Charlie’s mom looked into his face and said there’s going to be a parade, kind of, just for him.

A parade out front of his house, where family and friends will drive by and wave, showing how much they love him.

Charlie Paparo listened, but the four-year-old’s face, that had been animated and playful, even after the cancer diagnosis two springtimes ago, and through the first relapse, and second, and the chemo and radiation, showed — nothing.

“If I had told him a month ago, back then, he would have been like, ‘Is it time for the parade yet?’” says his mom, Christina Winton. “But now, I think he just hurts so much, it’s hard for him to grasp things and get excited about stuff. He just kind of looks at me.”

What started as an aggressive sarcoma tumour in Charlie’s right calf spread to other parts of his body, despite treatment. He returned home from McMaster Children’s Hospital for the last time on March 27.

Winton and Phil Paparo’s only child will die, doctors tell them, in three to six weeks.

Physical-distancing rules from COVID-19 may change by then, but there’s no time to wait. Winton’s circle of tight-knit friends came up with a creative way to say goodbye to Charlie, without gathering now or at a funeral.

And with this procession, Charlie was able to actually see the love, and somewhere in his aching body, maybe even feel it.

On Wednesday at 5 p.m., led by a Hamilton police cruiser, a line of cars rolled slowly past the house, one after the other, by invite only, about 50 of them before it was over.

Friends and relatives smiled and waved, kids held balloons out windows and signs that read: We Love You Charlie.

There was no honking — loud noises hurt his head.

Charlie sat on a couch with his mom in the garage, swaddled in blankets in the crisp air, with the big door open.

The family had wondered if he’d even feel like going outside the house, but he said he wanted to do it, so long as someone carried him to the garage.

He seemed excited during his parade, and alert, eyes wide open. He held balloons.

And when it was over, he asked for cold orange slices and chicken strips with ketchup to dip for dinner.

Winton wonders if the distancing rules turned out to be a blessing of sorts. She had not wanted a big funeral, and it likely would have been.

One of her closest friends, Amanda Lera, says it went better than they could have hoped.

“We wanted to make sure people could say their goodbyes, but not open it up to the public. We wanted to also thank everyone for doing all they could to help the past two years.”

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Lera has been helping with Charlie every step, coming to the house each day, and helping sleepover with Charlie at the hospital when he was there.

“If it wasn’t for the fact Charlie had a bald head and a feeding tube, you wouldn’t have known he had cancer,” she says. “He had constant chemo and radiation, but was still the most energetic and playful little boy. And such an imagination, all he ever wanted to do was play, even from his hospital bed.”

In addition to friends and family, two nurses regularly come by to help care for Charlie, and doctors call on video chats to help.

Lera says the video house calls have been another unexpected benefit, in the wake of the pandemic: doctors have a reduced regular caseload, so they seem readily available to help, and the family’s instinct is no longer to take Charlie to the emergency department.

“It’s meant less stress on him, and on mom, that they can walk us through it on video.”

Winton says she is unsure if Charlie knows what his fate holds.

She says everyone tries to stay positive, encourage him. He doesn’t ask difficult questions.

Over the phone, her voice sounds weary, and it wavers, but does not break.

She says there simply isn’t much time these days to reflect on what’s happening. She is too busy, consumed with taking care of Charlie, trying to manage his pain.

His stomach hurts, and his head, and eyes.

Caring for him is a distraction, she says, and stressful, and she feels blessed to have lots of help.

She does fear what happens afterward, though, when he’s gone.

For now, tears don’t come, Charlie’s mom does not cry, even when she’s alone with her thoughts.

“I try to. It’s like, I need to cry, but I can’t. I just keep going.”