Continued from the previous post.

Although I thought I'd prepared myself, I was shocked when I finally did see T. Looking small and frail in the hospital bed, he was yellow and very weak ... and scared to death.

Because his mother didn't understand what was happening, no one had been able to explain anything to him. Well accustomed to my 'take charge' personality, he looked to me to give him a picture of what was happening. Unfortunately, I knew nothing.

Preparing to hang a second unit of blood for him, there was a problem with his IV ... a minor blockage that needed flushing, no big deal. Two nurses were in the room at the time and were muttering to each other in Creole about the IV. As happens, he was having some pain from the manipulation ... it was in the back of his bony little hand, so very sore already ... and I could see he was getting progressively more distressed.

Finally, after a valiant effort to be brave, he broke down in tears, squeezed my hand he'd been holding, and asked pitifully, "Are they going to have to cut my hand off?"

That's how little he grasped of what was happening around him, and what could happen to him.

A while later, four doctors came into the room. They did their incoherent muttering to each other for a minute or two, then I asked if someone could give me an idea of what was going on.

The boss doctor asked who I was. I told him I had been T's foster mother for a number of years and explained we remained close. He flat out refused to tell me anything, saying he'd already explained everything to T's mother and wasn't about to repeat himself.

I calmly ... at first ... explained how little she understood and how she was relying on me to liaise on her behalf, but he was having none of it.

T's mom asked him to, please, at least give me an overview ... not that she put it like that, but that's what she meant. I asked for the same, knowing that I could take what info he'd give me and learn more on my own from doctors I know.

Once again, he refused.

T, himself, scared witless, said, "Please. She's my foster mom, and she doesn't have any language issues."

The doctor then asked, "So, who has custody."

I said, of course, his mother does ... and that was the end of that.

"I've already told her. She looked like she understood me well enough this morning, and I'm not going to repeat myself."

After he'd gone, T said to me, accusingly, "You swore."

"Yes, I did, my boy. I'm mad, and that's what happens when I'm mad. When you're my age and you're this mad, you, too can call a doctor an arrogant __hole if he treats you like that guy just treated us."

His response? "That's fair."

Continued in the next post.