Last Tuesday morning, Sophie followed me into the bathroom, took my hand, and placed it over her One Direction pajamas, over the big bump on her chest where the bones mended — first, when she was 4 months old, then 4 years.

“How does your heart feel?” I asked, smiling.

“Good!” she said. “I don’t need to ever have surgery again.”

Well, never say never. (I didn’t say that to her.) But when the cardiologist announced Sophie was going from annual appointments to every other year, it was cause for celebration, for sure. Ray typically takes her to these visits, and he took her to this one — reporting the details Monday afternoon on the phone as they left the doctor’s office.

“No restrictions!” he said; we were both thrilled.

Just one thing gave me pause — but not the way you’d think.

“He says she can take the ADD drugs if we want,” Ray said.

Fuck. To be completely honest, it was the one nice by-product of a not-entirely-mended hole in the heart — we didn’t have to make that choice. Years ago, chatting at a playground with an old family friend who is also a child psychiatrist, I mentioned that we quite sure Sophie had ADD.

“What does her cardiologist say about medication?” he asked.

“She can’t take it,” I said.

“Well,” he replied, “then you need a new cardiologist.”

No, I thought. I need a new family friend. That really pissed me off, that this guy would be so flip about my kid’s heart. I vowed then to not give that medication a second thought, even though I’ve seen other kids benefit, even as I’ve seen Sophie ping pong around life, obviously in need of some help.

Now we can reconsider. I should be happy about that, right? Instead, I’m just stressed out. And probably in need of some ADD drugs myself.