Page 22 of The One Who Changed Everything

"Hey, sweetie," I whispered, drawing closer to the bed, careful not to disturb the wires trailing from under the blanket like cautious snakes. My fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

"Mom?" Her voice, scratchy and groggy with sleep, chased away some of the cold dread coiled inside me. My little girl was so strong.

"Right here," I assured her, offering a smile I hoped looked more convincing than it felt. "Just got back.”

"I hope you took a shower." Her attempt at humor was weak but genuine, and it warmed me more than any hospital blanket could.

"As a matter of fact, I did." I chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. “I even ate dinner.” I didn’t share the fact that my “dinner” consisted of half a granola bar and a cheese stick eaten in the car on the way back here after Evan’s visit.

"It's okay, Mom," Sophia said, her gaze clear and earnest. "We'll get through this. We always do."

We always do. Her resilience–and the promises of God–was my anchor, her optimism the light in the darkest of rooms. One thing about hard, scary times? You found out where your hope was. My heart broke for anyone who faced these kinds of situations without the peace of a faith in the Lord.

"Of course, we will," I agreed, my voice steady despite the tremor I felt inside. "What’s our verse?"

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand,” she recited, her smile brightening the sterile room more effectively than any fluorescent bulb.

The door to Sophia's hospital room swung open with a swoosh, breaking the silence that wrapped around us like a shroud. Two doctors entered, their white coats stark against the pale walls, their expressions grave. They both reached for the sanitizer pump by the door and applied it to their hands as they said hello. Another woman trailed behind them.

"We’ve got to quit meeting like this," the younger doctor added with a sad smile. Dr. Chen had been Sophia's cardiologist since her diagnosis. Her voice was always gentle, but tonight it carried a weight that made my heart sink.

"Yes, please," I managed, my fingers tightening on Sophia's hand.

“You’ve met Dr. Larson. And this is Sarah, one of our patient advocates.”

I nodded in a half-hearted greeting. I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t have the bandwidth to care right now. "How’s my girl?" I asked Dr. Chen.

"Sophia's stable for now," Dr. Chen began, pulling up a chair to sit beside us. "But we've reviewed her test results. I’mconfident that the episode was a result of the heat and the exertion of the activities at camp.”

Guilt flooded me. I’d signed her up for horse camp at Bloom’s Farm because she loved horses, yes. But also because I couldn’t watch her during the day, and I wasn’t ready to leave her alone for that long. I should have been more careful.

Dr. Chen continued. “With Sophia’s age and given the severity of this episode, I’m strongly recommending an implantable cardioverter defibrillator."

"An ICD," I repeated, the acronym tasting like metal on my tongue. I had done my research, knew what it meant—the promise of safety it offered. The tiny device would monitor Sophia’s heart rhythms and correct them with a small electric shock if there was an arrhythmia.

"Exactly," Dr. Larson confirmed, flipping through a chart. "It's a precautionary measure to prevent sudden cardiac arrest. The device is designed to detect irregular heartbeats and deliver therapy accordingly. I think Sophia is a perfect candidate for the device, and it would greatly increase her ability to partake in normal activities for a teenage girl without fear of repeat episodes.”

“Could I play soccer again?” Sophia asked.

My heart broke at her hopeful words. She’d loved playing soccer, but two years ago we’d had to pull her out of the rec league after her last cardiac arrest.

“I think that’s quite possible with the ICD, yes. However," Dr. Chen said, hesitating for a moment, "there's an issue with your insurance. They've denied coverage for the device."

I felt the air leave the room—or maybe it was just leaving my lungs—leaving me breathless, grasping for composure. "Denied?" My voice cracked, and I hated how vulnerable it sounded. "But... why?"

"Pre-existing condition clauses," Sarah explained, her tone apologetic. "And the high cost of the device doesn't help."

"Cost shouldn't be a factor when it comes to saving my daughter's life," I said firmly, though panic clawed at my insides like a caged animal.

"We understand," Dr. Chen assured me. "We're not giving up. We'll appeal the denial, but these things take time. That’s why I brought Sarah in here. I wanted you two to meet. She’s going to do everything she can to push the insurance company to cover this device.”

"Then what are our options if they won’t cover it?" I demanded, my mind racing. I'd fight tooth and nail, sell everything I owned if I had to. Nothing mattered more than Sophia's safety.

"We can look into charitable programs or payment plans," Dr. Larson suggested, though his voice held little hope.

"Or fundraising," Dr. Chen added. "Community support can make a big difference."

"Fundraising." The word echoed in my head, bouncing off the walls of fear and landing squarely in the realm of possibility. I was no stranger to hard work, to rallying people together—I did it every day at the library. I could swallow my pride and let people donate.

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