And it is enough to say that when I looked at him, small under those blankets, I felt something in my chest simply break apart, cleanly and completely, the way a thing breaks that will have to be rebuilt from the beginning.

“Mom.” His voice was barely there, a thread.

And every professional instinct I had, every year of training that let me stay calm in a room full of other people’s emergencies, deserted me all at once, and I was not a doctor anymore.

I was just his mother.

I dropped to my knees beside the gurney so that my face was level with his.

“I’m right here, baby,” I said.