I have been AWOL lately, so I apologize, my friends.
But my eight-year-old has been in the hospital. Oxygen, I.V., the whole nine yards.
Primary Children's Hospital is amazing. My daughter kept her spirits up by noting that she got to have room service, video games, and all the movies she wanted to watch!
But as night came on and energy to stay positive waned, as she was continually wakened for treatment after treatment, there was one thing she wanted. One thing that comforted her.
Her favorite old book. "Winnie the Pooh" by A.A. Milne.
And as the early morning hours set in and we both needed rest between treatments, I turned on Peter Dennis' amazing reading of the original book and the classic lulled us both.
It is there in those stressful moments that our favorite childhood stories, the really dear ones, still give us comfort. Perhaps it is because the stories evoke a visceral memory of that safe place, in our mother's arms, when all was well and we could rest knowing that we were watched over.
Because as my daughter and I listened to Pooh and Piglet try to devise a way to outwit the Heffalump when he came to collect them from The Pit, the beeping of monitors and buzzing lights seemed to melt away. We were whisked away to that wonderful Wood.
And with the comforting sound of Pooh's soft voice we both felt we were in that place: safe, able to sleep, knowing we were being watched over.
(A huge thank you to the amazing doctors, nurses, and staff in the Gorilla Wing at Primary Children's for taking such wonderful care of my daughter.)