Laying next to my sleeping son, I hear his labored breathing and persistent, barky cough. I check in with my body, because lately, it’s the only way I can measure my anxiety.
I notice a sudden thickness in my chest, like a dark cloud of pressure sits directly on my heart. “What if there’s something more to all of this?” I ask myself.
It’s an hour before I have to bring my son in to get a blood draw. It’s something he’s done a hundred times before, but on the other side of it — the side where results lie — awaits a potential answer to a nagging feeling I’m having.