what have I done? Did you see the way he looked at me?"

"He doesn't mean it, Sarah," he assured. "He's not feeling well and we're stuck with the unfortunate responsibility of forcing him to keep doing the things making him feel bad."

"He's going to grow up hating me. I hate me right now."

"No he's not. You're stressed and you're spiraling."

"I know."

"You need to go easier on yourself. You're doing the best you can. When he's older he'll understand that."

"I hope you're right."

Caps fifteen and sixteen went down without complaint. Steve knew it was the home stretch, and he sprinted to the finish line like a champ. They took him back for more x-rays the next day and received the best news ever: the blockage had cleared. Sarah told Steve he could have whatever he wanted for dinner that night. On top of that, Joseph promised him a trip to the toy store.

"Really? But it's not Christmas," he said, eyes wide with wonder.

"I know it's not Christmas, but you worked really hard and you deserve a reward for that."

As Joseph explained it, Sarah tried really hard not to add, "Your suffering is beyond our control and this is one of the only things we can do to make it up to you." The next day when she went to work, she spent her shift wondering what he would pick out. She hoped it was a stuffed animal. Even as an adult, she'd never grown out of her love for them. It wasn't socially acceptable for her to buy one of her own, but she could cuddle her son's without feeling guilty or awkward about it.

When Sarah got home from the hospital and changed clothes, she was greeted by the sweetest scene she'd ever seen. Steve sat hunched over his CPT pillow while Joseph worked his back, but instead of watching Paw Patrol per their normal routine he was doing percussion of his own on a purple-clad baby doll. He looked over when he saw her and called, "Hi Mommy! This is Rosie." He held out the doll for her to see. Sarah walked over and took it in her arms.

"Hi Rosie," she said. "It's nice to meet you."

"Daddy found a baby cuppy for me to use," Steve explained, showing it off. CPT could be done with bare hands, or with a special cup tool that looked like a hollow rubber stamp. They had countless "cuppies" lying around the house, the smallest of which Joseph had used on an infant Steve because his hands were too big for effective percussion on such a small body. Those same little cups Steve was now using on the doll.

"Time to turn, buddy," Joseph said. Steve reluctantly put the cuppy down, huff coughed twice, and rotated to lie on his side. Sarah held onto the doll while Joseph percussed Steve's left chest and side.

"Is this what you picked out at the store today?" she asked him.

"Yeah."

She was surprised, to say the least. He'd never asked for dolls before, though she supposed she'd never offered. Sarah found herself beyond excited that her son had chosen this out of everything he must've seen on a trip to the toy store. She'd always tried her best to impart to him the importance of caring for others, and this proved that it worked.

"Why'd you pick the name Rosie?" she asked. "For sixty five roses?"

"No!" he proclaimed. "For Rosie the Riveter."

An involuntary huff of laughter escaped Sarah. That was quite possibly the only thing that could've made this even cuter. She looked to Joseph, assuming he was the one who taught Steve who Rosie the Riveter was, but he merely shrugged with a bewildered look on his face.

After a few more moments of gazing at Rosie's embroidered eyes, Sarah's thoughts turned dark. This might be the closest thing to a grandchild she'd ever get. As depressing as that thought was, it only made her love the doll more. Joseph glanced up at her cradling the doll like a real infant, a suspicious glint in his eye. "Mommy, please don't steal Rosie," Steve said.

"I won't," she promised. "I have a real baby to take care of."

"I'm not a baby!"

"You're right, you're right. But you'll always be my baby, even when you're as big as Daddy," she pronounced.

"When I'm as big as Daddy, then you can have Rosie. She'll be your baby."

"Deal."