...you spend a weekend at the beach with your family.
Holding on tight:
Going to the park:
Seeing clouds like this and hoping it's a sign of good news. Seeing a lightning bug in your window at night and hoping it's a sign of good news:
You come home...You go to work...You make dinner...You give baths and kisses and say, "I love you" too many times. You read The Polar Express for the 800th time because that's what someone wants.
You go to work on Tuesday and have a conversation about videos and analytics, the whole time thinking, "You have no idea that today is the day I find out the results of my mom's CT scan," your hands shaking, clasped under your desk. You talk to people on the phone about colors and logos and page counts, hoping they can't hear the quiver in your voice.
And then you thank a God, somewhere, that your dad got an iPhone and learned to text:
And that night, you put your babies to bed, keenly aware of how different this night could be, how everything could be so, so different. Having cancer, for my mom, is living a life always wondering if, when, how it will return. Loving someone with cancer makes you more aware of the every day normal. The footsteps down a hall, the phone calls lingering while you unload the dishwasher late at night, the hand on a back, the things you could some day not have.
And when they have a clear scan? Well, it makes you do a little dance like this: