My mother and I cried a bit, tonight.
Somehow, we got to talking about the day Little Warrior was admitted to the hospital. We compared the blow by blow accounts of when I went to the pediatrician, when I called them, when I called back to say, "It looks bad, Daddy." She knows that they left the next morning to drive to my town. She doesn't know if she slept that night.
We talked, combining our memories to make one story: This is what I said when I called, oh, that's when I was at the grocery store, this is when your father called your brother. This is when your brother called us and told us it was a tumor.
That night, we were admitted to the hospital, but (I thought) we didn't know anything yet. More tests needed to be run. But of course, the doctors did know something. The Husband noticed what I did not: When they admitted us to the hospital, they sent us to the 9th floor. I must have been more concerned with Little Warrior and looking down at her, so I didn't see what The Husband saw when we got off the elevator. A smallish plaque that read, "Pediatric Oncology Floor." So while I was feeling a teeny bit of relief -- "Yay! We're admitted! We have our own room! We're not in the ER anymore!", The Husband was feeling murderous rage -- "How dare they put us on the oncology floor! That means cancer! She hasn't been diagnosed yet!"
This isn't the first time my mother and I have compared notes. I guess we're still processing. I don't know when it will be all processed.
Our long talk ended as so many long conversations do: "I've got to go pee!" We say goodnight. We marvel at how life changes.
I come back to the guest bedroom. The Husband flew in today; he is asleep in our borrowed bed. At the foot of the bed, Little Warrior is asleep in her popup crib. Her body stretches from one end of the crib to the other, one arm is thrown over her pillow, the other loosely holds her care bear. She looks robust and -- pleaseGodknockWoodThankYewJesus -- healthy. It seems impossible that she is the same baby who caused so much of us so much fear.
Tomorrow, she'll wake up, rooting and tooting. We'll beg her for 5 more minutes of sleep. She'll refuse.