Tabby’s hospital gown is pale blue and dotted with Peppa Pig and George Pig’s heads. She outgrew Peppa years ago, but I suspect these little piggies represent a safe space for her. She’s tired and a little faint after a long morning of the obligatory fasting, but she’s in good spirits.

For the millionth time, I am in awe of her resilience and her courage. I’ve hoped and prayed for this procedure for so many years. More than that, I’ve fought and sacrificed and gambled my own wellbeing on taking back our power from the NHS and pulling this operation off on our terms. I’ve fixated on pretty much nothing else for the past three years.

And now the moment is upon us, and our medical team is a veritable who’s who of paediatric medical qualifications, and I am utterly terrified. I’ve been shaken up since I gathered my stuff up at the speed of light on Friday and stalked out of the office, reassuring a very concerned Elaine that I’d handled the situation and was okay. And when we got on that plane, much as I was glad to put space between myself and Brendan, I couldn’t help feeling that I was leading Tabby to her certain death like a lamb to the slaughter.

I know I’m being irrational. I know too well that emotions like that are intrusive thoughts, nothing more. I know she’s in great hands and that this operation is a lifeline and not a death sentence. Still, I can’t quash the relentless anxiety. It doesn’t help that I’m jet lagged and exhausted—spending last night on a plastic pull-out couch in Tabby’s hospital room wasn’t conducive to a restorative night’s sleep.

And it definitely doesn’t help that I’m all alone over here, the sole adult in charge of a terrifyingly fragile little girl. In hindsight, it was stupid not to cobble together the thousands of pounds needed to bring Mum and Dad over with us and put them up somewhere cheap nearby. I’m kicking myself, because I hadn’t realised how desperately I’d want another adult here to hold me and parent me and tell me everything was going to be okay.

The only thing keeping me together, to be honest, is the unwavering determination I have to be a brave, reassuring face for my daughter. She’s the vulnerable one here. She’s the one who’s about to endure a serious operation in a strange place, thousands of miles from home, and she deserves the support of a mother who isn’t falling apart herself.