When I started this blog, and chose the name, I knew I wanted to focus on the good things. I was at a point in my life where I felt like I was surrounded by blessings, and where James and I were working to create our dream home and property. That isn’t to say every day was unicorns and rainbows, but just to say that I didn’t have to look much further than the garden, the flower beds, our animals, our time on the porch or our beautiful home to find abundant blessings.

I struggle to write lately because I’m struggling to find the blessings.

Yesterday, my beloved brought me lunch at school. He likes to do that, and has many times over the years, but he had been working longer hours than usual and now, since he “retired,” he hasn’t always felt up to the task, but yesterday he mentioned it as I left for work and sure enough, just about the time my students headed to lunch, there he stood in my classroom doorway.

We shared the Caesar salad that he brought as well as the handful of fresh strawberries – the first – from our garden that he had picked that morning. We sat at the table Dad had made me while we ate, juxtaposed kitty-corner to each other in a way we hadn’t been seated in a while. While he spoke, I noticed a spot just under his right ear, near the scars of his surgery from last year, and I reached my hand up to touch the spot. “I know,” he said quietly, acknowledging the lump, “I noticed it two days ago. I just didn’t want to say anything.”

A new one. Another one. A visible one. These fucking tumors.

I steeled myself against the tears. I was in my classroom, after all, and the kids would be returning in a few short minutes. But we both sat there, feeling every ounce of discouragement and frustration we had been fighting against. Optimism is our general rule of thumb, but it’s so hard when all signs keep pointing us in the opposite direction.

Today, seemed like a good day. A good day in the sense that he texted me a picture of the “extra protein” smoothie he made himself this morning. A good day in that he suggested I meet him “at the garden” when I got home from school – our new relaxing spot, with a different vantage point than the porch. A good day in that even as I drove home and texted him that I had cold things and I would have to stop at the house, he said he had a cooler at the garden, which meant he had snacks and probably a glass of wine ready for me. But, when I pulled up at the garden, just moments later, he wasn’t sitting in his Adirondack chair waiting. He was on his knees, under the grape vines, vomiting. It had come on that suddenly, that unexpectedly.

To say I feel helpless doesn’t even scratch the surface. To say I am angry or livid or frustrated or so incredibly sad can’t even begin to describe what it is I feel. There just aren’t words profound or deep or vivid enough to convey the gut-wrenching emotions I feel when I see him like that.

Today, I sat at a ball game with over a hundred fourth grade kids watching some of their faces and cheeks turn pink in the sun from lack of sunscreen (despite all our notes and suggestions). Today, I had colleagues shrug off the notion of sunscreen for the event because “they tan.” Today, I watched my husband kneeling in the goddamn weeds sick to his stomach from tumors that came from the very same sun that warmed my face today (heavily protected by 70 spf and a hat). Today I cried the entire drive to and from and during a grocery run to find him popsicles because that’s the only thing that even sounds good to him and the only thing he was brave enough to try after being sick again.

If there are blessings here, I don’t know where they are. If there is some lesson I am supposed to be learning or some amount of gratitude I didn’t express enough of before, or if there is some “greater meaning” I’ll be damned if I know it or can find it.

I can lay my hand on my husband’s body and feel the tumors beneath my fingers. And it feels nothing short of evil.

I woke this morning long before the sun. I laid in the dark, trying to slow my thoughts, slow my worries.

The cardinal was the first to sing. One solo bird. “Hello, Mom,” I thought.

“She is here,” I felt my heart say.

I eased out of bed, careful not to disturb James. Trudy continued to sleep at the foot as I left the room and silently stepped down the hall.

Charlotte was waiting outside the front door as usual but seemed surprised when I stepped out instead of inviting her in. She followed me to the porch chair and jumped right up, her feline motor already running.

