The hospice nurse told us that Bryson may only have a week left.

Those words shattered me in ways I cannot even begin to explain. They echoed in my head, louder than any sound I had ever heard, like a bell I couldn’t silence. A week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. The number felt both unbearably small and endlessly cruel. How could time, something I had always taken for granted, suddenly turn into my greatest enemy?

Our home no longer feels like our home. It has transformed into a place filled with machines instead of toys, sterile medical equipment instead of laughter. The hum of oxygen concentrators and the quiet beeping of monitors have replaced the sound of Bryson’s giggles. The very walls that once echoed with his little footsteps now stand still, heavy with silence, as if they, too, are holding their breath with me. Everywhere I look, I see reminders that we are counting down days I never wanted to face.

The nurse explained that he is moving through the stages of dying. Her voice was calm, steady, compassionate—but I could hardly breathe as she spoke. Each word was another weight pressing down on my chest. I sat there nodding, pretending to listen, but inside I was screaming. How do you listen to instructions about how your child’s body will shut down? How do you sit still when someone tells you that your baby is slipping away, and there is nothing—absolutely nothing—you can do to stop it?

I find myself watching him constantly now, memorizing every detail of his face. The way his lashes rest softly on his cheeks when his eyes close. The curve of his tiny lips. The warmth of his hand in mine, still so small but once so full of energy and life. I whisper to myself that I will not forget—that even when he is gone, I will carry these details forever. But the thought terrifies me, because it forces me to admit that there may come a day when I will not be able to touch him anymore.

The hardest part is the questions I never thought I would have to ask. How do I plan a funeral for my baby? How do I pick out flowers, or music, or words to honor a life that should have had so much more time? How do I even begin to choose between burial and cremation, when all I want is for him to live? I can’t breathe when I think about it. My chest tightens, my stomach twists, and I want to scream until the walls fall down. No parent should ever be forced to make these choices.

At night, when the world grows quiet and I’m left alone with my thoughts, I find myself bargaining with God, with the universe, with anyone who might be listening. Please, let him stay. Please, let me wake up from this nightmare. I think of all the milestones we’ll never reach—his first day of school, his first lost tooth, his first bike ride without training wheels. The teenage years, the laughter, the arguments, the hugs, the late-night talks—all stolen from us before they even had the chance to exist.

And yet, in the middle of the storm, there are moments of peace. When I hold him close, when his head rests against my chest and I can feel the rhythm of his breathing, however fragile, I remember what matters most. I can’t change what’s coming, but I can give him this: love. I can make sure that every moment he has left is filled with warmth, comfort, and tenderness. I can pray that he feels nothing but love, and that when he closes his eyes for the last time, that is all he knows.