Then her oncologist finally said, “She is strong enough for a full day out.”
Daisy looked up at me from the examination table.
“Can we go somewhere with big slides,” she whispered, “like normal kids?”
I reserved two tickets that same night.
I believed the most difficult part of the trip would be preventing her from pushing herself too hard.
She spent nearly an hour picking out a swimsuit online. She chose a bright yellow one with tiny white flowers on the straps, then demanded that I buy a yellow suit too.
“We can look related on purpose,” she said.
“Are you sure I can do the big slides?” she asked.
“We start small,” I told her.
“That means yes.”
She rolled her eyes.
It was not the quiet hospital laugh she used whenever she was pretending to feel better for my sake.
It was genuine laughter.
We floated around the lazy river twice, shared a plate of fries, and discovered one medium-sized slide she adored because it made her scream on the way down and immediately ask to ride again.