The cardinal was now joined by a robin and the two sang an off-rhythm duet over and over again. As the sky loosened its grip on night and charcoal became grey, I heard other birds join the choir. I recognized the oriole song and smiled; we have worked so hard to entice them to our yard and now they are steady visitors. The grosbeak followed shortly thereafter and my ears filled with all the chirps and notes, whistles and melodies.

I read somewhere not long ago that researchers believe birds sing at daybreak to announce to their mates and the world that they survived the night. They sing to say, “I’m still here. I made it!” This morning, with the cat on my lap and bats diving and circling in and around the trees, I felt myself reminding myself of the same thing.

“I am here. I am still here,” I thought.

With tears rolling down my face, I prayed. If God can make such amazing melodies with the birds, if He can dress them in all the colors and with all the variations, if He can begin our days with an unseen choir of notes, then surely He can help the families in Texas. He can provide comfort and healing even when there cannot be understanding.

“He is here,” I heard the universe remind me. “He is still here.”

Charlotte and I went back inside and I began getting ready for my day. After my shower, I gently crawled back in bed with James and took his hand in mind. I felt his pulse against my arm and I heard his breath- steady, slow, content. As the tears rolled again, I felt my heart relax. I felt my thoughts slow and my worries subside.

“He is here,” I comforted myself. “James is still here.”

I am a hot mess. I was crying so hard at school the other day that even as I tried to pull myself together to go get my students from Music, all it took was a colleague asking if I was okay in the hall and I lost it completely.

I cry in the car. I cry in the parking lot. I cry on the porch. I cry in bed. I just can’t seem to get a grip on all that is happening.

James is in pain. We thought the horrendous cough, extreme fatigue and the nausea that kept leading to vomiting were unbearable, but the pain has convinced us we didn’t know what we were talking about. The meds work for a day or maybe three, but then they aren’t enough and every movement, every moment is uncomfortable or worse. We’ve finished our fourth treatment, but not without incident. We spent an absolutely miserable night in the ER a couple weeks ago – because of this same pain – only to come away knowing that it’s the cancer causing the pain – the tumors in his abdomen are growing -and we have to just wait and hope that it’s just “tumor flare” that’s the cause. His oncologist and all the nurses, even the ER doctors assure us that “tumor flare” is very common during the beginning of treatment, that the tumors often enlarge or swell before shrinking from the therapy, and while we will hold on fiercely to that very hope, it’s hard to take that as the best news when it means he is still miserable.

So we try, with all our might, to stay positive and to boost each other up, but he is frustrated with how little he can do. Between the pain and the fatigue, he feels controlled by this disease in ways he wasn’t prepared for so early on. He made the very hard decision to stop working at the end of last week. We positively refer to it as his “retirement,” even going so far as to celebrate with cake – but the reality isn’t lost on either of us.

And then yesterday, driving home from his latest treatment, when the hospital visit had been “blissfully uneventful,” stopped in construction traffic, I happened to glance at my phone. “Don’t read it,” James said. “Just put your phone down.” Another school shooting. Even looking at those three words lined up together just blows my mind. Another. School. Shooting.

I cannot even begin to explain how this feels to me right now. I teach fourth grade. Sandy Hook was nearly more than I could bear, truly. But now, this? It’s too close to home, it’s too similar, it’s too goddamn possible. And so, for the past 24 hours, I have cried more than is perhaps reasonable, out of a fear I don’t know how to contain any longer. Sandy Hook was too similar, it was too unthinkable, it was too tangible for me to ever really get past. Robb Elementary feels even more so.

This world that we live in is full of such evils. A place where children die at the hands of other children; where cancer strikes in the most absurd and devastating ways; and where there just isn’t enough therapy in the world to help me make sense of any of it. I am trying, so desperately hard today, to feel blessed. I am trying. I am struggling to have faith that there is more to this, that there is hope, that there is light, that there is meaning behind any of this at all. I am trying. But today, today, I am at a loss. I am at such a loss.

God be with those families in Texas. Each and every one of those precious souls. My heart is in agony trying to comprehend any of it. There is no blessing in any of it.

