Yes, the following activities are actually among the most awful things in the world:

-having to go to your deceased son’s pediatric cardiologist for your daughter. 

-sitting anonymously in a waiting room full of people whose ultimate fear–the visceral and panicked thing that has motivated them to come to that office–is your experience.

-sitting in the waiting room reliving every visit, absorbing a decade of the sensory triggers. The elevator, the hallway, the restroom, the play area toys, the floor rugs, the coat rack, the chalkboard, the models of the human heart, the charts on the wall, and the chairs. 

Oh, the chairs. I looked around the room today and realized that I have been seated in every chair in that office. And, each chair is imprinted with my panic and fear. 

Today I looked around the room and saw parents and children in chairs. They were just like us. A pregnant woman on the edge of her seat. Young parents with their young boy, obviously there for the first time. Seasoned pros on smartphones, feigning confidence that this visit will be “routine.” We’ve been all of these people over the past 10 years.

I was in my hell today. No doubt. 

And, yet, in a haunting and warm way, there was a comfort in the experience. Memories of Owen in the plastic planets suspended from the ceiling, and a VCR in the corner that once played melodic visuals that soothed his (and our) anxiety as we awaited test results. Nuanced details of life restored.

My daughter received a clean bill of health today. We sighed. And, we will try to not think about the health of her heart for three years.

And, we’ll be warmed by the bitters and the sweet: 

An EKG is a test where they put stickers all over your chest. Years ago, our  kid’s cardiologist began allowing patients to create pictures with the stickers, autograph their work, and affix it to the wall. Owen was one of the first participants in this wall of fame. His earliest  EKG piece was easily found today, right next to Jupiter. We added Lulu’s to the wall–right next to little O’s.