It's Drew's session of chemotherapy treatment today. I'm here with him, sitting in the sterile, white-walled room filled with the faint hum of medical equipment. The doctor spoke to us earlier, his expression grave and uncertain. Drew's prognosis hangs in the balance, and I find myself silently praying to whoever might be listening up there to make a miracle happen. I can't lose him, not him. I've already lost Mom, and my brother is in jail. The thought of losing Drew too is unbearable. I no longer know what to think.
As Drew is taken for his treatment, his father accompanies him to the chemotherapy room, leaving me alone in Drew's hospital room. The room feels empty and cold without him here. The faint beeping of the heart monitor, the soft rustling of the curtains, and the muted convers
