I believe in angels. But maybe not in the traditional sense. I believe angels are all around us as extraordinary souls pouring love and grace from their own metaphorical "cup" into others. I have several angels in my life. One of these angels I met on the 22nd floor of Lurie Children's: Kim Tyk. My daughter was born with a complex congenital heart defect, hypoplastic left heart syndrome. She was born with only one of the ventricles to her heart. My husband and I knew before she was born that she would need a series of surgeries to enable her to live with a single ventricle heart. But until she was born, that's all we knew. We could've never guessed the journey we'd have in store for us.

She had three open heart surgeries. Each recovery seemed to be progressively more difficult than the last. She had the third surgery, known as the Glenn when she was eight months old, and it stands out to me now because it was then that Kim stepped into our lives most. She had worked with our daughter at the bedside before, but I remember how she was walking a fine line I refer to as "the cliff." She'd walked it before, but this time was different. My husband and I weren't sure how to imagine the future. By that, I mean we didn't know if she'd be there with us. Our hearts were breaking.

One of these days, Kim was at the bedside with us, and it was a quiet day on the unit. Not a good quiet, though; it was more like a metaphorical fire being extinguished in another part of the unit. Everyone's attention was directed to that room. The energy on the unit felt heavy and somber. Kim sat quietly with me in our room. I felt so broken and uncertain and angry and grief-ridden. But Kim shed light through my grief that day.

Truth be told, almost every memory from our 21-month inpatient stay is foggy to me now, blurred by the need to survive through the hardest days without holding onto the pain and grief they held. But the way Kim made me feel on that heavy, grief filled day- a day I felt I was at rock bottom holding onto hope by barely a thread, she gave respite. I remember we talked about her puppy. She told me how she played with a herding ball and showed me videos of her prancing pup bopping the red ball around in her backyard. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I smiled. At that moment, Kim poured light into my empty "cup."

That wasn't the only day or moment Kim shared her light with us. It is the moment that stands out to me the most. I really needed her and she reached into the darkness and held my hand.

Now, free from inpatient life, our daughter is home with us, thriving and full of love and joy. And Kim is with us every step of the way as a member of the single ventricle outpatient team. Kim never fails to answer my calls. She fights for us constantly, helping us get the medical supplies and medicines our daughter needs when there are shortages. It makes me smile now as I write because when I imagine Kim, I think of a knight battling a dragon. It's so beautiful how fully Kim dedicates herself to our whole family's success on the outpatient side. She's one of the main reasons we've been able to avoid being readmitted as much as we have. I wish I could give her the world.