2012

Dear readers,

I realize I stopped mid-story with the tale of Ally's surgery. I got sidetracked. It happens - a lot - and life got busy and there's a lot more that happened that I haven't passed along. But right now, I need to write a letter to my daughter. I hope you understand.


Dear Ally,

We've had quite a year.

One year ago right now we had no idea what was lurking beneath the surface. Daddy and I had just a month or so before been talking about how lucky we were, how healthy you'd been and what a blessing it was.

Here's something 2012 taught me: there is a blessing in everything. It's not always easy to see, but it's there. There's a reason for it, there's a silver lining.

As scary as your diagnosis was (and still is) and as much as the stress in the first half of the year felt like too much to cope with, we were unbelievably lucky to find out when we did, how we did.

Dr. Lau told us that you weren't his youngest patient with HCM, but you were close. He told us you weren't the most severe case among his patients, but you were close. The fact is that if it hadn't been for the heart murmur, we wouldn't have known anything was wrong at all, and the fact that your heart murmur was unrelated to the HCM just drives the point home that much stronger. If you hadn't had the heart murmur, we would be going about life as usual without knowing there was a ticking time bomb in your chest.

We could've been one of those families who don't know anything is wrong until one day everything is wrong, maybe too late to do anything about it. I can't even begin to fathom what that would be like, to be sitting in the stands watching you play soccer or softball or whatever physical activity you chose, only to have the world stop turning when you collapsed from a heart attack at an age where no one should be collapsing from anything except giggles.

We are so, so lucky. And you, my sweet, wild angel, are just amazing.

You're five years old now, but eight or so months ago you were four years old in an operating room with a machine doing your living for you. Three times, they stopped your heart to cut on it. Hours and hours we spent, our own hearts stopping every time they called us up to let us know your progress. I can't begin to describe to you how that felt. I would've traded places with you without a second thought. I would've given you my heart if I could have, just so you would never have to go through what you went through.

Five days in the hospital, going through things you didn't understand. Five weeks recovering before you could go back to playing with your friends like a normal kid your age.

You bounced back so quickly, scaring me to death by running and jumping and playing when your sternum was held together by wire and your chest by stitches. They warned me that it would be that way, that two weeks post-op you'd be climbing the walls, and it was true.

Over eight months later, you have a device implanted in your stomach that will shock your heart if it tries to fail. That was a good decision, because now at least I know we have that. Now I don't have to rely on my CPR training to keep you alive, because honestly, when it comes to you, I am in no way rational or objective. You are everything to me.

Friday was your great-grandmother's birthday. She's been gone for six weeks, but would've been 89 years old, and she's been such a big part of your life that it breaks my heart that you don't have her anymore. When you tell me she's in heaven with God, it's bittersweet for me.

You'll remember Granny. That's a silver lining. You won't get to learn from her the way I did, won't know her as an adult, and that makes me sad but realistically I've always known that would be the case. She is your *great* grandmother, and she was already well into her 80s before you were born.

You don't remember Pawpaw beyond the concept of him, and of course you don't remember Noni. These are things that are hard for me, as your mother, because I know what you're missing out on. Everything has changed in my own life so very much in the last five years, everything is different, and it's disorienting for me but I have to remember that this is your normal. This is your life, what we have here.

I'm trying, really hard, to make it a happy one. I want you to know that.

You're so smart, so energetic (could you back it down a notch, please? Mommy still worries about your heart), so creative and imaginative. You love to draw, love to read books, love to pretend you're a puppy.

You never stop chattering, rarely stop moving. You're independent but you still need me, too. You ask hundreds of questions a day - literally - and sometimes I want to lock myself in the closet just to get a moment's peace. You're five years old and this is normal, and once this stage has passed I'll miss it just like all the others.

You're so funny, too. You make me laugh all the time, even when everything you say ends with "..right, Mommy?", and I hope that when you're grown you will remember the laughter and not the times when Mommy got frustrated with you, when my patience was worn thin, when I simply could not answer another. Single. Question.

I hope you remember the moments like today, when we snuggled up in bed and had a conversation about whether or not God is real, and how He manages to be everywhere at one time.

I hope you remember helping Daddy make dinner, shaking your head and laughing at him when he thought you were doing something wrong but you were actually doing it right.

I hope you remember going to the park and the zoo and the train place in Cincinnati. I hope you remember how much you love pre-school and the friends you've made there.

But the truth is, Ally, I hope you remember what you went through this year, because it's shaped all our lives so completely, and you pulled through it like a champ. I am so very proud of you, and I love you so very much.

-Mommy