“Honey, you focus on getting better. Your little girl will be fine. I’ve got her.”
They wheeled me into surgery at 9:47 p.m.
The last thing I thought before the anesthesia took me under was, My parents are at a concert right now.
They’re singing along while their daughter is having emergency heart surgery.
The procedure took four hours.
Dr. Chin later told me it was more complicated than expected. They found multiple abnormal pathways and had to do extensive ablation. There was a moment around hour three when my heart stopped entirely and they had to restart it.
I could have died.
When I woke up in the cardiac ICU, the first thing I did was ask about Emma.
The nurse, Diane, knew me from the hospital. She smiled and showed me her phone.
Patricia had sent updates every hour. Pictures of Emma sleeping peacefully. Thumbs-up emojis. Reassuring messages.
“You’ve got a good team taking care of your little girl,” Diane said.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I do.”
My parents weren’t there.
I hadn’t expected them to be, but still, some small part of me had hoped that maybe, just maybe, they would realize the seriousness of the situation and show up.
They didn’t.
I stayed in the ICU for two days, then moved to a regular cardiac room for three more. Patricia stayed with Emma the entire time, refusing to leave until I was home and stable.
I tried to pay her double her rate. She refused.
“Some things matter more than money,” she said. “That little girl needed someone who could be fully present. I’m glad I could be that person.”
During those five days in the hospital, my phone remained silent.
No calls from my parents. No texts asking how the dramatic panic attack had turned out. Nothing.
But on day three, something interesting happened.
My father called, not to check on me, but to complain.
