“I’d be an excellent athlete if the school would fix that basket,” he once told me.
Emma laughed so hard that she nearly fell off the sofa.
Then, during their sophomore year, his condition worsened.
He missed weeks of school. Then more weeks. Assignments accumulated on the kitchen table, and Emma carried completed homework to school whenever he was strong enough to finish it.
Some days, he managed several hours of studying.
Other days, he could barely sit up.
Still, he kept talking about graduation.
He kept a folder beside his bed containing school announcements, photographs of classmates, and a printed copy of the graduation requirements.
One afternoon, after a difficult hospital appointment, he held up the document.
“Mom, what happens if I’m too tired to walk across the stage?”
I tried to smile.
“Then we’ll find a way to make it easier.”
“What if they won’t let me use a chair?”
