Tyler Fishlock's incredible story of courage, told by his greatest supporter

Perfect in My Eyes is a moving story of how a perfect life became filled with tragedy and heartbreak.

Georgette Fishlock had a charmed life - her childhood dream of having a loving husband, a welcoming home and beautiful children to fill it with love had come true.

Perfect in My Eyes is a moving story of how that perfect life became filled with tragedy and heartbreak that threatened to tear their lives apart and the inspiration of young Tyler's irrepressible character and love of life, even in a world of darkness.

Tyler's birth: June 27, 2002

FROM that first moment, 1.33am, I was in love with Tyler, and looking up at Brad I knew what he was thinking. Our family was complete. We were blessed with two beautiful, healthy children: a five-year-old girl called Madeleine, or Maddy as we loved to call her, who was now big sister to our five-minute-old son Tyler.

November 2004 - after moving to their new house, Tyler's mother Georgette notices something wrong with her two-year-old son's eyes

TYLER was playing outside with his toys when he asked me for his Matchbox car.

I picked it up and held my hand out. He asked me to bend down and started to tap the top of my arm, working his way down to my hand, finally finding the car.

This really worried me as he never had problems seeing objects that size before. It reinforced my concerns that there was something wrong and that it was serious.

A few hours later I noticed him bumping into the play swings and large trees in the back yard.

I also noticed that he was developing a habit of holding the right side of his head.

I shared my concerns with Brad, who was still gardening around the side of the house, and we decided it was time to take Tyler to the Royal Children's Hospital.

The next day, we made our way up to the sixth floor to meet the ophthalmologist.

The doctor came into the waiting area and called Tyler's name; Brad looked at me with encouragement as I carried our son in my arms.

The doctor introduced herself and asked us to explain the reason for being there that morning. We repeated the story, starting from the beginning - just three weeks earlier - and explained how I had been running back and forth to and from the local doctor.

I mentioned the whiteness in Tyler's eyes and that I seemed to be the only one who could notice it.

"Please don't tell me you can't see it," I remember pleading.

The doctor explained that to get a better look at Tyler's eyes she would need to place drops into both to dilate them. After about 10 minutes she directed light into Tyler's eyes, one by one.

She didn't say anything to us. Instead, she called another two doctors in to also take a look. Without saying anything, they all left the room. With Tyler on my lap, arms wrapped around him, my heart was racing. I stood up and started to pace the tiny room.

Within a few moments they returned. The doctor suggested I sit down. I placed Tyler on the floor and gave him a toy to play with. The doctor then spent some time in silence, staring at the floor. In a very calm and soft tone, she said, "Your son has cancer, cancer of the eyes, a condition known as retinoblastoma."

Brad and I looked at each other, in shock.

"No," I said firmly. "He can't have cancer; he's never been a sick child. You haven't even done blood tests. You've got it all wrong! It's some kind of infection."

February 2005 - a young family struggling to cope

BRAD returned to work on a full-time basis for the first time since Tyler had been diagnosed with the tumours several months earlier. Receiving a regular income was a weight off our shoulders as we had struggled to live off his reduced wages because of the irregular working hours. The only fear was that Madeleine could bring home an illness from school that might delay Tyler's future treatment.

I became expert at hiding my emotions in front of others. Although I remained outwardly positive and displayed a facade of happiness in front of family, friends and especially my kids, the quiet two weeks that we had just experienced were harder than I ever imagined. It left so much time for me to ponder the 'what ifs?' and the unknowns.

My shower crying had become a twice-a-day addiction, and the thoughts that would go through my mind well, as a mother I am not proud to admit to them. Afterwards I would go to bed and stare at the ceiling, as Brad lay asleep next to me, exhausted from work. I would find myself thinking about how I would bury my son, and how to say goodbye if that day came. It terrified me to think these thoughts, but I was unable to cut them adrift, and no one could tell me what the outcome was going to be. I told nobody of my misery.

March 2005 - after an examination at Royal Children's Hospital

THE best news was that 90 per cent of the tumours were gone, but Tyler's left retina had detached all the way around, meaning he would never see out of his left eye again.

