I was packing the day before our flight when the phone call came. I had a stack of Natalie’s pajamas — the soft ones, cut low enough to sit below her hard cervical collar — a bag of medications for her carry-on, and comfortable clothes for her to wear during the five or six weeks we’d be staying in the Ronald McDonald House while she recovered from surgery. She’d offered to help, and she’d tried, but it had only taken two attempts at standing in front of her closet before the headache and the