I watch through a wall of plastic as his breathing grows ragged and labored. Blood seeps through the bandages.
His hand, so small, reaches for me, though he no longer has the breath to speak aloud.
Doctors and nurses, covered head to toe in in plastic gowns and ventilation masks, rush around, trying to save him.
Tears fill my eyes as he coughs, a wet hacking sound, red droplets staining those around him. I wasn’t here in time, I couldn’t get covered in time, and now it’s too late.
My hand squeezes the the bear I brought, wishing I had brought it sooner. Something to be with him when I couldn’t be. Something that might bring him comfort now.
He wheezes between coughs now, tears filling his eyes as he realizes the end is near. He mouths one final word before his eyes close forever. “Daddy.”
My son dies in front of me, and I can’t even hold his hand.