It started six weeks ago, the morning of Rachael's father's funeral. The words began to haunt anew: lymph node, trial of antibiotics, blood work, sed rate, xray. I knew the progression. I'd lived it before. First this, then this, then cancer, then chemo, then...
This time, though, the words were spoken by my pediatrician. This time, I was not the patient. This time, I was the mom.
She's been through so much this fall that it breaks my heart. Not this, too. Surely not this.
Please Lord, this cup? Let it pass?
And then, after what seemed like eternal waiting and watching, new words.
Within normal limits.
And I am grateful.