Ring the bells that still can ring/ Forget your perfect offering/ There is a crack in everything/ That’s how the light gets in (Leonard Cohen)

Moments ago we laid Georgia down in the operating room for her third eye surgery. At 2:30 this afternoon Kandy received a call from the pediatric optometry clinic at BC Children’s to let us know that appropriate donor tissues had arrived–much sooner than any of us had anticipated. After verifying when Georgia had last eaten, Kandy was informed that we would need to be in Vancouver by 5:30pm to begin preparing Georgia for surgery. Kandy called me at the office in between clients to inform me of the news, whereupon I apologized to my gracious client who was awaiting their 3pm appointment and informed them that I would have to reschedule. I sent them on their way, cancelled my 4:00pm and headed home to retrieve Kandy and Georgia.

Georgia slept quietly in the car, and–we’re thankful–had a good rest for the entire trip to the hospital. While she slept, Kandy and I prayed for the family who had lost their child and would be aiding our daughter through the gift of prospective enhancements to her damaged eye.

May God bless them in the midst of their agony and may He bless them for their generosity and compassion.

Given the suddenness of these events, none of us have had time to prepare for the call that we received today. Georgia was, thus, quite confused when she woke up in my arms as we walked toward the doors to the surgical area of BC Children’s. “Why we at the hat hospital Daddy?” she asked. The “Hat Hospital” is how she’s learned to distinguish the OR from the pediatric optometry clinic–prior to surgery, you’re given a pretty spectacular hat, after all. With her little arms wrapped around my neck and her face so near that her button-nose bumped mine with each step, I smiled at her and told her that we were here to help her hurt eye a little more. Georgia smiled back at me and, to my relief, said, “Oh, my getting more help?” I assured her that this would be the case. Georgia showed no signs of apprehension regarding the sudden proceedings that our afternoon had entailed. Our kind nurse, Lynn, focused on Georgia as if she were her own. Lynn asked Georgia if she would like to pick the colour of her surgical gown. “Yes, my would!” Georgia exclaimed with delight–she chose green. We were the only family in the pre-op area. Georgia put on her gown without protest. A green little cherub with sandy, curly blonde hair and blue eyes. Adorable. Georgia played cheerfully with Kandy while I submitted to Lynn that we might all have an easier time if we got Georgia’s IV going out here in the play area, rather than waiting until the OR. Given the growing mental association that Georgia has developed between the OR and physical restraint, I was concerned that she would become inconsolable once again if she had to undergo the procedure in environs that she has begun to fear. Graciously, Lynn petitioned the anesthesiologist on our behalf, who was agreeable to the adaptation. Kandy and I distracted Georgia on her left while I blocked her view of the insertion which she underwent without any worry. What a gift.

With that, Kandy was able to carry Georgia into the OR this time, given our assurance that no restraint would be needed; simply a kiss on the forehead while they inserted the anesthetic to her previously prepared IV. Kandy kissed Georgia goodbye and came out to greet me. Throughout the entire ordeal, not a single tear was shed by parent or child. Here we wait whilst Georgia’s window is under repair; wait, with gratitude and thanks for good healthcare; competent surgeons; kind, skillful nurses; bountiful, loving community and a Maestro who orchestrates beautiful symphonies out of brokenness and frailty. There is a crack in everything–that’s how the light get’s in.

Grace and peace to you all, friends. Thank you for your prayers.
Love, Pete and family