Page 43 of Rhythm and Rapture

I want to laugh, but the effort makes my chest hurt. I delete the text thread and drop my phone into my purse, where it buzzes at erratic intervals like a trapped wasp.

Three more calls. Two from Ash, one from Felix. I ignore them all, letting exhaustion pull me into uneasy sleep, Kael's hand still clutched in mine.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS EARLIER- STANFORD HOSPITAL EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT

I pace the hospital emergency area back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—my feet probably leaving a permanent mark on the linoleum as I try to keep it together. My hands are tangled in my long brown hair, pulling roughly at the strands,my face tear-stained and blotchy. About an hour ago, I got a phone call from Kael's preschool: he'd collapsed during story time and was rushed to the emergency room.

I was seconds away—my class was right down the hall, in the chemistry building—and the entire time I ran, I kept thinking, "He just had the flu, why would he be collapsing?" So many scenarios ran through my head: sudden allergic reaction? Dehydration? But nothing could have prepared me for the truth.

One of the doctors, still in scrubs from another surgery, rushed over just seconds after Kael arrived on the ambulance gurney. He tried to calm me, one hand on my shoulder. "We're going to run some tests and see how he's doing. He stopped breathing briefly, and we've intubated him as a precaution."

And I broke.

Completely.

The waiting was agony. I couldn't sit still, couldn't stop moving. Back and forth, back and forth, wearing a path in the floor while other parents watched with sympathetic eyes. My cream sweater—the one Kael loved because it was "soft like clouds, Mama"—was twisted and pulled out of shape from my anxious hands.

After what felt like days but was probably two hours, a familiar voice called my name. "Sabina?"

I looked up to see Dr. Martinez—my Chemical Oncology professor—approaching with test results in hand. His face told me everything before his words did.

"When I saw your name on the admission, I asked to take over the case," he said gently, but his expression was grave. "I wanted to make sure you had someone who understood... both medically and personally."

I nodded, unable to speak, grateful for the familiar face even as terror clawed at my chest.

"Ms. Jaspe, the scans show a mass. Neuroblastoma, Stage 3. The tumor is pressing against his adrenal gland and the inferior vena cava..."

Everything went into a blur. Sounds faded as the doctor droned on about treatments and protocols. Certain phrases cut through the fog like knives: "advanced pediatric cancer," "immediate surgery required," "$47,000 upfront," "insurance processing time."

"But we have insurance," I remember saying, my voice sounding far away. "We can run everything through insurance, right?"

"Unfortunately, while we can apply for emergency coverage and try every avenue... these approvals take time. Time that, frankly, Kael doesn't have. The tumor is already compromising blood flow."

Time he doesn't have.

The words echo in my skull. What do people do in these circumstances? Do they just let their children die while waiting for bureaucracy? What does a twenty-year-old guardian do when the only family she has left is lying in a tiny hospital bed?

"Listen, Sabina," Dr. Martinez said gently. "You are one of my brightest students. I know this must be devastating. While I can't cover the treatment costs, I can ensure Kael is kept in a private suite in the pediatric oncology ward, and I'll personally check on him. If you need anything, please let me know."

I thanked him mechanically, signed what felt like hundreds of forms, then followed as they wheeled Kael's small body to his new room.

They move Kael to pediatric oncology—Room 4B. The walls are painted with hot air balloons, like children with cancer are taking whimsical journeys instead of fighting for their lives. Kael looks impossibly small against the white sheets, dwarfed by tubes and wires that make him look more machine than child.IV poles loom like metal trees, monitors display vital signs I obsessively track—heart rate 92, blood pressure 95/60, oxygen saturation hovering at 94%. I've memorized the acceptable ranges, know which alarms mean emergency and which just mean he shifted in his sleep.

When he wakes, confused and nauseated from the seizure medications, I use my calmest voice. "Hey, brave boy. The doctors are going to help make you feel better."

"My tummy hurts, Mama."

"I know, baby. Remember how we talked about good cells and confused cells? Some of your cells got confused, but the doctors know how to help them."

He accepts this with the trust only a three-year-old can muster.

Day One

I called Kade within the hour, catching him between sound check and show time.

"Sab? Everything okay? You never call during?—"

"Kael's in the hospital." The words tumbled out along with my tears. "Cancer. Stage 3. They need forty-seven thousand dollars or they won't operate until insurance approves and that could take weeks and?—"

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