I savored every grey day, every dark dinner, and black morning. I would meet the thin cold air with acceptance.  When the sun would peek out in the afternoon, and I would see Clare running out of school and into my arms, time would freeze for moments.  The longer it took for time to pass, the farther away Clare’s surgery was from her and me.   I wanted the monochromatic, dry. long, grey, dark winter to stretch, and stand still.  I wanted every morning snuggles and conversation with our early riser.

It’s been eight months since Clare’s heart surgery.  She was five then, now she’s six.  When I run into people, in my profession, or parents at Clare’s school, they ask after her.  She’s grown several inches since her heart was repaired through open-heart surgery and she is healthy as can be.  She was listening to our hearts the other day with the stethoscope and remarked how different her heart sounded.  She had a special heart beat, a whoosh, it was.  She had had that since birth. In those days, those winter weeks before her surgery, I often thought about her heart sound.  Would she change after her heart was repaired and sounded so different?  Would she lose something of her personality?  What happens to a person’s essence when there is an invasion, even if it is a necessary and potentially life-saving one?

I had been putting Clare to bed almost every night in the weeks preceding the surgery, instead of the usual taking turns with my husband.  She had just turned a corner with reading and was compelled to join in the Dr. Suess books I read.  I could have read with her forever.  I would hear her drifting off, with blankie in her arms, making nursing sounds with her mouth, even though she stopped nursing when she was just 9 months old.  Once asleep, every night, my mind would go to that place where I did not want to let her go.  I couldn’t let her grow up, I couldn’t let the days pass to get closer to the day of surgery.  I didn’t want that moments of pure peace to end.

When Clare was  3 or 4, there was  span of time where the prospect of growing up frightened her.  She would cry and cry, saying “I don’t want to grow up.”  Of course, that freaked us out, knowing about her heart and hoping it wasn’t an  omen.  So when we learned she would have to have open-heart surgery, it was our unspoken fear, that somehow Clare knew something no one else did.  She has always had a knowing and magical way about her.  She had a wonderful imaginary friend, “Mena Zena,” who appeared behind the kitchen door one day.  Mena Zena was around a lot, just hanging out with Clare.  I got used to that.  One day, near age 5, Mena Zena moved away and Clare talked about her less and less.  Despite letting go of Mena Zena, Clare’s knowing way didn’t diminish.

Clare never had any fear about having surgery.  She asked more questions as the day approached.  She wanted more details, and we gave them as she asked.  The thing is, she only asked for what she was capable of hearing.  This is Clare.  She knows.  We tried so hard not to pass along our fear.  I would cry quietly every night listening to her breathe, but I would wake up every morning smiling to see her.

On March 1, we woke up and every one said “Rabbit” except for Clare and I.  We forgot.  She looked so sad when she realized and fought back tears.  I wanted to cry,  I really needed good luck this month.  But then I dreamed of us on a train, her little hand in mine, and we stood at the doorway when it stopped.  We wouldn’t get off.  We were resting there, just staying in one place.  We were not scared, we were thinking.  Clare was coming to me in my dream.  She was telling me she would stand with me.  And I was standing with her.  She was giving me strength.  Was she telling me not to be afraid?

It’s still hard to think about the feelings I had preceding her surgery. I was introspective, sad, scared yet so happy and so grateful to have someone like Clare in my life.  I felt so lucky, my heart ached.  Every day for two weeks before the surgery, and eventually after, we would walk to the park and have a snack on the bench.  We would look at the lagoon, sun starting to warm the ice.  Clare said, “the lagoon, when the light shines on it, is like a mirror that’s always clean.” I did not know what would happen.  I didn’t know if she would live. In her way, her voice, her hand, her heart, Clare told me it would be okay.  On one of those walks, we sat on the bench.  The park was quiet and the air still.  Clare put her finger across her lips and said “shhh,” she closed her eyes and took a deep breath saying “I’m listening to my heart.”