Dr Marcus Elliott may just be my new favourite person. He is patient, unflappable and reassuring, but his attraction lies mainly in the air of competence that streams out of him in waves, even from across the Atlantic and through my computer screen.

Yes, I can confirm that Dr Elliott is an insanely experienced paediatric cardiothoracic surgeon based at Duke Children’s Hospital in North Carolina, and he will be leading the team that takes on Tabby’s operation.

It’s happening.

OH MY GOD, IT’S HAPPENING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry.

It’s just that the relief of knowing, after so many months and years of worrying about this operation, of having it hanging over me, that my daughter’s chance at a normal life will come at the hands of such an intensely skilled, experienced team is a rush the likes of which I’ve never, ever had.

The knowledge that this valve replacement is necessary has overshadowed every single day of my life for the past couple of years. In recent months, that dark shadow has morphed into a ticking time bomb that colours every moment I have with my daughter and robs me of my sleep and my sanity.

Sometimes, when Tabby’s sleeping, I’ll sit on the edge of her bed with my hand on her chest, feeling and listening to her little heart beating. It does the best it can, but without a right-sized pulmonary valve, it’s not enough, and it’s falling more short every single day.

Dr Elliott and his team have a plan to end her suffering: to laparoscopically replace the valve with minimal invasion and the least risk to Tabby. My vocabulary around heart stuff is pretty good these days, but he speaks to me in plain English, laying out our journey and his plan. This initial meeting is heavy on information exchange and the lining up of our ducks in a nice, neat row. We discuss my daughter’s medical history, her recent blue spells, or tet spells as the professionals call them, and her medication. He already has the full details of her previous operations from Great Ormond Street.

‘I know this must all seem very overwhelming,’ Dr Elliott tells me. His silver hair is neatly side-parted, and his smile is patient. He’s a good kind of older—experienced rather than doddery. I’d put him at late fifties. ‘But my team pioneered this kind of procedure in children. We see kids from all over the world with Tetralogy of Fallot. Without wanting to downplay the extreme importance of what we do, it’s our bread and butter. Tabby will be in excellent hands.’

I nod. It’s exactly what I needed to hear, but it’s still scary as fuck.

A transatlantic trip.

A new, strange hospital and medical team.

A major operation on the most important organ in her body.