What it looks like

Not the cancer - our lives. I’ve seen what the cancer looks like and I don’t want to see it again. I’m writing from the waiting room in medical imaging, one of our pre-op appointments before next Wednesday.

Life looks pretty much like it did before, there is just more of it. It’s like turning up the color intensity on a photograph. We don’t know what is coming so we are hyper aware of the present.

There are more tears, more plans, more trips to Mayo, more new doctors, more chores, more fear. 

But there are also more games, more laughing, more family dinners, more tickle fights, more snuggles, more slow dancing in the kitchen. There are more hard conversations but also more beautiful conversations. We do not take a minute for granted - not a second - not a breath. Everything is intentional.

We have had a few friends stop with flowers and treats. It helps. It really helps. Even revamping your will goes down a little easier with hot tea and a double chocolate muffin.

Both big kids have decided to take their finals at home - an unexpected benefit of a global pandemic is that even college has become portable. Neeks is still finishing up school at home with me - but it’s hard - nobody cares about dividing fractions or how many watermelons Sven can fit into a three by five acre fence. So we reread our favorite books, play math games online, talk about talking care of ourselves and each other and play with the dogs. She might fall behind in algebra next year, but she’ll likely have a pretty solid foundation of neurological synapses and what time all of the takeout in town closes.

We play to our strengths.

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