While he has several months’ of sick days to use up before it’s official, James stopped working today is considering himself retired as he knows he won’t be returning.

Despite having twelve or fifteen years before he had intended to retire, James has worked enough jobs in his lifetime to earn him a well-deserved retirement, even if it’s not quite how he wanted it to happen. He started working at 16 years old, cutting lawns for $30 apiece, mostly through people he knew from church. A year later, James added to his workload, stocking shelves at the local IGA. He worked twice a week from the time school dismissed until 10pm. His shift changed later on and he started working at 3:30am on Saturday mornings. (Little did he know that 3:30am would be his start time for most of his professional life!)

During his senior year he began working at the meat counter, where he learned how to cut meat and wrap it. He also began umpiring Little League games, where he made $5 a game. He really liked when he could actually help the kids, getting them set up to bat correctly and putting the ball on the top of his mitt like an ice cream cone for them to hit off of when the tee was too difficult. He was still cutting lawns during this time, which left little room for much of a social life, but he enjoyed all of his jobs (and the money they brought in).

After high school graduation, he took a job helping maintain the course (mostly weed-whipping), so he quit cutting lawns but still worked at the grocery store and he continued to umpire in season. He was taking classes at the local community college, aspiring to go to the police academy and needed as much money as he could to pay for those classes.

A year later, his dad knew he wanted to get on with the local volunteer fire department. James wasn’t yet 21, the minimum age to volunteer, but his dad knew the Fire Chief and his dad was also terminally ill, and so he was granted a position six months before his 21st birthday. He changed to a full-time job at the meat processing plant in Yale. The parents of his girlfriend owned the plant and it was there that he learned how to clean the kill floor, manage deliveries and box the meat. The girlfriend was temporary, but his relationship with her parents continues to this day. If his days and nights weren’t busy enough already, he also took on work driving a tractor for a local farmer. He mostly helped with baling hay and working ground.

He tried several different jobs over the next few years, but every time he left the meat packing company, the owners would assure him he would always be welcomed back if he ever wanted to return. James is certain he could walk in the door even today and she would hire him immediately.

In 1996, James was hired to be an emergency dispatcher. He was hoping that this position might help him get into the police academy. It was a full-time position, working 12 hour shifts that paid $21,000 a year. He took calls for burglaries, armed robberies, accidents and people “just calling to complain about something.” His favorite part of the job was getting to dispatch the fire department. He least enjoyed arrogant supervisors. While he worked as a dispatcher, he started his own lawn-service company. After two years of the stress of dispatching, he quit, opting instead to take on more business with his, “A Cut Above” lawn service company.

He eventually did start at the police academy but a health condition discovered 13 weeks into the program forced him to abandon the dream of becoming an officer and he instead went to work for the USDA knowing they had good benefits and decent pay. He started as a meat inspector for the USDA in Plainwell, Michigan. This is where the early morning shifts began. While it was always hard to get up at that hour, having afternoons to himself was a great trade-off. During this time, he took up driving a limo as a side-job to make extra money. Bachelor and bachelorette parties were the most entertaining he said. The men often reminded James that he “didn’t see anything” and the girls went from primped and proper to barely holding it together by the end of the night.

He made a switch to meat grading a couple years later, moving to Souderton, Pennsylvania. The change meant an easier job and the plant left him alone more than they did when he was in inspection. Following an opening back in Plainwell, he moved back to Michigan a couple years later to be closer to family and friends and he remained there until his early retirement.

We never quite know how some decisions will impact us down the road, but it’s easy to see how James’ work ethic has served him well. His early retirement is only possible because of all the steps he took to ensure his future was solid financially. He has a pension which he can draw from while disabled and he has contributed to social security for over three decades, which will also provide income during this time.

