“We’ll get an IV going, then she’ll be moved over to surgery. They’ll get her checked in and go over some things with you. Then the anesthesiologist and surgeon will tell you more.” He looks at us expectantly, a canned smile on his face that isn’t pleasant or unpleasant. Just a smile that saysmy part of Claire’s care isover.
“OK.” The tremble in my voice is impossible to hide. My Dad shakes hands with Dr. Green, I mutter a thank you, and he disappears back through thecurtain.
Claire is still engrossed in her show. I sit beside her, one leg propped on the bed, the other dangling to the floor. “Sweetie, did you hear what Dr. Green said?” I press pause on the phone. Claire looksup.
“No. I was watchin’WordGirl.”
Oh, my heart.She has all ofit.
“The doctor said you’re going to have surgery. You’re going to take medicine that will make you sleepy, and when you wake up, your arm will be fixed,OK?”
“I guess so.” She shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter one way or the other toher.
My eyes flash to the nurse setting up the IV. Dread sits like lead in my stomach. Like every child, Claire hates shots. She hasn’t noticed what the nurse is doing, and just as I open my mouth to prepare her, the nurse says it’stime.
The IV placement goes exactly like every immunization Claire has ever received. I hold her still and she cries loudly, even after the needle isout.
“Can I watch WordGirl again?” She asks when her sobs slow. The nurses eyes meet mine and we share alaugh.
“Sure,” I say as I press a kiss to Claire’s forehead. I press play, and set the phone back on thepillow.
“I hope you weren’t planning on using your phone anytime soon.” I say to my dad as I settle myself next tohim.
“Nobody needs me on a Saturday.” He stretches out his legs, crossing his feet at the ankles, and leans back. “The only people who need to talk to me are here in thisroom.”
“Thanks again, Dad. I’m glad I’m not doing thisalone.”
“Of course.Always.”
He leans his head on the wall behind him and closes his eyes. Soon he’s snoring softly. How the man can sleep right now, I don’t know, but I’m envious. I settle in and find a spot on the wall to stareat.
Just when the wait begins to feel like it will never end, three nurses show up to take Claire to surgery. Claire, who fell asleep sometime after her third WordGirl episode, stays asleep the entire ride to the surgeryfloor.
My eyes never leave Claire. Not when the admissions person comes to ask me what feels like four hundred and sixty seven questions. Not when my dad comes in with bottled water and hands me one. What in the world did they put in her IV? She never sleeps through this muchnoise.
As if the nurse senses my concern, she informs me that a long nap is not uncommon. “Their little bodies are so good at doing what they need. Adults try to stay awake, but kids let their bodieslead.”
I nod, appeased. I must look worried. I feel terrified. Like I’ve aged years since we arrived at the soccer field thismorning.
Before the nurse steps out she turns back and says, “Dr. Cordova is almost here. He’s a fantastic surgeon. Great with kids. I’ll send him in to meet you as soon as hearrives.”
I lift my eyes from Claire to watch the nurse leave, then get up to pull the curtainclosed.
Dad sits in the corner, eyes closed again. Gently I settle into a seat on the end of Claire's bed and resume staring at my littlegirl.
This isn’t a big deal. She’ll be fine. This Cordova guy is supposed to befantastic.
I keep going with my good thoughts, hoping positive vibes and prayers can keep the nausea atbay.
It works on my stomach but does nothing for the tears. They flow as I study my little girl’s body. It’s so perfect, so beautiful, so vital, so necessary to keeping my own heartbeating.
The privacy curtain scrapes along the metal rod, and I turn to look at who’s entering. A man in light green scrubs steps in, a smile on hisface.
Our eyes meet, and his smilevanishes.
“Oh, my god,” I breathe the words, and the nausea I worked to contain fights to getout.
“You left the country.”My first words are defensive. I’m already defending my choice, a choice he doesn’t even knowabout.
