Life will take her from you. You don't know it yet. You still feel normal, still feel hopeful, still expect that beautiful future you've helped her build.
Nobody really expects it. You couldn't have known. Life will take her from you, it'll just happen.
You'll get the call on a Monday at ten in the morning. A panicked secretary from Emily's school. She'll tell you that your daughter's been taken by the ambulance, that she had a seizure, that she's very sorry. You'll ask what hospital, hang up, find Gillian. You wont have to say anything more than "it's Emily" before she immediately drops what she's doing and chases after you.
Life could have ended your daughter's journey then and there. She could have hit her head on the way down. She could have aspirated on her vomit and died. The seizure could have just never ended, quieted her where she lay. Life could have ended her there, and maybe that road would have been more gentle for everyone involved. Life could have spared her suffering, a drawn out death, countless horrors that will culminate in your greatest failure.
(Life could have spared you all, but she wont.)
You'll race into the emergency room. The room they'll have sent you to will be empty. A nurse will pop her head through the sliding glass door and tell you that Emily's getting a CT scan. You'll sit down on the cheap folding chairs in the empty room and clutch Gillian's hand. Gillian will tell you that it's going to be okay.
They'll bring her back in soon, looking fragile and small. She'll struggle to say your name, she'll be fuzzy around the edges. You'll wonder if that's because of the drugs they've given her. It wont be.
Two doctors will come in soon after her. You wont need to hear them speak to know that the words that will come out of their mouth wont be good. You'll know, you'll always know. So will Gillian, her hand tightening around yours.
They'll tell you that they found a lesion. They need to do an MRI to get a better look. You'll ask what the hell do they mean by "lesion." One of them will shift uncomfortably. He'll say "we can't be certain yet, but it's possible she has a tumour."
They'll take her away again. A nurse's aide will bring you boxed up turkey and cheese sandwiches and cans of soda while you wait, tell you that you need to eat. You wont taste a thing. They'll ask to confirm your insurance information, her medical history, already in the system. Her paediatrician is here in this hospital. You'll finally think to call her mother. Zoe will take two audible gulps of breath over the phone and tell you that she's coming.
They'll move her up to her own room in the ICU after that. They'll tell you that it's so they can monitor her more closely. The room will have a single lounge chair and a couch, designed for the sort of situations where family doesn't want to leave.
The doctors will come back in and lead with the wrong punch. They'll tell you that she'll be transferred to Baltimore in the morning. You'll ask why. The shifty one, the neurologist, will struggle to look at you. You'll hold Emily's hand and she'll look scared, confused, too small in that giant bed.
He'll tell you that the MRI gave them a better picture of the large lesion on her left temporal lobe. He'll tell you they're more confident that it's a tumour now, and certain that it will cause her severe impairment or kill her if left untreated. He'll tell you that it's in a part of the brain that's important for speaking and understanding, for remembering, for being who you are, that they don't have the kind of specialists needed to do that kind of surgery here. After consulting with her new team in Baltimore, they're going to start her on an anti-convulsant medication she's probably going to be staying on for a long time, and a steroid to reduce the swelling in her brain. He'll tell you that the steroid might be temporary. He'll be wrong.
Emily will cry, confused, and then so will you. Zoe will find you like that, and Gillian will pull her into the hall to explain. When the blank look of shock will wear off Zoe's face, she'll wrap her arms around Gillian, pulling her into a hug. Gillian will allow it all to hit her at that moment, standing in the hallway next to a hand sanitizer dispenser. "She's yours, too," Zoe will whisper. "You're her family too." Gillian will protest, she'll tell Zoe that you're not a couple and certainly not married.
Zoe will laugh, letting her go. "He ran to you when he found out, didn't he? How long did it take him to call me?" she'll ask. Zoe will look her down with sternness and sincerity and tell her again. "She's yours too."
Gillian will think of how it's almost cruel of Zoe to acknowledge this here and now, during the painful part, where she might never get a chance to really be Emily's family. (Months later, Gillian will realize that she'd been doing that all along, far before Zoe said a word. She'll accept that Zoe was right, that Emily was part of her since she first laid eyes on her. It will eat her up inside.)
Emily will have another seizure that night, two of the most terrifying minutes of your life. You'll want to reach her, hold her, but the nurse will grab your hand. "The best thing you can do to keep her safe is to stay away right now," she'll say. You'll hate it, but she'll be right.
You'll barely sleep that night, sitting up on Zoe's computer researching the possibilities, torturing yourself with the statistics. They will at least knock Emily out with anxiety medication to calm the restlessness and confusion.
You'll think about the confusion. Emily's been messing up some words lately, forgetting things, not understanding you sometimes. You thought it was just the stress of school, that she was distracted. You never thought a little absent-mindedness was a symptom. You'll hate yourself for it, thinking of all the damage that might have been done to her, just because you didn't know. You'll mention all of this to her new doctors tomorrow.
This will be one of the things that will come back and haunt you later. Many things will come back and haunt you later.
Gillian will sleep on your shoulder, Zoe on the reclining chair. When the nurse's assistant comes in to respond to the IV pump's alarm going off again, she will tell you that the cafeteria is opening in a few minutes at three for an hour, and you should get yourself something to eat.
You'll force yourself to swallow down half-cold pasta and a cup of coffee, taking up bottled drinks, a fruit cup, and snack bars for Zoe and Gil.
The morning will bring a couple of doctors, and you'll finally think to start keeping track of this stuff on Zoe's laptop. You'll email yourself what you've written so far just to be safe.
Zoe and Gillian will leave while you wait for the hospital transfer. Gillian will stop into the office, picking up both of your laptops and updating everyone, and then at her house to pack a bag. Zoe will drive to your house and pack clothes for you, things you and Emily might need.
They'll both drive ahead of you to the hotel and then to the hospital while you ride along in the ambulance. Zoe will have already booked all three of you two nights at a hotel near the hospital, and you will tentatively plan to extend your stay if it's necessary.
Emily will be more awake that morning, more alert. She'll still look very scared, especially as they move her in the ambulance, and you wont know what to do. You'll have to sit up front for the entire trip.