Today, I was asked to do something no parent should ever be asked to do: sign a DNR order for my five-year-old son.

Those four letters—Do Not Resuscitate—carry a finality that shatters the heart.

They are the line between fighting and letting go, between medicine and mercy. And yet, in the sterile quiet of the hospital, with doctors’ voices low but steady, that was the paper they placed before me.

My little boy has already endured two rounds of radiation, with three more planned. The next is scheduled for Monday. But the doctors tell us he may not make it home. They sat with us—compassion in their eyes, heaviness in their tone—and spoke words no parent wants to hear: It may be time to stop.

No more scans.

No more hospital visits.

No more treatments.

The decision wasn’t about giving up. It was about sparing him further pain when hope has grown so unbearably thin. Still, how does a parent ever accept that?

I am not okay. I will never be okay again.

There is a sorrow that feels endless, a fear so suffocating it sits on my chest and makes it hard to breathe. Anger comes in piercing waves—anger at the unfairness of it all, at a world that can take so much from someone so small.

Life becomes unrecognizable. Eating feels impossible. Sleep is restless, fractured by the sound of his breathing down the hall, each inhale and exhale carrying the weight of questions I cannot answer. Even the simple act of drawing breath feels like work beneath this grief.

This journey has become my identity. My days are measured in hospital visits, in whispered conversations with doctors, in moments stolen between medications and fatigue. And when I look outward, I see other families like ours.

I read their stories, follow their words, searching for guidance, connection, or just the fragile comfort of knowing we are not alone in this impossible place.

It’s a family none of us ever asked to join. One bound not by choice but by love—love fierce enough to sit with pain, to walk alongside suffering, to hold a child close even when the future is unbearably uncertain.

I have seen the grief in other parents’ eyes, in those who have already said their final goodbyes. Their stories haunt me, yet they also prepare me. Or so I thought. Because the truth is, nothing—nothing—can prepare you until it is your child.

I would not wish this pain on anyone. It is too heavy, too cruel, too consuming. And yet, here we are.

And still, even in the shadow of loss, there is love.

Every moment we still have together becomes sacred. Every smile, every touch, every second of laughter or quiet rest is a reminder that love remains—unyielding, unbroken, refusing to let go.

That love is what keeps me breathing. That love is what keeps me standing, even as the ground beneath us feels like it’s collapsing.

Today, I signed a piece of paper no parent should ever face. But tonight, I will sit beside my son, hold his hand, and remind him that he is loved beyond measure. For as long as he is here, every second matters.

And when words fail, love will remain.