"Does it hurt more when I press on it, or more when I let go?" the doctor asks, probing his lower right belly. He winces.
"When you let go," he says quietly. She gently performs a few more diagnostic tests on his body, and he stays quiet the entire time.
The room we are in, a triage room, has a door to the outside. I can't quite figure out where we are in this labyrinth of medical facilities - rooms full of people and gurneys, tears and antiseptic, anxiety and immodest gowns. It's windy outside; the door keeps opening and closing slightly - a strange thing for a pediatric emergency exam room, I think. Later when the surgeons visit, even they comment on it. We all have a small laugh at the absurdity of a faulty door to the outside world in this seemingly private place.
Before long, we're told that yes, it's appendicitis, and surgery will happen very soon. Tonight or tomorrow. The surgeons appear to tell us exactly how they'll do the surgery - where the cuts will appear, and what the risks are. My son doesn't hear the "good parts." He hears that his body will be broken into, that there are some Very Important Organs near the Thing they want to remove, and all the things that can go wrong.
He sheds a tear when they leave. He is scared.
I've spent so much time in hospitals with his brother that it's hard to scare me anymore. I have a lot of trust and faith in these people who care for my babies, nearly always so, so well. But seeing him cry, well: that is another matter. That is my son, my tall-as-me, so independent and self-sufficient 14-year-old son, suddenly small again. And afraid.
That is what kills me. I put on a brave face and tell him it's ok to be scared. I promise he will be absolutely fine, but being afraid is normal. I tell him he'll be asleep, and how lucky we are that we caught it so early.
And the minute I step out into the waiting room, knowing he is in a room full of people who know exactly what they are doing - but do not know HIM - I start to cry.
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