I let the margarita wash over me last night as we sat in a dark booth at Maria's up the street.  I settled in closer to Jerry as we looked across at our two girls.  The last twenty-four hours had been rough.  With each sip I started to feel my body once again.  My chest was tight, my neck was sore.  Ella shared no resemblance with the girl we saw on Thursday.  She stared up as the roving guitarist made his way to our table and smiled.  She fought her sister for the last tortilla chips.  Thursday's Ella was strapped to a metal bed in a sad tiger hospital gown.  There were tears, a catheter, instructions that a non-sedated four year old should not have to follow .  Two worried parents standing helplessly at her side with bulky lead aprons.  It was a whirlwind of horrible images.  It was a very dramatic process for a very un-dramatic diagnosis.  She has grade 1 reflux which will likely resolve on it's own in the next few years.  Next week we see the urologist and unless he/she makes a very compelling argument otherwise, we will not be moving forward with the typical protocol for this diagnosis.  She will not have to go through this again unless new evidence of symptoms arise.  Jerry and I have decided.  How parents do this day in and day out, I cannot fathom.  Our beginning, middle and (hopefully) end of this whole process was a quick few weeks, four visits and an end result that is extremely promising.  In fact, if this is all we ever have to deal with medically speaking, we've won the lottery.  In the end, my friend Mandy pointed out that Ella felt loved and 100% supported,  and as parents that is about all we could do.  Moving forward.