Sophie's first surgery. April 29, 2011.(or, Only the Good Die Young)

On the day of my best friend's picnic on the anniversary of losing her 14 year old daughter, I am in the E.R. with my daughter, Sophie. The younger one, who has not had the occasions that my older daughter, Izzy, or Mieke's daughter, Marieke, have had to spend hours and days and nights in the hospital.

This may sound a little screwy, but as I put my beautiful, 17 year old daughter into the car to come here today, even as she was moaning in pain, I thought, "I am so lucky to HAVE a daughter to take to the hospital. I wouldn't trade places with Mieke for all the tea in China or all the money in the world."
As awful as it is to see Sophie (my little bear cub) hooked up to IVs, hurting, scared - I am shockingly aware (every moment of this) - that SHE is ALIVE. She is alive.

Life comes with pain.
Death promises the lack of pain.

I have been here for 6 hours. Some inane sci-fi-zombie-vampire thing is the constant background noise, along with the nurses' chatter and an occasional 'bing'. Sophie says they shouldn't be playing scary zombie-vampire- end- of- the- world movies in a place where people aren't feeling well to begin with. I agree. The remote control is lost. We are stuck with the zombies.

I have been looking at drawers marked with their exotic contents. They boast labels like : urethal catheritization tray, micromist nebulizer, oxygen connecting tube, salem sump 14fr., 15fr., 18fr. All of theses things sound technical and foreign to me.

My daughter is shivering uncontrollably.A sweet Indian nurse piles warm blankets on her. Even in this helpless state, she is more than capable of acting like a princess. Treating me like her serving maid. It's funny because my older daughter, Izzy, was always the bossy one. The alpha dog. But when she is in this moveable bed, hooked up to IVs and contraptions, her bossiness goes out the window. She looks up at me with sweet, helpless, kitten eyes.
"Thank you, mom. I love you." she has said to me countless times in this very hospital. In complete gratitude. As if I might NOT come and stay with her. How could I not? And thank you for what? Giving her the shitty genes that keep her coming back here? If only I could take them for myself. I would without a nano second of hesitation.

I am watching Sophie finally sleep. The morphine and the pain have finally done her in.I am sitting here watching her breath through her beautiful, full, pink lips. Her taped together glasses sliding down her nose. She looks like an eighties angel when she is asleep - with her pixie hair cut and her pretty skin. Right now her cheeks are flushed bright pink.

I watch her (under all those blankets) and think about the picnic we are missing. The anniversary picnic to remember when Marieke was still with us. I think about the times when the girls and I went to visit Marieke in the hospital. She was always at Kaiser. I hated that hospital. Walking down the fluorescent lit hallways with horribly bright,garish "children's" murals all over the walls. But I sort of loved it for making her better. In the middle of the night sometimes. Or in the middle of a family vacation. Whenever she needed it, they were open. Ready to help. As were the EMs and the ambulance drivers. I have been watching EMs and firefighters and police officers wander in and out of the ER all day.

Sophie's doctor just came in and told us "appendicitis". Thank goodness. Not her sister's thing. Surgery, then better. The nurse is surprised at our happy reaction to appendicitis. Sophie and the doc make a joke about "being patient."

I am so lucky to have a daughter with appendicitis. I am so lucky to have a beautiful,eighties princess of a daughter to order me around in the ER.

Doctor Short just walked in. He is very tall. Pediatric surgeon. He speaks to Sophie in a low, monotone voice. His eyes are bloodshot, but otherwise he is handsome. He explains the scars that will be made on Sophie's perfect 17 year old stomach. "Scars are cool." she says.

I'll sleep here tonight. Thanks to Izzy, I am prepared. Toothbrush, cozy clothes, a good book.
My daughters lend me books. Both of them. My daughters both paint and draw. They are both really good writers. They are both smart and kind and beautiful. They are both alive.

Wherever you are, Marieke, I'm sorry we missed your picnic. I don't understand why it was your time to go. And it shakes my tenuous belief in God to it's very core.

Only the good die young.

So, please, PLEASE, my darling, beautiful Sophie - DON'T STOP ORDERING ME AROUND!!!!