But the places he worked and the people he worked with have been blessed by his work ethic, too. He didn’t just umpire children’s baseball games, he used his time to help them become better at the sport, in a fun, no-pressure way. He has worked for people and had people working for him and he knows what it means to treat people well. He has volunteered to help people during some of their worst emergencies. He as been all-but adopted by some of the people he worked for and he has made life-long friends along the way.

I am thrilled that James is able to officially retire and to enjoy his days doing whatever it might be that will bring him the most joy. That is a blessing indeed. But I know that the biggest blessing is his impact on this world, not just through his professions but through the man he was in every one of those roles.

I don’t know how people north of me do it. Honestly. I’m angry that the calendar says “May” and the high today never got out of the 50’s. I’d never make it if there was still a chance for snow.

Despite the heavy rain yesterday and the cool temps today, I still managed to get outside and spend hours with my hands in the dirt. It’s not quite as much fun as planting the garden, but putting perennials in the ground is a close second. I thought by now I’d have established beds with huge hostas, ferns and coral bells growing under all my oak trees, but I’ve apparently instead been designated as the one to keep the garden centers and nurseries profitable, as every year I’m back buying replacement plants for the ones that didn’t make it from last year. I’ll get it right eventually.

I didn’t get mulch yesterday and so I had to just plant and clean out the beds without adding the finishing touch of fresh black mulch. The girls in the coop were not in the least bit amused that I was out scratching around in the dirt and they were left in the run, but the hens are not the least helpful with cleaning up the beds, so they are in for the summer now. Once I started bringing bucketfuls of dirt, leaves, twigs and old mulch from the beds into the chicken run, however, they were quite content to scratch away even if it was inside the chicken wire.

There is a peacefulness to being outside in the country. The hens clucking in the run, the splash of a robin in the birdbath, and the songs of all the migratory birds returning for the season. Trudy does a great job of staying nearby. She will follow James to the barn, but when he starts up the chainsaw, she trots herself back up to the house to see what I am up to and supervises the cleanup while keeping an eye out for deer or rabbits that demand a quick chase off the property.

Even without the finishing touch of mulch, the beds I was able to conquer today look significantly better already. As always, I am excited and optimistic about the new plants and hope they will fill in and grow and save my bank account from more purchases next year (but even as I type that, I know I’m just kidding myself. I can’t stay away from garden centers and nurseries in the spring!) Over the next few weeks, the temps will rise, the sun will shine more often than not and my sprouts will move from the basement to the porch and then to the garden.

But for today, I enjoyed the time I spent in the dirt. A collection of worms in a jar made the chicks happy in the end, the cleared beds are all prepped and ready for mulch and my soul found peace in the feel and smell of damp earth, the delight in things growing, and the yearly progress we make on the farm. Simple spring chores are anything but when they soothe the soul like they did today. A blessed little thing indeed.

“Live in each season as it passes; breath the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”

– Henry David Thoreau

A couple years ago, I shared with friends a funny story about James coming home one day with the volume so high in his truck that I could hear the music from the road, a good distance from our house. As he pulled up closer to the garage, I could see him just singing away to the song and I laughed out loud when I realized it was Katy Perry he was rocking out to.

The story became legend and the song was played at several of our bonfire nights, always giving James the opportunity to show off his unabashedly funny side as he would belt out the lyrics (getting at least some of them right) to the crowd. That friend of mine still can’t hear the song today and not think about James singing his guts out to the tune.

I was wrong, in my last post, apparently my plate was not, in fact, yet full. The night before his third scheduled immunotherapy treatment on Tuesday, which we were pretty stoked about because the oncologist had been quite concerned about the first two treatments initially, worried that James would have a severe reaction, and so hitting the milestone of the third felt like a major win – but no, on Monday night, just as he was going to bed, James got his third COVID test results back and this time they were positive. Two negatives but now a positive.

Treatment was canceled, our entire trip to see the oncologist was canceled and our feelings of success were canceled as well.

