#MRIbirthday

It started as a comment my mother-in-law made while I was on the phone with her the week before the MRI. Something along the lines of, "So about this...MRI birthday." It was impossible to delineate one from the other in my mind, and it seemed others' too. I started referring to is as a hashtag to keep it lighthearted and keep the panic from surfacing. Every time I tried to think about her birthday, or plan for her party, there was this nasty whisper in my head that wouldn't let me get past the MRI. I couldn't reflect on the past year, couldn't get past that wall in my mind. I was terrified of a reaction to sedation, to contrast, of her never waking up. I read safety stats. It was riskier for us to drive her to the procedure than for her to have it. I knew that. I trusted that. But something my brother's oncologist said eons ago would reverberate back: "Statistics don't matter when it's your child."

Lilah got up bright and early after a Star Wars marathon the night before. She crawled into bed with us and we wished her a happy birthday. She was all smiles and snuggles. She got a white popsicle and tea to get something in her stomach but stick to clear liquids. She painted and finished Star Wars. We got dressed and collected her presents so she could open them when she woke up. We drove to the hospital.

She held her Elsa doll and sang Cherry Wine by Hozier in the backseat. We parked and walked her into the Imaging Center. I kept checking my phone like a lifeline. Every 3 seconds or so it would "thrrrpt" in my pocket. Every 3 seconds was someone who loved me and my family keeping me from absolutely losing my shit. I got her registered, filled out her paperwork, and they put her arm band on her. And we waited. She squeezed Elsa harder and tiny lines formed on her guileless little face that almost never wore creases. Receptionists complimented her crown and her bird dress and sweater, said how pretty she looked. She smiled and thanked each one, but it wasn't a real smile. She was pensive. They said she looked pretty, but I knew better. She has picked her outfit so carefully. She wanted her crown and bird dress because she wanted to feel like herself. She was wrapped in the sweater I made her because it was a security blanket.

They called us back to another room where she changed into a gown and hospital pants. She stayed on my lap and snuggled close to both of us. She refused the iPad a mom offered when the girl ahead of us got taken back. She just sat. The anesthesiologist came back and asked Lilah if she knew what she was there for.

"You're going to take pictures of my brain. You're going to send pictures of my brain to my doctors because they want them."
"You're right! And the best way to take those special pictures is if you're asleep, so..."
"So you're going to give me special medicine to make me go to sleep."
"Yes! You're so smart!" She turned to me. "Any metal implants, allergies, asthma, heart conditions..." Lilah answered again.
"No metal. They said no metal. I can't have cow milk. No asthma." The doctor said they'd give her medicine in a mask mixed with air, then start an IV to keep her asleep. Then they'd wake her up and come get us. Did we have any questions?
"And if...if she has a reaction to the sedation, or the contrast?"
"It's usually very well tolerated, and we'll be monitoring her vitals the entire time. We have an emergency kit, just in case." I nodded. I had to ask. I knew, but I had to hear her say it. Just in case. Just in case. She handed me the form to sign. I signed. She left the room and they came for her a few minutes later. I let go of her hand and she walked away down the hall. I had to consciously keep breathing and not scream. Inside I was screaming. She rounded the corner and I walked the other way. Not down the hallway after her to yank her away from them. We made it to the waiting room. Dano and I talked and kept each other company for over an hour. I jumped every time I heard an overhead page. I watched the double doors every time someone came through. They finally called us. We went back to the recovery room and the nurse said she had just opened her eyes. She saw us. I saw her looked relieved. She rolled over contentedly.
"She was just asking for you." I thought my legs would collapse but they didn't. She sucked down an apple juice and a water and ate two graham crackers. They gave her a teddy bear and she sat up. The nurse said she could get dressed. She reached for her bird dress, and we handed her a present.

"You can wear this instead, if you want." She tore it open. It was her Rey costume. She squealed and thanked us, and tried to stand up on the gurney to put it on, swaying where she stood. The nurse held her while I dressed her. She kept squealing and saying how great she looked. She was pissed when they sent Dano out to pull the car up and made her get in a wheelchair.
"I CAN WALK." She finally agreed to sit in the wheelchair, but only on my lap, and she glared at the nurse pushing us the entire time.

We spent the rest of the day having tea and sandwiches, watching movies, and playing Legos. I think we could have gotten home to the house burnt to the ground and I'd have been okay. I had my family, and we were enough. I tucked Lilah in to bed and I told her how brave she was, and how proud I was she was mine. She snuggled down in her covers and fell almost instantly to sleep.