We are grateful to have returned home to Abbotsford with Georgia just a couple of hours ago (it is 6:30pm as I write). Kandy and I were nervous as morning approached, knowing that what existed behind Georgia’s surgical dressing would soon be revealed. We were to meet with Georgia’s surgeon at the ophthalmology clinic at 8:30am. Georgia had mostly broken sleep throughout the night, as did Kandy, who stayed with her at the hospital. Georgia had awakened this morning with the fear and the pain that we had anticipated. Her response to these dynamics–the fear and the pain–was to refuse to open either of her eyes. Who could blame her? Every time she does so anywhere in that neighborhood on Oak Street, people want to poke and prod her, shine intense light, or drop burning solutions directly onto her wounded peeper.

We get it, Georgia.

Georgia’s eyes remained resolutely shut throughout the morning, right up to the moment that our porter–the man appointed to escort us through the maze of hospital departments en route to Georgia’s surgeon’s office–arrived. Upon hearing his greeting, Georgia, distracted by an unfamiliar voice and a gentle Filipino accent, immediately forgot her nocturnal mission; she swiftly turned her head toward him and opened her left eye to see who was there–her right eye remained locked away behind a barracks of gauze, layered white tape and dense, perforated plastic. Like her mother, it is not possible–not possible–for her to be within earshot of a stranger and allow for that unpalatable noun to remain dangling in the air between them. Like her mother, she would simply short circuit–think, smoking ears, rapidly blinking eyes, crisis of meaning kind of stuff–if it were required of her that she not speak to the Yet Unknown Other in her presence. The man that Georgia glimpsed with a start, lacked the physical stature that she has grown accustomed to associating–however erroneously–with men. After all, her father is 6’3, and, as a matter of pure coincidence, a good many of his friends are men of near-equal or greater height.

I’ll invite you to hold that thought.

Off we headed in the direction of the ophthalmology department, and Georgia, in her typical style, persisted, from one end of the 20 minute walkabout to the other, with an ardent and compulsive attempt at verifying the man’s name, age and, of course, favorite colour.

We didn’t get to the colour part.

“What’s him name, Daddy?” Then, quizzically, “How old him is?” And, then (he and Kandy walking slightly ahead) “Hey, what yer name?! Uhm, what yer name?!” Now, more loudly, “How old you is!? How old you are?!” She was beginning to sound a little bit Yoda, a little bit inner-city Brooklyn. It wasn’t too long before I picked up on the association buzzing around in Georgia’s head, which was progressively revealing itself amid her gesticulations and unrelenting inquiries. Our porter, whose name we came to know is Paul, was, as a matter of fact, a man in his mid-fifties. He also, as a matter of more obvious fact to Georgia, was the very same height as her mother: five foot two and one half inches, to be precise. Upon learning Paul’s age, and doing my best to curb the direction of the awkward conversation I could see percolating before us, I stated to Georgia, “Georgia, this man is Mr. Paul. He is fifty six years old” Paul, briefly breaking his focus from Kandy’s uncannily similar and gleeful onslaught of inquiries, looked back and smiled in Georgia’s direction. With Georgia having learned Paul’s–to her, merely supposed–age, at once I could see, fiercely approaching, a moment that I would have preferred to be elsewhere for. “No him not, Daddy! Him not fipty six. That’s silly!–him too sho…”

Pause with me, if you would.

Do you consider yourself a sane person? Let me ask you this then. Have you ever, whilst strolling down a long subterranean hallway–a hallway clad thickly in concrete and rebar, so far from nature, that all that exists to illumine your way are the humming ballasts of fluorescent light so neatly lining the space overhead; nary a window or door in sight–ever heard the words “Look at the pretty bird!” loudly leave your lips; leave them as though you had spontaneously developed the most rapid onset of Tourette Syndrome in the annals of psychology? Until 8:45am this morning, neither had I. I could see poor Paul’s gait slow a moment as his ears tried making sense of the semantic soup clumsily passing betwixt the strange father and daughter duo that strolled behind him. Perhaps his momentary downward gaze was an effort at covertly scanning the chart he carried to verify that it was indeed ophthalmology, not, psychiatry, to which he was to escort this bedraggled crew: Georgia, with her now matted, mangy long hair, green and white pinstriped hospital gown, psychedelic, bellbottom hippie jammy pants, bloody pirate patch and missing front teeth; Kandy, with a case of verbal diarrhea that even I, her loving husband, considered notable–brought on, as always, by exhaustion and fatigue; I, calm, quiet, but for my new clinical condition, looking as though I had just completed a week long bender with a college fraternity–who could possibly indict Paul for taking just one more look at that good old chart? My only remaining hope for Paul in the moment, now that all dignity had left our hallway along with my pretty, ethereal, bird, was that my utterance had been loud enough to dampen the landing of the “…rt!” that our little angel’s stream of consciousness had so boldly stuck. What a way to pass the time.

