Reality Show

Last week I went to the pediatric cardiologist with my best friend, Suzanne, whose 5-yr old daughter was sick a few months ago with a scary illness that can cause a lot of long-term problems, like heart disease, over time.

Suzanne asked me to come because she says she feels totally helpless now when it comes to Krista. As if to prove she once had the ability to manage the universe, she often reminds me: "I wrote a birth plan."

As Krista lay on the examining table, her feet in their jellies angled in a relaxed V, the cardiologist, a sensitive-looking man with a long nose and pale hair, squirted some gel on her chest. “We’re going to make a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich out of you,” he joked.

“But I like ba-lo-ney.” Krista frowned at her mother, like: 'What a loser.'

The doc laughed and placed the transducer wand in the gel and turned on the ultrasound machine, which revved like an airplane before takeoff. As he slid the wand around Krista's chest, murky images of her heart appeared on the screen like the answer from a Magic-8 ball.

“Coronary artery looks good,” said the doc in that noncommittal way they use before they've collected all the information. “There’s the left atrium, the left ventricle."

I watched the dark, hollow chambers loom and dissolve on the screen and a valve open and close like twinned pinball paddles as the chambers filled and emptied. The doctor marked the outermost edges with the pointer and pressed a button on the machine to capture a picture of Krista's heart at the precise moment when one chamber was nearly empty and the other nearly full. This was not the fanciest machine--not like the 3-D one they used when I was pregnant with Trey--and though I couldn't see the blood moving through Krista’s heart, I knew it was there.

Suzanne stood like a steeple next to Krista, squeezing her daughter's hand.

"That's all," the doctor said and gently wiped the gel off Krista's chest. Suzanne helped her sit up and put on her T-shirt.

“Things look good,” the doc said and looked at Krista. “You’re a lucky girl.”

Then Suzanne asked the question she didn't want to hear the answer to: “Will she be okay?”

The doctor turned off the machine and replaced the transducer in its holder. Then he opened his palms like a benediction. “We don’t know. She's at a higher risk for heart disease and stroke. It could affect her kidneys….” He glanced at Krista. “Can't say. We just have to watch it."

Although this news had chased away my friend's fear for the moment, the uncertainty of her daughter's future smudges the joy she believes she's entitled to. This is Suzanne's reality, no matter how she wants her life to appear. It's her reality show.

Freaks, what's yours? Let's get real.