The Tenotomy

Surgery day hits different. You can prep yourself on paper, talk it through with every doctor under the sun, pretend you’re ready, but when the actual morning arrives your whole body calls you out. We got up early, moving around the house in that weird quiet that only shows up when something big is coming. Same routine, totally different air. Nothing sits right in your chest.

She was her normal self, taking everything in like she was heading out for a casual day, not surgery. No fear, no fuss. Just watching us the way she does, like she’s measuring the room to see if we’re the ones falling apart. And honestly, we were. That half-smile you force so you don’t cry? We should’ve won awards for it.

Dan was the one who took her into the surgery room. I couldn’t. My body said no. Some lines you simply can’t force yourself to cross, and that was mine. He carried her in, and I stayed outside trying to breathe like a normal person.

Then Wes walked in.

He’s always steady, but that morning we needed him more than he probably realised. He didn’t arrive with big energy or dramatics. He just came in like someone who fully understands what he’s doing and genuinely cares about the tiny human he’s about to operate on. He went over the plan again even though we’d talked it to death in the weeks leading up. Release and lengthening of the tendons in both legs. Three weeks in casts, if she didn’t boot them off. Then straight into boots and bar.

His tone was the thing. Calm, simple, respectful. Never rushed. No fluff. Just enough to pull your brain out of its own panic. We knew she was in the best possible hands, and you could feel it in the room. That mattered more than anything.

Handing her over was as brutal as ever. Your whole body feels wired to protect her from anything clinical or sharp or unknown. But eventually you have to trust someone else. She made that part easier than we deserved. No crying. No clinging. Just that steady little face of hers, the one that basically said, “We’re doing this.” Honestly, she had more faith in the day than we did.

The wait afterwards felt endless. Time drags in a way that should be illegal. You sit there trying not to unravel, because there’s nothing else you can do except wait.

When Wes finally came back through the doors, you could tell before he opened his mouth that it went well. Clean. Straightforward. Textbook. That hit like oxygen.

Then we walked into recovery, and that part is burned into us.

She was in a nurse’s arms and apparently had been very upset before we arrived. Properly distressed. By the time we walked in she was still crying, but it was that exhausted, groggy cry that makes your whole chest cave in. Her eyes were half-mast, her body heavy, everything in her still trying to shake off the anaesthetic.

The moment she was placed in my arms, everything changed. She sank into me like she’d been fighting gravity the whole time. Her breathing slowed, her body softened, her eyes dropped again. She was right on the edge of sleep, but you could tell she’d been holding a lot.

And she was starving. She hadn’t had anything since 4:30 a.m., so when we offered her bottle, she just took it with that sleepy determination babies get. Tiny sips at first, then steadier, like it grounded her. That moment felt like the whole world exhaled.

Seeing her so small and heavy under the blankets with those fresh casts was rough. She looked different. Vulnerable. But not broken. Never broken. She handled the whole ordeal with a level of courage that felt unfair for someone her age. We were shaking. She wasn’t.

Those first days were their own kind of challenge. Adjusting to the weight of the casts. Working out how to lift her without bumping anything. Figuring out every little position to keep her comfortable. The helplessness creeps in whether you want it or not. You’d trade places with her in a heartbeat if you could, but she didn’t need us perfect. She just needed us close.

The truth is, the fear belonged to us. The strength belonged entirely to her.

Three weeks in casts will pass. The boots and bar will come. Progress will keep moving, even when the path feels messy. She’ll adapt the way she always does, with stubbornness and grit that shouldn’t fit inside someone so small.

And we’ll keep showing up. Because following her lead has turned out to be the safest direction we could ever take.