It's been a rough couple of days around here. Mia wasn't feeling well starting Tuesday afternoon, and by Wednesday she was running a very high fever. I brought her in to see her doctor, who recommended we go to Children's Hospital to get some tests run.

I should really preface this all by saying that Mia's fine, seems to be feeling much better, and will get checked by her pediatrician again this afternoon. She had tests run to see what's causing her fever, and we were able to rule out some big things and are still waiting to get more information on some of the other tests. She's had several very high fevers in the last few months, all seemingly without cause or symptoms, and the doctor thought it best to look inside and see what's going on in her little body. She was treated with antibiotics and seems to be on the mend. As usual, she amazed us with her ability to remain calm and relatively happy, given that we were at the hospital until after 11pm and lots of people kept poking and prodding her. She fell asleep in my arms around 10, and only woke to be given the medications while we waited to be sure she had no reaction.

Children's Hospital here in Boston, or probably any children's hospital in any city, is a terrifying place. When we arrived at the ER, there were several children who were clearly injured, and some who just looked really sick. There were little babies there, just a few weeks old, all the way up to kids who looked to be older teenagers. All of the parents looked frazzled and frightened, holding their children and just waiting for their names to be called so they could be removed from the waiting area and seen by a doctor. The hospital waiting room crosses all sections of life. The mom next to us had a baby a little younger than Mia, whose Bugaboo stroller collapsed on her, resulting in a very bloody face (for those who don't know, it's a $800 stroller). I saw another mom, who looked like a child herself, bringing in a very small baby who looked limp in her arms. Parents with multiple children had to bring all their kids in; there was a woman across from us with 3 children sitting next to her. As we waited, a child was brought in on a stretcher, maybe from school or a sporting event; he didn't seem to have his parents with him and they kept him waiting to be admitted until his parents showed up. While Mia certainly didn't feel well, it truly could have been a lot worse.

The doctors and nurses at the hospital are all great at their jobs. The nurses all have toys with them for babies to play with, and Mia got a sticker for being a good patient. Our doctor did his best to allay our fears while telling us that more tests would be needed. It can't be easy telling parents that their child is ill, and to have to do this all day every day. Doctors in offices get to see the joys of childhood every day; ER doctors only see kids when there's something really wrong. It would take a very strong person to be such a doctor.

While we waited to get the results of the test, we paced the waiting area of the after-hours area of the blood draw center (once you get "upstairs" in the hospital you're sent to the specialized area for treatment). By that point in the evening, it was just us and one other family. As we waited, a father walked by carrying a sleeping small child in his arms. Mia smiled at this father, who used the opportunity to strike up a conversation with us. We asked how old his daughter was, and he said one year, but that she was the size of a 6 month old because she needed both kidneys replaced. He so clearly needed to talk to someone, to validate his fears, to hear it would all be ok. He kept talking to us for twenty minutes, not wanting to let us go because then he'd be all alone again pacing the corridors. We learned about his 2 year old's potty training and his 16 hour work days. If we had not needed to leave we most likely would have heard more. He followed us out. We were discharged for the night; he would be spending yet another one there.

Ben and I aren't religious at all, but I can truly see how having some kind of faith is necessary for parenthood. One wants to believe that someone or something is watching over her family, taking care of the big picture. I did find myself making litle bargains with my own God, whomever that may be, knowing that my lack of faith over the course of my lifetime might make such pleas a second priority to the pleas of those people who are more certain in their beliefs. It's times like these that try a person's faith. What can I do better? Did I do everything I should have? What can I do in the future?

We're so lucky. We're not spending the night. We went home to our own house, our own bed, our own little girl nestled between us under warm and safe covers with a hound dog to watch over her. Our girl will be taken care of by our own doctor, whom we respect and trust, and will be just fine. But sometimes, it's good to be reminded just how lucky we are, to have a minute to be grateful for all that we have, and to know that we're not alone.