But we did not let it get us down. We turned it around and decided this was actually good news. James has been absolutely miserable the last week or ten days. It seemed like his symptoms from treatment or just the cancer itself had just worsened over that time but now this diagnosis gave us new hope. Perhaps these symptoms were just COVID symptoms and that was very fixable! It might take a couple of weeks, but there was hope that this cough, this complete exhaustion might just be from COVID and not new or growing tumors. THAT felt like a win.

And even today, after a trip to the ER when his breathing got worse again, causing concern and alarm, we are still trying to see it all as a win. The respiratory ER doctor didn’t hear anything in James’ lungs that was worrisome (at least with regard to COVID, we know there are tumors in there), his oxygen levels were good and the CT scan came back with great flying colors (again, at least as far as COVID is concerned). And even better, tomorrow morning, James will go get the antibody therapy for COVID which will hopefully help eliminate some of these problematic symptoms entirely.

So, as I sit here and reflect on recent events and all the ways I feel like we just cannot catch a break; and I think about my day today, worried about James, at home, barely getting out of bed – I know how miserable I was with COVID just a week ago, and I don’t have tumors inside my lungs to make matters worse – even today, when I had a missed call from James on my cell and then my classroom phone rang and I knew he needed me right this minute; even then, running out of my school, offering prayers of gratitude for such amazing colleagues and administors, driving faster than I should have to get him to the ER, even now, thinking about all of this, I don’t feel exasperated. I don’t feel powerless. I don’t feel victimized or weak. I feel quite the opposite.

If this is the plate that life is serving up for us, if freaky weird, scary cancer wasn’t enough last year, if it must come back with a vengeance this year, and if on top of that we not only both have to suffer miserably through COVID, but we have to reach the point of drop-everything pray I don’t get pulled over drives to the ER, then I say BRING IT ON!

We are warriors in this house. And we have an army of people praying for us. So BOO-YAH COVID! You are not taking us down today. And BOO-YAH cancer – get it in line because you are next to be defeated!

The next person who says, “God only gives you what you can handle” is going to get an earful, even if that is The Man Himself.

I came home Friday from school not feeling well. I wanted to be certain I wasn’t putting James at any additional risk, so I took a home COVID test when I got home and it came back negative. But, I was worse overnight, so I isolated myself and scheduled an “official” test at Walgreens on Sunday. And, because my plate apparently appeared to have some empty spots on it, it came back positive.

So far, James hasn’t had any COVID symptoms. He was tested as well and it came back negative, but his oncologist had him take the PCR version today to be certain of the negative diagnosis (it would, after all, make quite a difference to the man undergoing immunotherapy,) and so we await those results, but at least so far, he seems to be symptom free (that’s really hard to say with any authority as COVID symptoms and the side effects of his treatment have many similarities) but, he has at least one semi-official test say he is negative.

I have have lived in the guest room for the past four days. Up until today, I have barely gotten out of bed. I have never been more sick in my life or felt more miserable (well, other than when I was four days past due with Jacob, but that’s a whole ‘nother kind of miserable.) Today, I seemed to have rejoined the land of the living. I even checked on the girls in the coop and I think they were genuinely surprised to see me.

For now, James’ next treatment is still a go for Tuesday (every two weeks), but that would change if he has a positive diagnosis. The way I see it, God can allow me to have the damn COVID virus and I’ll take it, but if he allows it to affect James, That Man and I are going to have some very serious words.

Two years ago, perhaps even to the day, James was diagnosed with COVID. That’s all the way back to what felt like “the beginning” of the pandemic. We were scared out of our wits. With the exception of one night when his breathing was worrisome, he came through it unscathed. Looking back now, as worried as we were then, we had no idea what would be in store for us in the upcoming months. A year later, just about this time, he found out he had melanoma. And now, here we sit, praying that he doesn’t have both at the same time.

My plate, Lord, is quite full. Quite. We could sure go for a large helping of grace and miracles, though.

We had errands to run today. Grocery store, credit union, Menard’s. A very typical weekend to-do list, we were crossing items off one by one.

