Today, I finally received the text with the date for Iz’s operation. It’s amusing, really—I’ve been waking up each morning for the past few weeks, telling myself, “Right, today I need to put my phone on loud; they’ll call with the news.” Then, almost immediately, I feel that familiar wave of anxiety wash over me, convinced that I’ve somehow jinxed it and that the call won’t come at all.

This morning was Valentine’s Day, and I had set out cards and gifts for the kids and Mr. P on the kitchen table, eager for them to discover everything I had prepared. With the morning bustling along, I hadn’t given my phone much thought. It wasn’t until I was tidying up the kitchen after breakfast that I received the text asking me to call—it finally happened; they had a date for the procedure. Normally, that kind of message comes as a call, so you can imagine my initial panic, fearing I had missed the call altogether. But no, this time it was just a text.

I dialled the number immediately and confirmed the details. As the adrenaline surged, so did a familiar sense of panic. It’s always overwhelming, and I usually let it out with a little cry—perhaps it’s my way of coping with the emotions swirling inside me. Then, as if on cue, the urge to take control of something, anything, kicks in because I have no control over this situation.

I grabbed a pad and started making lists. There’s comfort in organisation, isn’t there? So here we are—third time lucky, maybe? We’ll see…