We returned to our seats for ten more minutes because that was what Ethan wanted. No announcements followed. No cameras found us. Chris complained loudly about a bad play and, for once, forgot to check Ethan’s face afterward. When a referee threw a flag, I jumped up and shouted with the same irrational conviction I had before cancer entered our vocabulary, and Ethan doubled over laughing. My hand moved toward my phone, trained by months of fear, then stopped. “You’re not taking one?” Ethan asked. “No,” I said. “I’m watching.” Late in the fourth quarter, our team scored and all three of us rose with the crowd, yelling and grabbing one another while one tiny plastic player fell from Ethan’s tabletop game and landed beneath my seat. I saw it and left it there. For once, I did not fix the small thing or capture the big thing. I simply stayed inside the moment while my son laughed. Of all the photographs and recordings I still have, the memory I return to most is the one I never saved: the afternoon Ethan taught his frightened parents that love is not only in preserving what will be lost. Sometimes love is putting the camera down and joining the game while there is still time to play.
We Took Our Dying Son to His Final Football Game — Then the Stadium Announcer Told Us to Turn Around