He waited in the car while I ran into the credit union. When I returned, we bantered our usual routine about our imaginary team of thieves and how the heist would surely go awry due to this or that. We would sound like idiots to anyone listening, but it entertains us each and every time.

I don’t usually go to the grocery store, but whenever I accompany him, it is almost always without a list and with only a vague sense of what it is we are really after. It’s a good thing we only take a small cart as we end up impulsively buying this and that, unsure of what we will be hungry for later. Today was no exception. We had an idea for dinner but then another thought came to mind so we got ingredients for both. By the time we left, I think we had enough for four different meals, depending on what sounds the most delicious at the time.

Menard’s was much the same. We joke about the oddities you can buy there now. It’s becoming more and more common, but it still strikes me as odd that you can buy ribs, cat food, motor oil, a tent and a chainsaw all in the same place. That wasn’t what we purchased today, but our handful of items would have made for a difficult round of a “name-the-category” party game.

We decided to grab a late lunch out, at a sister branch of the restaurant we met at. It wasn’t our first choice, but lunch out is rare enough for us that we didn’t realize so many other places were closed on Saturdays until later. Sports were on that we had no interest in; the people around us were reminders of how much we do not miss the bar scene; and we came home with more than we ate, but it was nice to be out.

Back home we watched a movie recommended by Jacob and enjoyed the humor. It’s rare for me to find a comedy truly amusing, so this was a treat. Much later, we had pizza, James offering his usual trade of his deep dish crust for the center parts of my piece – a trade we both willingly make each and every time.

He went to bed around 8, typical for most days, not maybe so much on a weekend, but it wasn’t until I was alone that it struck me. Today felt almost normal.

Immunotherapy is the embodiment of “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Unlike chemotherapy, the side effects are far less predictable – in timing, severity and even what may come. We’ve been told, and we’ve researched enough to know, that everything may appear fine and be far from it, or everything may be fine for a while and then suddenly be not. Everything is a symptom and everything gets reported to the doctor. The diagram and potential side effects they shared with us at our last visit covered maladies from head to toe and everywhere in between. But, we focus on the positives, and today, other than the ongoing coughing that makes James sound like a two-a-day lifer, and his wife’s constant questioning to ensure he is okay and not overtired or in any discomfort – today was indeed, as “normal” as I think we might ever be again.

“The new normal” has been greatly overused in these pandemic years, but the concept surely remains. What was, never will be again, and we must embrace the changes with open hearts and positive mindsets. That’s how I feel today. A good day. In fact, two good ones in a row. Today, James felt as much like his usual self as he has in several days. Two days feels a bit like a streak right now.

And this streak is a blessing larger than I can explain. To hear him laugh, to hear him joke, to banter and snark and wink – that’s the life we know and love. Cancer can’t take that from us. Our new normal might include bi-weekly trips to Ann Arbor, and constant contact with the nursing staff concerning every little bodily change, and it might include frequent naps and keeping the gas tank full “just in case,” but it cannot take the life from our lives. Our “new normal” is going to involved some really crappy days, we know that. But this “new normal” also means that days like today aren’t taken for granted anymore. They are seen and cherished as gifts. Precious gifts.

Blessings, indeed.

It was not all that long ago during a conversation with my dad, that I expressed my concern about only writing the positive stories for my blog. “I’m Facebooking my story,” I explained, comparing my posts to the similarly rose-colored ones people put up on social media. “It’s not accurate,” I said. At the time, I was discussing my professional blog, and asking for his advice on how to remain professional but still share an accurate view of what teaching is really like. The sentiment, however, more so than ever, pertains to my personal writing as well.

