I used to believe that if something terrible happened to my child, I would know exactly what to do.
I thought motherhood had prepared me for emergencies.
I was wrong.
At two in the morning, I woke to the sound of someone standing in my bedroom doorway.
It was Lily.
She was wearing her little pajamas, and her hair was stuck to her forehead.
She wasn't crying loudly.
That was what frightened me first.
My daughter usually called for me when she wanted water or couldn't find her favorite stuffed toy.
That night, she barely managed to speak.
"Mommy, something is moving inside my tummy."
I pushed myself upright.
For a moment, I couldn't understand what she meant.
Then I noticed the way she was holding her stomach.
Both shoulders were bent forward, and her small fingers were pressing against her belly.
"What do you mean, sweetheart?"
She looked at me with wet eyes.
"There's something swimming around in there."
I reached toward her.
She took a few unsteady steps and came closer to my bed.
I lifted her into my arms.
She felt damp with sweat.
Her little head rested against my shoulder while I rubbed her back.
I checked her forehead.
No fever.
I checked again because I couldn't think of anything else to do.
Still nothing.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
She shook her head.
"The little fish are biting me."
I looked down at her.
Five years old.
That was all she was.
Five years old, and she was trying to explain something happening inside her body with the only words she knew.
I wanted to believe it was a nightmare.
I wanted to tell myself she had eaten too much before bedtime or had a stomachache that would disappear by morning.
But then I tried to lower her onto the mattress.
She screamed.
Not the kind of cry a sleepy child makes when she doesn't want to go back to bed.
It was a sharp, frightened sound.
I stopped moving immediately.
"Okay. Okay, baby. Mommy won't put you down."
She grabbed my shirt.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric.
I could feel her trembling.
I had never seen her like that.
"Show me where it hurts."
She placed her hand over her stomach.
"Here."
"Does it hurt all the time?"
She nodded.
I kissed the top of her head.
I didn't know what was wrong.
That was the worst part.
I couldn't see an injury.
There was no blood, no bruise, no obvious explanation.
Only my little girl crying against me.
I looked toward the other side of the bed.
Daniel wasn't there.
My husband was in Denver, Colorado, traveling for business.
He had been away when the night began, and now I wished more than anything that he was standing beside me.
I wanted another adult in the room.
Someone who could look at Lily and tell me what I was missing.
But there was nobody.
Just me and my daughter.
I reached for my phone.
My hands were shaking enough that I almost dropped it.
I checked the time.
2:07 a.m.
I knew I couldn't wait until morning.
I didn't know whether this was something serious, but I knew my daughter was suffering.
That was enough.
I pulled a thick blanket from the end of the bed.
I wrapped it around Lily carefully, trying not to press against her stomach.
"Mommy is taking you to the doctor."
She didn't answer.
She only leaned against my chest.
I collected my keys and took her downstairs.
The house was quiet.
Everything looked ordinary.
The furniture was where it belonged.
The rooms were dark.
There was nothing about the house that explained why my child was suddenly in so much pain.
I remember looking around before I opened the front door.
It was such an ordinary moment.
I had no idea how much I would think about that house later.
I carried Lily to the car.
Getting her into the back passenger seat was difficult because every movement seemed to hurt.
I tried to be gentle.
I adjusted the blanket around her and made sure she was comfortable enough to sit.
Then I got behind the wheel.
I drove straight toward the pediatric emergency department at a private clinic in Scottsdale, Arizona.
I don't remember every street.
I remember the steering wheel beneath my hands.
I remember checking the rearview mirror.
And I remember hearing my daughter make small sounds whenever the car moved.
"Are you okay, sweetheart?"
She didn't answer.
A few seconds passed.
"Mommy?"
"I'm here."
"The fish are still there."
I swallowed.
"I know, baby. We're going to get you some help."
I kept my eyes on the road.
I wanted to drive faster, but I was afraid of making the ride harder for her.
Every red light felt too long.
Every passing minute seemed important.
I had never felt so helpless.
When we reached the clinic, I parked as close to the entrance as I could.
I got out, opened the back door, and lifted Lily into my arms.
The blanket had slipped down around her shoulders.
Her face looked exhausted.
I carried her inside.
The emergency department was bright compared with the darkness outside.
A member of the medical staff approached us.
I explained that my daughter was five years old and experiencing severe abdominal pain.
I told them she had woken me in the middle of the night.
I repeated the strange words she had used.
The little fish.
The swimming.
The biting.
Even as I spoke, I felt embarrassed by how unusual it sounded.
But I wasn't trying to make a story out of it.
I was trying to tell them exactly what my child had said.
They examined her and began asking questions.
I answered as clearly as I could.
I wanted them to find the reason.
I wanted somebody to tell me that the problem was simple.
Something that could be treated.
Something that would allow me to take her home.
Instead, the medical team decided she needed an ultrasound.
I agreed immediately.
Of course I did.
I would have agreed to anything that might help her.
Lily was taken for the examination.
I stayed close.
I watched the medical staff prepare the equipment.
I watched my daughter lie there, looking much smaller than she usually did.
She was normally a busy little girl.
She asked questions.
She wanted to touch everything.
She rarely stayed still for long.
That night, she barely moved.
I stood beside her.
I kept looking at her face.
I wanted to tell her everything would be fine.
But I had stopped trusting words I couldn't guarantee.
So I simply held her hand.
And waited.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: The Technician Stopped Talking When She Saw the Images, and Suddenly Nobody Would Tell Me What Was Wrong
The Night My Five-Year-Old Daughter Walked Into My Bedroom With a Pain She Could Not Explain
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