On Wednesday morning we will place our daughter into the hands of the surgical team. I am equal parts numb and sickened with worry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not again. I had convinced myself she would never need surgery.
Why is this so much harder? I can’t sleep, my mind thinks of nothing else, and while I know this surgery is absolutely necessary… part of me wants to consult every cardiologist and cardiac surgeon in the country until ONE tells me we can wait.
Sam was a baby. He wasn’t a vibrant, thriving 3-year-old. He was sick, visibly sick. His brain was failing him and it showed. He needed those surgeries. Sam was my child, but Sam wasn’t “Sam” yet.
Claire looks too healthy. I watch as she climbs every surface imaginable, chases her brothers with a huge smile on her face, and think, “There’s no way. There’s no way she needs this.” Would it be easier if she were in visible heart failure? I don’t know. Maybe this would have been easier if she had been a baby? Probably not.
We will get through this, but I don’t know how right now. My heart is breaking, (which is a terrible metaphor for this situation) and all I want to do is stop time.