On this very night three years ago, I took Ty’s temperature for the umpteenth time and it read 104.9.   Under his shirt and his back were burning up, yet his face felt cool, his hands and feet warm but not burning with fever.   I knew what this meant, but I swear in my heart I still held on to hope that he might recover. He had been asleep for hours on end.   I spoke to his doctor, we talked about how the only way to try and diagnose and treat the fever would be to bring him in – but we wanted him home.   We promised we would never take him back to the hospital again, and no matter how desperate I wanted to believe that he would wake up the next day, I also knew that he was so close to dying, any attempt to save his life would be in vain. I was up early the next day.   Ty still sleeping peacefully in my bed.   No sign of waking.   I remember saying to my mom, over coffee, “if he doesn’t wake up soon, I don’t think he ever will.”   To actually hear myself say those words, it wa