That dream where you show up to school naked? That guilty unpreparedness of being shamefully caught off guard? Not terribly unlike being catapult into making heavy medical decisions for a new baby, not even three months old. Wait, how did I get here? I need to choose what?
I can’t shake this sorry feeling. Even as we technically have the baby’s surgery scheduled at one hospital, I panicked that we never explored the other option. Why had we never done that? Going along with the default isn’t making an informed choice. And I tell myself this a thousand times, and still I worry about causing trouble, about being that problem family. For what? For just making sure his heart surgery happens at the hospital at which we feel most comfortable? That’s not trouble, that’s smart. That’s poking a straight pin into my vein and squeezing my blood into a little vial, inky drop by drop, if that’s what I had to do, because that’s what you do. That’s what anyone in this position would do. If we choose to switch cardiology teams, even this late in the game (tick tick tick tick tick, he needs his surgery very soon), the original practice won’t take our departure personally. Will they? And if they do? That’s not my problem. I can’t let it be my problem.
So, that’s where I’m at. Chasing doubt like it’s my job and collecting a sloppy pile of unspoken apologies.
If you have fifteen minutes and would like to be someplace else, someplace glad and wistful, I have just the thing for you.