A story of grief by a man and a boy
On Friday my son woke several times in the night riddled with a fever brought on from chicken pox. However hard I tried, I couldn’t get him to swallow the medicine he needed to bring his temperature down.
And as if the experience of caring for a sick toddler isn’t testing enough at the best of times, spots were gradually erupting all over my body too. Worse still I was also suddenly drawn back to the most devastating night of my life.
As he writhed and wriggled around the bed he repeatedly screamed a question I’d heard so many times before.
“What am I gonna do?”
He sounded pained. He sounded desperate. He sounded shocked, confused and anxious. He sounded like an adult. He sounded like me the night his mother was killed.
And he was asking exactly the same question too.