Phase V: The happy ending

When it comes: After a long and scary month

What it looks like: Paradise

How long it lasts: Still waiting

How it unfolds:

1. Sit in a chair, next to your child’s bed, for the next several hours, watching her sleep, stir, wake, smile and sleep again. Soothe her with songs, talk softly as she drifts in and out, shut the hell up when she reaches up, puts her hand over your mouth and whispers, “Stop talking, Mommy.”

2. Smile to yourself when she has her first post-op tantrum. “I’m thirsty,” she says. “You can have some ice chips,” says Nurse April. “I don’t want ice chips,” she snaps in her hoarse, post-extubation voice. “That’s all you can have right now,” says April. ”Then I won’t have anything at all.”

3. Be so very glad when she can finally sip some water. Watch her eyes follow the styrofoam cup as it approaches her face. Recognize the silent and desperate plea from when she was just days old and couldn't properly latch to breast feed. Pray you never have to see it again.

4. Slowly start to unwind as the anesthesia leaves her body, allowing her to sleep more peacefully and interact without vengeance. Feel her pain as she struggles with the chest tube that drains post-operative liquid from around her heart. Learn from the nurse that it causes her pain because it touches her heart when she moves. Silently ask the angels to help her stay still. Be thankful when they sing her to sleep once again.

5. Look up around 6 p.m. to see Surgeon B standing in the doorway, in a stark white lab coat, with a tie around his neck. How is it he always looks so handsome and clean when he cuts open chests for a living? Smile when he asks how you’re doing. Smile bigger when he tells you how SHE’S doing. Listen as he talks with the nurse. Understand nothing they say except “she's not alerting at all.” Translate: the loud beeps from the heart machine have stopped. Her heart is beating normally all of the time.

6. Startle at the stern look he gives you as he turns to leave. “I don’t want to hear that you sat here watching her sleep all night,” he says. “The best thing you can do for her is go to your room and get some sleep yourselves. Doctor’s orders.” Decide right then to listen to him. He’s been spot-on so far. No reason to start doubting him now.

7. Sit quietly through nurse changeover, sad to see Nurse April go. Be thankful when she tells you you’re in good hands. Ask how she knows. Smile when she tells you she’s made sure of it.

8. Immediately feel drawn to Nurse Lourdes. Watch intently as she takes over the room, gently touching and cooing as she gets to know your child. Answer honestly when she asks how you’re doing. Take in her warmth as you tearfully tell her it’s been a long month. Listen as she explains her philosophy of care: Stay ahead of the pain and your child will sleep. Sleep brings less pain and faster recovery. Amen.

9. Have dinner with your husband. Don’t say much. Be OK with that.

10. Return to her room to say goodnight. Find her in the middle of some nursing activity that feels a little scary. Watch for a bit before you ask what’s going on. Learn that nothing’s going on except, well, nursing. Kiss your child on the forehead, return her puny smile and wander off to bed.

11. Retire to your room, a simple, dark, hotel-room like space with a bed and a bathroom just 50 yards away on the same hospital floor. Brush your teeth, remove your contacts and fall into bed next to the man you love. Remember nothing else until your alarm goes off at 1 a.m. (You didn’t think we’d go all night without checking, did you?)

12. Pull on some clothes and head out the door. Turn left instead of right and immediately set off an emergency alarm. Laugh out loud. Realize your laugh is an unfamiliar sound. Be glad it’s back.

13. Walk into her room to find her awake, talking princesses with Nurse Lourdes. See that her smile, for the first time since yesterday morning, goes all the way up to her eyes. Will yourself not to cry when she calls you over to show you her boo-boo. Tell her it’s beautiful as she drifts off to sleep once again. Hug Lourdes when she tells you your child is an angel. Tell her it takes one to know one.

14. Wake up rested at 6 a.m., in time for Surgeon B’s rounds (does the man ever sleep?) Arrive in her room just as Lourdes tells him the night was uneventful. Accept his praise when he learns you followed his orders and slept through the night. Notice that your child’s hair, which yesterday was caked with blood and tangled in knots, has been washed and braided in pigtails. “We curly-headed girls have to stick together,” Lourdes says as she prepares to leave for the day. Thank and hug her, certain you’ve encountered another angel.

15. Spend the morning preparing to leave the ICU and go to a regular pediatric cardiac floor. Watch as your child’s spirit and spunk return bit by bit. Be amazed as she helps to pull out the tubes that remain in her chest and arms. Answer her questions as honestly as you are able. Notice she’s fascinated with what is going on around her. Dare to hope that will translate into a college scholarship. Realize that means you’re daring to believe she will, indeed, go to college.

16. Follow her to a new floor, where the care is less intense and you finally have some peace. Be thankful for the friends who drop by to remind you of the world outside. Be shocked when Surgeon B shows up around 3 p.m. to drop a bomb.

17. “She’s doing so well that I’m thinking we’ll let you go home tomorrow. How’s that sound?” HOW’S THAT SOUND??? Hmmmm, let me see. It sounds like chocolate covered in caramel wrapped in nuts and coconut and drizzled over ice cream. It sounds like a day at the beach watching dolphins frolic and drinking bloody Marys and staring at Brad Pitt play Frisbee with Stephen Colbert. It sounds like listening to your child laugh and tell you she loves you. That’s how it sounds.

18. Absorb, then share, the news with everyone who will listen.

19. As the day winds down, watch in awe as your child, who had open-heart surgery about 5 minutes ago, hops out of bed and wanders the halls, looking for the playroom. Smile and listen to her giggle and be bossy. Walk with her as she circles the floor three times before she’s ready to climb back in bed. Climb in bed yourself, stunned and thankful for the day.

20. Wake up at the crack-o’-dark:30 to see Surgeon B standing over your child. (Nope, never sleeps.) Smile as he gives the discharge orders and recaps the rules for going home. Wait for an eternity as the paperwork monster chews away the time. Then pack her up, pile into the car, and drive away, pausing only to kiss your husband and whisper “We did it.”