While we wait for a phone call with cath and surgery dates, we sit in this weird limbo of preparing to prepare. I think one of the hardest parts of being in the medical world is all of the waiting. It is nauseating, like falling from the most beautiful view, but slowly and with nothing to catch you on the way down. I'm glad that Sunley has a team at TCH that truly advocates on her behalf. The hospital is VERY full, but I know they will get her in. The reason for the waiting is that they are trying to get surgery and cath on the same page, and that can be tricky. Sunley is 29 pounds, and 30 is the preferred minimum for the Fontan, so no hold up there. The cath will determine if her heart is a good candidate for the Fontan, which everyone expects to be the case. TCH does not do fontan procedures during flu season, so that's part of the rush in getting it now.

I still can't really believe this is happening. But each day, I have a choice to dwell on the negative aspects of it all, or just suck it up buttercup and make the best of it. The more I let go in prayer, the better I feel.

Today, I went shopping for decorations and play activities for her hospital room. It's a very difficult wave of emotions to describe, picking out all these adorable little girl things while picturing the images we’ll be seeing. It feels so lonely walking around a store with no one there who knows what is happening inside my spirit. I suppose it feels similar for anyone grieving any sort of loss, and I often wonder if strangers around me are suffering too. God has done some really incredible things through my (not so) random interactions with strangers.

One of those interactions happened just a couple months before the pandemic. It was December of 2019, and flu season, so we were pretty quarantined. One Monday mid-day, I decided to take the kids to the mall. I knew it wouldn't be crowded at all, and a change of scenery sounded wonderful. We ate at the food court, and there were only about 2 or 3 other families there. One of those families sat near us, and asked me how I came up with Sunley's name. I told her that her middle name is Summit, which came because of a Bible verse that popped into my head when we received her diagnosis. This mother of two asked me more questions about Sunley's health, and listened so intently. She them told me that she was born in the early 80s with a very rare heart defect, and had a transplant when she was 11. She was now an adult living with that same transplanted heart. This woman started pouring into my soul all kinds of deep and wonderful advice about parenting a young girl with a serious health issue. I won't share all of the details, but her advice was beautiful and personal, and incredibly encouraging.

Someone, I dare you, try and tell me that God did not orchestrate that. Oh, how He loves us.

Tuesday night, after getting the news from Houston, I sat on my porch for just a few minutes while the sun was going down. And just as I expected, God sent me pink clouds, rustling leaves, a beautiful cardinal, and a whole fleet of fireflies. Oh, how He loves us.

So I can walk these aisles of toys giving temporary joy, aisles full of kids who aren't in the hospital, and I can do it with gratitude and joy — because as He cares for these strangers, He also cares for me.