I lay in the hospital bed with my six-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, holding her in my arms. "Mommy, will you stay with me the whole time?" she asked, looking up. "You know I can't be in the operating room," I said carefully, not wanting to frighten her. "But Daddy and I will be waiting right outside." Elizabeth nodded, but she stills looked anxious.
Elizabeth had broken her right leg in July. Seven months later, it still hadn't recovered. In fact, it had gotten worse. She was here in the hospital for surgery.
I wanted to promise that this would be the last time she'd have to go through this and that everything would be okay. But what if something went wrong again? How could I comfort my daughter when I needed comfort myself?
There was a knock at the door. A nurse? I thought. Time to say goodbye already? But the woman who came in wasn't a nurse. "Hi," the woman said. "I'm a volunteer here, and I've got something for Elizabeth." She handed a bright-blue box to my daughter.
Elizabeth sat up and took the box. She opened it and started pulling out goodies one by one--candies, stickers, a lovely toy in the shape of a star. She hugged the star, cheering up for the first time since she entered the hospital. "Thank you," she said. "I love them." There was a big smile on her face. It has been so long since I saw that big smile.
The gift was a great comfort not only to my daughter, but also to me.