Against all odds, we made it to the ophthalmology clinic. Paul departed from us with a wave and a look of gracious bemusement–I hope, to go have a coffee and to speak with more brightly lit beings than we.

Once at the clinic, we were directed to wait in a room for Georgia’s surgeon and whichever of the resident fellows studying under him would be joining us for the procedures. Georgia began to retreat inward once again, losing all enthusiasm for the moment. Upon seeing her surgeon, her countenance quickly shifted and we were once again faced with a child who begged of us, simply, to take her home. Tired of her I.V., tired of having her eye cut and sutured, tired of being touched by strangers, tired of burning drops and meds, tired of laser beam lights, tired of global pressure tests, tired of pain…tired of it all. She curled up into Kandy and sobbed once again “Pweese take me home, Momma…I go home now…I go home now…” Georgia’s surgeon blessed us all in this moment. “Have you all had breakfast yet? I think it best if you went for a little wander about. Why don’t you let her settle, get some food and come back in, say, 20 minutes?” During the moments preceding his invitation, we had at least been able to remove the patch from Georgia’s eye, which remained determinedly closed.

This did it. I asked Georgia if she’d like to go on my shoulders and get a muffin with Momma and Daddy. “Yes, my would!” she cried. Off we went to enjoy a more peaceful encounter, praying that we’d be able to coax her into opening her wounded eye during our brief time away. She persisted in keeping it closed, however, and upon returning to the clinic, we were forced to restrain her so that a numbing agent could be administered to her eye with the intention of dulling her pain and encouraging her to allow her surgeon to have a look inside. Once the agent had taken effect, Georgia opened her eye to reveal the remarkable work of her surgeon’s hands. With apparent geometric perfection, a series of approximately twenty translucent sutures were visible,  lining the entire circumference of her cornea. The new tissues had been received; blended life; that of Georgia’s remaining vessel and that of the poor child who, mere hours before, had passed away. Blended emotion: joy and sorrow. Heart broken open, all in a moment. Georgia’s surgeon had left the room following her restraining, in order to let her calm down. As soon as she had opened her eye, I proceeded to snap pictures as closely and as accurately as I could in case she once again retreated upon his return to the room. When he arrived in the room, she greeted him with a smile, but quickly turned back, burrowing into Kandy, who once again attempted to comfort Georgia in effort at maintaining her willing presence with us. As her surgeon’s hands approached her again, she winced, refusing to allow him to see her eye. “I think we’ll just have to leave her. I caught a little glimpse and I think I’m pleased with what I saw” he stated. Following his remarks, I mentioned that I had just moments before been able to catch some images of the eye that I thought might help in his assessment. Upon seeing them, his voice lifted and a smile graced his face. He was so caught up in the moment that he seemed to lose that familiar and necessary professional veneer, “Oh, I’m just so delighted! These are wonderful. It looks lovely, just lovely” “I’m so happy, well done Georgia–well done, my angel!” Those of you who have had to endure the rigors of your own incompetency, your helplessness amid the glaring presentation of your child’s/spouse’s/parent’s/friend’s obvious need, will know well the relief that overcomes you as you behold the sheer joy of a doctor/surgeon/psychologist/teacher when witnessing the significant progress they so clearly see embodied in your loved one. These are moments to cherish; moments to hold and be fully present to–for we know there are many moments with other kinds of requirements to come.

On Friday morning, we will return to the clinic for more examinations. Then we will learn how to look for signs of tissue rejection and infection, which are now more imminent considerations than before. We have returned to a medication regimen of drops every two hours and are praying for stamina along the way–for Georgia and our entire family. Kandy and I are comforted by the knowledge that we do not come in to this next chapter so completely naive as we did in the first. We are also comforted that we can say the same of Georgia, who grows more resilient and more spacious through all of these trials, reminding us that joy is at hand in the very next moment and that the opportunities for redemption of pain and of struggle are there, if only we’ll take the risk of relationship with whomever is present. At last, we’re comforted by the presence of God and all of His agents, both witting and unwitting, so near to us as family and community–any of you who read these words presently, and so many besides, whom we encounter along the way. Reception of tissue; reception of life; reception of one another.

Thank you, on behalf of Georgia and the rest of the White family,

Pete