I was going to be brave.

I was going to be brave.

We did this before, right?  We woke up well before dawn and drove our tiny girl to the hospital for surgery.  We carried her down the hallway knowing we would soon have to hand her over to the OR team.  We handed her over and watched the OR nurse carry her around the corner to the team that would care for her while under anesthesia.  I sobbed as we helplessly took the elevator to the waiting room where I would pace until we got word that she was out of surgery.  We waited in angst as we were waiting to hear her name called so that we could meet her in the recovery room.  I rocked and held my sedated little girl and longed for the time she'd open her eyes and want to nurse again. 

We did this already.  So, next time, no big deal, right?  That's what I've been telling myself. 

I was going to be brave.  With this surgery, we have no what-ifs.  The outcome is definite:  Open reduction, Spica cast for 6 weeks.

So, then why with every passing day that the day gets closer do I get more and more scared?

35 days until we do it again.  35.  That's a fewer number of days than she'll actually in the cast.  When I think about it, I'm nauseous.  I don't want to do this again.  I'm scared to death.

I know her condition is fixable.  I know eventually this will all be behind us.  I know there are far worse case scenarios out there that we could be dealing with.  I know all of this.

It doesn't make me less scared.

I can't tell you what a helpless feeling it is to hand your child over to someone and know that you have absolutely no control over what is about to happen.  I don't want to do it again.  This is what our girl needs, so we will do it again.  And again after that if we need to.

I was going to be brave.

So I'm going to try to be.