When we told her, there were giggles (when she said, "will you buy me things?", to which I responded, "my girl, this week, we will pretty much buy you anything you want!"), there were questions, and there were tears (when we explained her eyes might hurt a little bit).
And there were more questions . . . .
Had we ever had surgery? (Yes, though B's only one has been having wisdom teeth out, yet this fascinated Sammie B beyond words . . . "Are you still missing those teeth?" "Let me see!").
Will we be with her the whole time?
What will be on the gown they make her wear?
. . .
We've been down this road before. This is her second strabismus surgery, so we do know what to expect, though doing this at 4 and a half is much harder than it was at 8 months old. Much harder. Because of the questions, her awareness, everything.
Of all of Sammie B's struggles, her vision is the thing that hits my heart the hardest. That she has to work so stinking hard just to keep her eyes focused and still . . . and when things move or her head moves, that she has to again . . . work so stinking hard to get them refocused, and get them still, again. And, we know for her, that fixing the eye muscles won't make all of this easier. We know that part of the problem is her brain's ability to coordinate her eye movements . . . but we also know that right now, the muscles that were operated on before (to keep her eyes from crossing) have loosened, and now, her eyes turn out, ever so slightly, and that she's constantly trying to refocus them and bring them in. She's constantly working to do what you and I take for granted . . . to point both of her eyes at the same thing, and to focus. Her vision issues are complex, and while we know this likely won't eliminate all of the difficulties for her (it isn't intended too -- there isn't anything that can eliminate it all), we are hopeful that it will allow her to focus with less work.
I hate it. I hate it for her.
And so, tonight, I will be begging and pleading with the universe that this little surgery goes smoothly. That my girl rebounds quickly. That she feels little discomfort and little pain (none would be even better) and that . . . it helps. That it helps make this so very basic thing -- focusing -- easier. And, tomorrow, while this amazing little creature is back in the operating room, I will again be pleading with the universe, my stomach and heart in absolute knots until I can hold her again, see her eyes, look at her, talk to her, be with her.
I'd trade my eyes (and eye muscles and whatever else she needs) for hers in a heartbeat if only I could.
Oh how I wish our Monday looked different.
Oh how I wish we were not headed into surgery tomorrow.
Oh how I wish I could give her the easiness she deserves in this life.
Oh how I love her.
Knock-me-over, take-my-breath-away love her.
Oh universe, take care of my girl tomorrow. And, please, please, please let this surgery be effective and helpful.
Please. I beg.
And may I be as brave as she is through this.