Stage III: Staying ahead of what-if

When it comes: 10 seconds after you schedule surgery

General behavior: Strong, stable, positive -- all of it a big, fat lie

Lasts until: 10 seconds before they take your child away for surgery

How it unfolds:

1. Force yourself to smile as you talk with your child about her special heart and what it needs. Marvel at her interest in the mechanics of the surgery. Be true to your promise to answer all of her questions truthfully. Panic at this one: “What will they use to cut open my heart?” Thank God for her daddy, who immediately answers: “A special tool.”

2. Wonder how much you should share and with whom. Realize that talking about it with some people fills your bucket, and talking about it with others sucks the air right out of you. Discover there is no way to tell which will happen until you’re well into the conversation.

3. Share with everyone anyway and hope for the best. Be grateful to learn that your world includes far more bucket-fillers than air-suckers.

4. Shake your head at the irony of counting down the days — and begging God to make them go faster — until a man with a special tool can slice open your child’s chest, saw her sternum in half, pull out her heart, cut it open, patch a hole, refashion a valve and sew it all shut again. Laugh out loud at the thought that next, perhaps, you should pray for someone to pull out each of your fingernails with a pliers. Or cut off your toes off with a jigsaw. Or rip out your intestines, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO WAIT FOR A MAN WITH A SPECIAL TOOL TO CUT OPEN YOUR CHILD’S CHEST.

5. Thank God for your job, which requires you to think about something other than this for eight hours a day. Give or take. Seven.

6. Work every moment of every day to keep your emotions under control. Mostly suck at it. Do your best not to cry in front of your child. Fail sometimes. Allow her to comfort you and wonder how much it will cost in therapy.

7. Struggle not to be sarcastic when someone asks: “How are you doing otherwise?” Wonder WHO THE HELL could have an otherwise?

8. Don’t read about heart defects. DO NOT read about heart defects. DO. NOT. DO. NOT. DO. NOT.

9. Refuse to think, even for a moment, about what may have caused the hole in your child's heart. Fail miserably. Try desperately not to blame yourself, even though it was your body that did this to her. Mostly succeed, but never really quiet the voices.

10. Continue to marvel at the courage and resilience of children. Watch as your child processes this, asking questions like: How will they keep my heart beating when they fix it? How many doctors will it take to fix my heart? Mommy, will you PLEASE find out what they're going to use to cut open my heart? Answer her truthfully and wonder when the gravity of this will hit her. Realize that it won’t hit her until you let it hit her. Resolve not to let it hit her.

11. Walk into the hospital for your pre-op visit. Meet with nurses and doctors who will not be there the day of surgery. Wonder why. Hold tight to your child’s hand as the parade of strangers continues by. Bribe her with Oreos and Sprite. Wonder what kind of mother you are. Remember you’re the mother of a child who's having open-heart surgery. Have some Oreos yourself.

12. Meet an angel named Kristy, a child-life specialist who spends her days helping kids like yours get used to the fact that they’re having surgery. Watch in awe as she bonds immediately with your child, who typically won’t so much as acknowledge a stranger. Allow Kristy to take over, to teach and share and calm fears. Your child’s. And yours.

13. Tour the pediatric cardiac ICU. Do your best to breathe as you wander the halls, seeing other people’s children as you will see your own in a few days.

14. Meet the second angel of the day, a pediatric cardiac intensivist — a doctor whose job is to care for your child after the surgery is done. Don’t even realize he’s an angel until he recounts the story of when he showed up for knee surgery and his doctor (and friend) asked how he was feeling. “I’m nervous,” he told the doc. “That’s OK,” the doc responded. “I’m not.” Immediately feel like you’re in good hands.

15. Stumble upon a reserve of strength just as you reach the point in the pre-op visit where things get hairy: the phlebotomist, another angel named Christy. Watch in astonishment as she prepares to draw blood from your child — then does — without missing a beat. Pray that all of the “ouchies” to come go so smoothly.

16. Leave the pre-op visit and be thankful your last hurdle is behind you.

17. Not.

18. Wake up Saturday morning to the sound of your child coughing. Flash back to Surgeon B telling you, in no uncertain terms, “We won’t go ahead with surgery if she has so much as a sniffle. No reason to take that risk." Wonder why the gods must fuck with you so. Be thankful you took time out to find and visit a new pediatrician in all of this mess. Get an appointment to see her on Sunday. Let out your breath when she tells you to show up for surgery in two days.

19. Marvel as your child, your sweet, darling, resilient child, marches right into the hospital Tuesday at 6 a.m., dragging her suitcase behind her, and announces that she’s here for open-heart surgery. Giggle as she refuses to put on a hospital gown, preferring to sit naked and color a Scooby-Doo picture as they take her vital signs. Watch the clock as 6:30 a.m. approaches. Alternately wish you could turn the hands back to a time before all of this started and ahead to the time when it will all be over. Curse under your breath as neither happens.

20. Feel the room start to spin as the anesthesiologist introduces himself, tells you he’ll take good care of your child and whisks her away before either of you has a chance to get a good cry going. Take comfort in the knowledge that anesthesia will assure that she remembers none of this. Wonder why they don’t have something that will do the same for you.