Then sit.
Then stand again.
I held the little telescope cap Grandpa had given me.
It was scratched and old.
I refused to let go of it.
Finally, the doctor came through the doors.
Mom stood so quickly her chair almost fell backward.
The doctor smiled.
“Everything went well.”
Mom covered her face.
I burst into tears.
Not sad tears.
The kind that come when you’ve been holding your breath for hours and suddenly remember how to breathe.
Grandpa survived.
He came home weeks later.
He complained about the hospital food.
He complained about the television.
He complained that everyone was treating him like he was fragile.
Mom told him,
“You had heart surgery.”
Grandpa replied,
“I still have a perfectly good opinion.”
That became our family joke.
Eighteen years have passed.
I’m no longer nine.
I’m no longer the little girl who thought adults knew everything.
I’m an adult now.