It wasn't enough being brave, Tyler had to go one better and take over the anaesthetist's job. Tyler decided by the second week of treatment that he could hold the gas mask and put himself to sleep.

"Things have become worse for Tyler," he said."Tyler's left eye is totally full of cancer. It will need to be removed."

I began to cry quietly, but he continued with the bad news that my little boy's right eye had new tumours.

The only thing I remember saying to the surgeon was that it was Tyler's birthday soon. He suggested we have a big birthday party for him and let him enjoy spending time with family and friends as he couldn't promise Tyler would live to see his fourth birthday.

(Tyler's big sister) Madeleine is one of the most remarkable little spirits I have ever known. She listened to every word I said and questioned me on things she didn't quite understand. She then hugged me and declared that our family can get through anything!

I sat down in the chair beside him holding his tiny fragile hand with one hand and stroking his forehead with the other. I couldn't stop crying as I looked at his tiny face, one side wrapped in bandages and the other side swollen and bruised from the extra cryotherapy.

August 2005 - Tyler's visit to the eye maker

I DROVE Tyler to the eye maker's office, something I never imagined that I'd have to do. I felt anxious as I rang the doorbell, but Patrick, the eye maker, opened the door with a big smile and gently greeted Tyler with a friendly cuddle.

Patrick was very gentle as he inserted the mould in and out of Tyler's eye socket. He explained it was important to get it to sit properly and with little discomfort. After he was satisfied with the fit he explained the next

process was to paint the eye and try to match it to his remaining eyeball.

Tyler heard Patrick describe the colour of his eye and quickly interrupted, asking if he could make him a blue eye -- the same colour as Thomas the Tank Engine's.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was as though he was choosing an ice cream flavour. Mindful of my stunned reaction, Patrick explained to Tyler that he thought it would be better if both eyes matched as he still had a brown eye.

Tyler listened very carefully to what he said and soon agreed to disagree.

We returned a week later for Tyler to be fitted with his new eye...I was amazed to watch how settled and comfortable he was with this whole process.

Before I knew it, Patrick had fitted the new addition and was spinning the chair back around for the grand reveal. I must admit I was taken aback for a minute; it was truly a piece of art, so life-like.

The night before Tyler goes to hospital to have his remaining eye removed

EVERYONE in the back yard started smiling in anticipation. I made my way to the front door through the crowd of strangers who were standing anywhere they could find a space to stand.

At the door, Nathan (Brown) and Kane (Johnson) were waiting patiently with warm smiles on their faces. They managed to make their way straight towards Tyler, giving him a gentle cuddle. They beamed when they heard Tyler excitedly calling their names.

Tears began to form in the eyes of those watching this touching scene, including the cameramen. Tyler wasted no time. He picked up his football and began to kick it to the boys, wanting to show them the skills he had learnt from his Dad.

Watching Nathan and Kane's faces made me cry even more because I could see they were having genuine fun with Tyler that had nothing to do with all the cameras.

After sharing a couple of special hours together the boys said their goodbyes to Tyler. They were off to a team training camp in Ballarat, but not before letting Tyler honk Nathan's car horn several times and promising they would stay in touch -- which they did. After an emotional final farewell hug Tyler waved until their car was out of sight. As all the news crews packed up their gear, Tyler sat in a chair holding his beloved Sherrin football and detailed his wonderful experience with family and friends over and over again.

Coming to terms with the hand life had dealt

WITHIN a few weeks of the operation, I started to accept my son's blindness.

I knew I had to come to terms with everything. I also firmly believed that Tyler needed to be encouraged to grow up knowing he was capable of doing everything himself or with little help from others.

People thought I was being cruel and insensitive, but it was my turn to be strong and help my son grow up to be independent and as able-bodied as possible. After all, the day would come when I wasn't going to be around.

All parents have dreams for their children's future and that shouldn't change because their kids may have a disability or a different way of doing something.

My attitude was also transforming. I was no longer crying in the shower every night. Instead I found myself gaining more and more strength from Tyler and the thousands of letters we received from people telling us how they had gained courage from his story.