"Mommy" she calls me softly, and I take my eyes away from the kindle page I've been trying to unsuccessfully read for the past 30 minutes. "Why am I not normal?" My eyes well up instantly, and I blink rapidly before putting on a fake smile and reaching out to push the hair back from her face. "What do you mean, sweetie? You are perfectly normal" I say. But the sentences ring hollow even to my own ears. I know exactly what she means. "My friends don't have to go to the hospital this often" she persists. She's angry that she missed her favorite chorus class this morning. And that she'll be missing a math test that she's studied hard for. She's mad that she'll be missing "fun friday" at school and a chance to pick a totally useless trinket from the class treasure chest for her hard earned behavior points this week. Instead, she's lying in a darkened room, on a hard hospital bed, tubes attached to her,