I was only in pre-school when I had my first sleepover at my friend Sophie’s house. I had to stay there for two days and a night while my dad was flown to Washington for surgery. I had no idea anything was wrong, because, at the gullible age of four, “Don’t you worry, everything will be alright,” meant just that.
They told me my daddy had cancer, Pseudomyxoma peritonei. I called it Su-di-mix-oh-ma pair-oh-toe-knee-eye. I thought it was the funniest name ever, and decided something with “Toe-Knee-Eye” in it couldn’t be bad.
And so Sophie and I pitched a tent in the living room and roasted marshmallows in the fire place.
The next evening my prince charming was home, and he seemed well enough to me. All I knew was Dad’s stomach had some funny lumps in it, and I wasn’t aloud to touch them. I thought he must have overeaten in Washington and was feeling self conscious about it.
I only began to worry when he had to go into the hospital, but I was too amused by the curtains and pretty nurses to be worried.