"Can I get an update here? This waiting is going to drive me nuts. They said it would take 2 hours and we're going on four. Why do I have a feeling that something's gone horribly wrong? Where's that damn liason anyway."
"Dad, Dad, DAD."
"I'm bored. When are we going to the beach?"
"Okay, just let me see if I can get some answers from someone around here. I'm worried about your sister right now and I'd hate to be gone if there's an emergency."
"Go ahead and go. We'll call if you anything happens. It looks like they're still going to be awhile."
"I swear I haven't felt like this since since Daniel was a baby going through open heart surgery, which, by the way, didn't take this long. A parent should never have to got through this even once, let alone twice."
"I think they're done."
"Is she okay? Was it a success."
"I'll admit, it was touch and go for awhile, but you can see her now. I think she's responsive and will be just fine."
I leave my spot in the waiting room and walk down the long hallway to the room where I left my daughter some 4.5 hours ago. I hesitate slightly before entering, looking for something to grab onto should it be necessary. My feet feel like lead weights and have gone numb from all the pacing. When I finally do go in I have to blink a few times to make sure what I'm seeing is actually real.
Thank God, I think she'll survive.