It was snowing again as we got into the car. Luckily my husband took the morning off of work - I hate driving in the snow. The three of us sat quietly and headed toward the surgical center. She's 18 already - taller than me now, but she's still my baby. It's nothing serious, I keep telling myself. Still, watching her walk away from me into the prep area I feel tears fill my eyes. Slowly I walk back to my husband and we say nothing, just hold hands. Minutes pass and I can't help myself. "Is there any way I can see her...?" I ask the kind women at the front desk. "She's my baby." They both give me that look, they understand. A moment later I'm taken back to see her. She's laying in the bed, already hooked up to an IV. She sees me and a tear falls down her cheek. "I'm here, baby."
Thirty minutes later - though it felt like days had passed - we're both back in recovery with her. The doctor is there telling us it doesn't appear to be anything serious but we have to wait for the test results. I look at my husband and I see tears filling his eyes. Our daughter, our baby. She's okay.