We’ve had Iz’s cardiology review booked for late April for a while now. It’s been sitting in the diary — one of those dates that quietly hums in the background of your mind.

Today I opened the post to a letter cancelling it.

The sick feeling was instant. Heavy. I hadn’t realised quite how much this still sits on my chest.

Then I opened the next letter.

A rebook.

For one hour earlier.

I understand it’s a system. Automated letters. Processes. Admin. But honestly — what a waste of paper, postage… and emotional stability. The rollercoaster from cancelled to oh, actually just an hour earlier was unnecessary.

With cardiology, though, I’ve learned not to expect much softness from the system.

We found out about Iz’s heart issues in a letter. A letter full of medical gobbledegook. Not normal human language. No gentle explanation. Just terminology I had to decipher myself while trying to breathe through a full-blown panic attack.

Because really — who finds out about their child’s heart conditions in the post? 4… she has 4.

That part still stings.

And yet — I want to say this too — the cardiology team themselves have been wonderful in person. Kind. Calm. Thorough. I do appreciate them, hugely.

In hindsight, I imagine (hope?) that if Iz’s heart issues were more serious, we would have been called in and spoken to properly. I hold onto that.

It’s strange how something as small as two envelopes can pull you right back into that early fear. The not-knowing. The helplessness. The remembering that your child’s heart is something that needs monitoring at all.

But the appointment still stands.

Just an hour earlier.

And we’ll go. The journey there always emotional, nerve wracking, a reminder of those early days and how far we’ve come. And she’ll charm everyone. And I’ll probably hold my breath until we’re told everything is still ok and hopefully, hopefully we’ll be discharged.

Because this is the rhythm now — fear, breath, reassurance, repeat.

And we keep going. 💛