Colleen in ICU the day after the surgery. She had already had the ventilator removed. The tube in her mouth is suction to get rid of saliva. The tape on her nose is for her oxygen and her feeding tube. Her left hand has an IV in it and is taped to a board to keep it from coming out. Her right arm has another IV and is also taped to a board. She has a central line in her neck, which isn't visible. She also has other monitors taped all over her body and a foley catheter.

When the ambulance arrived, eight paramedics stormed the office. Four large men suddenly appeared in the exam room, which was already crowded with Troy, me, the doctor and the nurse. (Colleen wasn't taking up a lot of space herself.) They started asking questions, performing a medical assessment, of the doctor and me. She answered their questions and said, as she handed Colleen to one of the paramedics, "I suspect she's having heart failure."

The room suddenly began to close in on me and I dove across the baby carrier at my feet to get out of the room. I wanted to grab Colleen and take her with me, but I couldn't. Someone ushered me into the exam room next door where I was alone with my thoughts. Heart failure? How in the heck did I miss heart failure? Noone ever told me this could happen. I just thought she had a cold. And why in the hell were the paramedics dilly-dallying in the office? My mind was screaming, "GO GO GO! What are you waiting for? Get in the stupid ambulance and drive!" while my body was just trying to remember how to breathe.

Troy soon followed me into the neighboring room. We gave each other a hug and struggled to keep from losing ourselves entirely. It seemed like forever before the paramedics were ready to leave, but finally we were walking to the ambulance. I can remember the strangest details of those moments - the mom and son peeking out of another exam room to see what the commotion was, the receptionist giving me a look of complete sorrow, the haze in the air when we stepped outside, the fact that the ambulance driver looked like he was 19. I remember these things because I felt totally removed from the situation. I was an observer to a dramatic scene in a movie, not a participant in a horrifying life event.

A paramedic led me to the front seat of the ambulance. "The front?" I thought. "But wait. I'm supposed to be in the back. I'm supposed to be able to touch her, hold her hand, comfort her. How can I reach her from the front seat?" I thought these words, but said nothing.

Phew! This is a tough picture for me to see. Look at all of those machines!

The hospital was only a few minutes by ambulance from the doctor's office. When we went in, we bypassed the emergency room and went straight to Pediatric ICU because Dr. Gilliland had called ahead and secured the last available room for Colleen. This was one of many fortunate moments during this story. There was also a pediatric cardiologist waiting, as well as the regular PICU staff intensivist (a doctor who specializes in treating children in intensive care) and the nurses.

I was led to a special waiting room that seemed to be walled off from the world. It was quiet, with no windows and a doorway that was tucked away and hard to find. However, as I sat in the room, I could hear Colleen screaming down the hall. My heart was breaking because there was nothing I could do for her. This little girl who had been my charge for 3 1/2 weeks had been ripped from my arms and tossed into a hospital bed with swarms of hospital staff working on her.

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