“Oh, Joshy. Let me get you the ice.” I ran downstairs and filled a Tupperware bowl with ice and water. We’d been told to keep his hands and feet in ice baths to reduce the chances of him losing the nails, but it didn’t look like it was working.

I put the bowl of ice water on my lap and he dipped his fingers in.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“A little.”

I kissed Josh’s bald head. “Not much longer. The Luke-Skywalker-esis is all trained up and you’ll get your infusion tomorrow. Dr. Palmer will send those mini Millennium Falcons into your blood and they’ll start fighting the Empire, okay?”

Josh nodded.

“Are you worried?” I asked.

He shrugged

“You know, it’s okay to feel lots of things at the same time, Joshy. You can feel scared and worried and excited. That’s all okay. Those feelings are how you prepare for new challenges.”

He looked at me from lashless eyes and asked: “Am I going to be sick?”

I hesitated, not wanting to lie, but desperate to reassure him. Nate and I had been warned that neurotoxicity and cytokine release syndrome, a form of systemic inflammatory response, were the most common side effects from CAR T-cell therapy. CRS could range from mild to severe, and was sometimes even fatal. But not every kid got it. We’d agreed that the short-term pain was worth the long-term gain.

“I’m not sure,” I said, as honestly as I dared. “You might feel like you have the flu and you might throw up some.”

My dad used to say, sometimes you’re dealt a losing hand, and that really sucks. But if you always fold, you’ll have a pretty tough time in life. Keep playing, keep fighting, and sometimes you can make that losing hand a winning one.

“Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry this is happening.” My vision blurred with tears. “I would do anything to fix it for you.”

“It’s okay, Mommy. You didn’t make me sick. It isn’t your fault. And I’m really strong. I can keep fighting.”

I choked out a little laugh. My sweet boy. He got it.

“You’re doing so well, Joshy.” I brushed my thumb across his cheek, tenderness throbbing in my belly. “You’re so strong and you’re going to fly through this. And Mommy and Daddy will be right here with you. Okay?”

Josh nodded and closed his eyes again. “Okay. Can I go back to bed now?”

“Of course.”

I carefully lifted Josh out of the bath, wiping a fluffy towel over ribs that poked out like a skeleton’s. I gently applied moisturizer to his skin, which was dry and flaking, and changed him into his too-baggy Star Wars pajamas.

I couldn’t believe we’d only found out about Josh’s illness less than a month ago. This horrible waiting felt like our new normal.