Some anniversaries you’d rather not remember.

I know Sophie’s second heart surgery was sometime in early November — right around now, in fact — but I don’t recall the exact date. I don’t think about it much, even when I see the several-inch-long “zipper” on her chest, but for some reason, almost every time I pass through our dining-room-turned-playroom I’m reminded of a morning four years ago when I sat with Sophie on the playroom floor and poured olive oil on her hair as I struggled with a week’s worth of hospital bedhead. The rest is foggy. A coping mechanism, I’m sure.

We are reminded in great detail of Sophie’s heart surgery once a year when we take her to the pediatric cardiologist for a check-up. (Last year we graduated from every six months to once a year — a big milestone.) Each fall, I make an appointment; each winter, Ray (usually, he’s the gutsy one) takes her to see the doctor. And he comes home laughing about how the cardiologist always gives the same speech about how “these kids come in here so scrawny!” and reports Sophie’s good health. (Except for the one visit that led to her second surgery; that visit sucked.)

I remember worrying before that second surgery that at 4 years instead of 4 months, Sophie would be aware of what was happening. Not really. Actually, not at all. In fact, until this weekend, I realize now, I’ve never heard her express concern or a real understanding of the whole heart thing, even though she often grabs my hand and places it carefully over the bump where the bones knit back together.

Sunday night, Ray and I were going over the week’s school schedule, and I also mentioned some upcoming appointments and obligations.

“Oh, and the cardiologist,” I said. “Sophie has an appointment Jaunary 4 with Dr. Worsham.”

It was then I noticed that Sophie had walked into the kitchen, and was listening.

“Where do I have to go?” she asked.

“I’ll take you to the heart doctor like I always do,” Ray said, picking her up for a cuddle. “Just so they can check you out and see how you’re doing.”

Sophie stuck her thumb in her mouth.

“I don’t want to go,” she whined, and then she sounded scared. “I don’t want to have heart surgery again.”

I couldn’t meet Ray’s eye. We can’t promise it will never happen again. It might.

And I can’t stack a broken promise on top of a faulty heart.

What would you do?

We changed the subject.