I’m a real perfectionist. And most of all, I hate being wrong. Those who love me will attest that it is both my greatest strength and my worst fault. Those who don’t love me know this part of me better than the rest.

So it is hard for me to want to be wrong. Even when all logic and emotions dictate that I would be crazy to hope for anything else.

You see, it is 3:27 AM, and we spent nine hours today driving back from Vermont to Pennsylvania. We returned home around midnight, and I now sit in the emergency room with my youngest daughter, awaiting the results of her tests for appendicitis.

Being that I am here, it means I do not think this is nothingFor the last three days I have mostly ignored her complaints of stomach pain, and rationalized that her low-grade fever was a result of too much running around outside. But then, upon arriving home and with her still complaining of pain, I checked with Dr. Google and became concerned. So concerned that, rather than waiting until the morning and taking her to the doctor down the street for a $15 copayment, I chose to drive 20 minutes to the emergency room and pay $100.

So here is the twist. Being that I am here, it means I do not think this is nothing. And, not wanting to look like either a hysterical parent who overreacted or a delinquent parent who didn’t react quickly enough, I want the nurses and doctors to likewise share my concern and suspicions.

But do I?

I don’t actually want to be right. I want to be told that everything is fine. That nothing is wrong. And go home. And yet I am here. Struggling, as crazy as that sounds, to accept that being wrong is the ideal outcome. Yes, it will mean driving home at 5 AM, after five hours in the ER for really no reason. Yes, it will mean paying $100 for the same thing the doctor could have told me for $15. But yes, it will mean that, thank G‑d, my baby girl is healthy and back home with me, where she belongs. And yet, embarrassingly enough, I struggle with being wrong.

And then, as I write this, a call overhead says to prepare a room for the ambulance arrival. I immediately say “refuah shleimah” under my breath, and pray that it is a woman in labor and nothing else. Though I am pretty sure that, unfortunately, it is not.

How ironic. I worry about whether I made the right decision in coming here. And I struggle with being able to be wrong. Yet somehow, until now, I have forgotten how none of this is in my control. How this person being wheeled in didn’t make a decision as to whether or not to come. And how grateful I should be either way. If, G‑d forbid, I am “right,” then thank G‑d I brought her here, where she will receive excellent treatment. And if, G‑d willing, I am “wrong,” then we get to go home, worry-free, with a healthy little girl.

I have forgotten how none of this is in my controlAnd yes, I am well aware that I used G‑d three times in the last two sentences. After all, I had some making up to do. Until now, it seems I left Him out of the equation altogether . . .

It is now 3:59. I am no longer anxious, no longer annoyed, no longer focused on me. But grateful. Very grateful. And not just hoping, but praying, to be wrong!