Little Girl, Don't Look So Blue

Dear God, Please Let Me Live through the Night

I was born on June 17 in 1992, a healthy baby at a healthy weight. For the first two years of my life, I showed no problem. I walked at an early age, and spoke at a young age also. What could be wrong with that?

At age three, I got the chicken pocks. Yes, it doesn't seem like a big deal. But the chicken pocks was only the first of a long line of troubles that I'd have.

"Dear God, please let me live through the night." I uttered that phrase every night from age four, after I had fully recovered from Kawasaki disease, a disease that affects your lymph nodes and mucus membranes and can eventually lead to heart disease and, if not caught in time, death.

After a large variety of surgeries, I began to wonder whether or not God loved me. I topped the charts with all of my wonderful surgeries. I had my tonsils, adnoids, and appendix removed. I had two different surgeries on my mouth and gums. I had tubes put in my ears, which left a hole in my eardrum, and two surgeries to fix it.

When I was eight, I broke my arm. I had 20/200 vision in one eye. I got sick all of the time, from recurring bronchitis to stomach virus to a fractured disk in my spine.

"Dear God, please let me live through the night."

Did my parents really think that I couldn't hear them when they discussed the new surgery with the doctor? That maybe, maybe something could go on. Maybe the anesthesia would kick in, maybe I'd get too much in my system, maybe I'd die...

Isn't that a terrifying thought at age six or seven, thinking that next time you head into the room on that cold metal table, the next time you wave goodbye to your parents, the next time they put you to sleep, that you could never wake up?

"Dear God, please let me live through the night."