Canceled, Again

On Plans, Interruptions, and What Remains

After waking up at 3 AM and arriving at the surgery center at 5:45 AM for Will’s chest surgery, we were told that it had been canceled.

Anger—molten, volcanic—pulsed from my center and radiated throughout my body. We had been waiting four months for this day. Days and weeks of meticulous preparation, only to be turned away. Sensing a dormant Vesuvius unexpectedly awakening, my wife stepped in front of me and took over the conversation.

Background.

In the middle of November 2025, we scheduled chest wall surgery for Will’s pectus excavatum. Fast-forward. Four months later. Last week—the week leading up to the surgery—was wrought with unexpected challenges. If it were possible to embody the entertainer who balances bowls on her head, feet, and hands while riding an eight-foot unicycle—Jenny and I did it.

Take this medicine.

Shower, but apply this and rinse.

Put this in each nostril twice a day.

We’ve been parenting a while. We’ve got this. This isn’t our first balancing act.

But then the unexpected.

Since Will had been sick three weeks prior in the middle of March, we were told that he needed an X-ray of his lungs.

You know, just to make sure.

So we scrambled, picking Will up from school multiple times to make it happen. Evidently, electronic signatures don’t travel well through the World Wide Web. I know we’re all worried about AI taking over the world, but it turns out that electronic signatures still elude us.

Another story for another day.

But by last Friday, we were in the clear. Or maybe I should say that Will’s lungs were in the clear. The X-ray—and its technicians—said they were clear. Crystal clear. In fact, they said there had never been lungs so crystal clear and beautiful.

So we had a normal, busy weekend.

And then everything stopped at 5:45 AM on Monday morning.

I don’t want to prolong the story, but somewhere between our crystal-clear, beautiful X-rays and our family standing haplessly in front of a hapless registration clerk, an anesthesiologist decided the surgery should not move forward. And somewhere between that anesthesiologist’s decision and our family standing helpless in front of a helpless registration clerk, no one was able to get ahold of us… save for a lone, unchecked MyChart message conveying the unexpected decision. Because while AI is taking over the world, landlines still struggle to call cell phones.

Another story for another day.

If you’re thinking about our Spring Break that didn’t happen, so were we. A family huddled together in a waiting area after being told our thing was canceled, heads spinning, trying to make sense of what just didn’t happen. It was a rerun of the same show one month apart—with a slightly varied script, the same actors.

The irony?

Will got sick during Spring Break, likely because of the trip that didn’t happen. And Will getting sick was the reason he could not have the surgery.

Bada boom.

Bada bing.

I know you’re thinking how these things come in threes. Don’t worry. The person who returned my wallet to the store didn’t take my driver’s license or credit cards—just the cash that was inside it.

Jenny asked me last night what we needed to learn from all of it. I told her I wasn’t in the mood to learn anything from any of it in that moment.

Then she said what a kind wife might say to an aging husband, “While we handle times of stress differently, you handled this much better than you have handled similar situations in the past.”

A day removed from the debacle, I’m honored by her words. Maybe the interruptions don’t change. Maybe we can.

Question

If the interruptions keep coming, what is changing in me?

Peace,

Brandon

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