“No, honey,” I said. “Don’t say that. You can’t lose hope.”
I couldn’t blame her, though. It had been two weeks since what was supposed to be a routine appendectomy, and she was getting worse, not better. The doctors didn’t have any answers. It was hard not to feel hopeless.
It had all started on Mother’s Day. We’d loaded the kids into the car and driven to a campsite we’d rented with some friends for the weekend. It was the perfect spot, nestled between cedar trees and close to a river. We pitched tents and built a large fire. Everyone was having a great time. Except Krystyna. After dinner, she complained of stomach pains. She retreated to her sleeping bag early that night, hoping to sleep it off, but in the morning felt terrible. Something was definitely wrong.
We left the kids with our friends, and I drove Krystyna to the nearest hospital. Within a half-hour, she was being wheeled into the OR. Though it wasn’t how we’d envisioned our weekend going, we were both grateful that she could be treated before her appendix ruptured. The doctor explained that the procedure was done laparoscopically and that Krystyna should recover quickly.
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