“Stay positive.” If I had a dime…

Believe me, I know that being positive is the only way through this, I know. But where exactly is the positive? This diagnosis cannot be saved with “silver linings.” I can point out and even celebrate each and every small victory – the brain MRI was clear of tumors, for example. Yea! The BRAF mutation we were praying for came back exactly as we had hoped, positive – yea! But the more we learn, the more even those silver linings don’t feel like victories. The brain is clear, for now, but melanoma loves to travel to the brain – it may be only a matter of time. And that BRAF mutation? Yes, it may give us an additional treatment option later on, but it also means the tumors grow faster. Doesn’t really feel like a win.

My husband coughs like a two-a-day smoker, sleeps more than he is awake and feels completely powerless over what is happening to him. Nothing tastes good to him, his appetite is down and we haven’t even gotten started with treatment side effects yet.

Treatment starts later today. We head once again, to Ann Arbor where we have an hour-long class to teach us about the treatment, an appointment with the oncologist and then his first immunotherapy. All the research we have done has basically said there is absolutely no way to predict how or if he will respond to the treatment.

But “Stay positive!”

James and I have realized the urgency with which we need to have some difficult conversations so we’ve started the “one hard question per drive” game. It’s lovely. Whether we drive to the grocery store or all the way to U of M, we try to discuss one hard topic. And while I drive and we talk, my heart just falls to pieces every single time. Out of these discussions have come tasks like calling the lawyer just to make sure the will is good to go; reevaluating the way we have the cars titled; follow-ups with financial advisors; and believe me when I say, far worse topics as well. We hold it together and talk like it’s a Saturday morning discussing the bills or upcoming vacation plans, but it’s anything but.

Stay positive.

And while all of this is happening to us, I think back to my parents. They must have had the same conversations and then some. We were young, then. I can’t imagine those that have to worry about children in all of this.

Stay positive.

A friend asked me recently how’s my faith? My all-too honest reply was “nonexistent.” My anger, however? That’s pretty prevalent.

My mother, I expect might be disappointed in me. She never ever seemed to waiver during her battle with cancer – not in her faith, and not in her confidence. Maybe she did privately, I was, as I mentioned, young, and surely she wouldn’t have let us kids in on her own grief, but she never seemed to doubt God. If I am forced to “silver lining” her death, it is that I am certain she brought more people to those pearly gates with her testimony than were originally headed that direction.

I also realize, of course, that there are far worse things happening to millions more people in the world. Our struggle, despite all that it is, would still be a welcome change for the atrocities some people are currently suffering. I know that. I do. But I still selfishly want more for us.

This afternoon, we will have yet again a “hard question” drive. And our return trip will be full of even more unknowns where patience is the only way through. Our spring break “vacation” next week will hopefully be uneventful at the farm, and we will remain hopeful that side effects are minimal and the impact on the tumors is significant. We will, as much as we possibly can, stay positive.

But, I will also be angry and resentful. I will also be frustrated and irritated. I will be impatient and anxious. I will be worried and fearful and stressed. We will fight this disease. We will give it every ounce of energy we have to defeat it and all the while I will pray for miracles. I will pray. But my words will not always be kind or grateful. And He is just going to have to forgive me for that.

She had heard the news yesterday and came straight to my classroom this morning to talk. Through tears, she tried to explain how all of what James and I are going through is taking her back to her mom’s battle with cancer, a battle she sadly lost a few years ago.

“I’ve known you for a long time,” she said, “since before you met James. And I know that he is the love of your life,” she sobbed, “just like my mom and dad were. And I just… I just…” she couldn’t finish for the tears.

“He is the love of my life,” I agreed, “and this is our story now.”

I have used those same words more than once with James since the diagnosis. “This isn’t your battle alone,” I reassured him, “this is our battle, this is our story. We are in this together.”

I remember a lifetime ago, sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen, after she and my granddad had moved off the farm and “into town”. Granddad was in a wheelchair and Grandma spent her days as his nurse and companion, with little more to do that look after him, cook the meals and keep the home clean. Sitting at her table, I was asking her about how they met and what their early years together were like. Sharing memories with me, she grew quiet and then added, “I didn’t think it would be like this.” My heart ached for her that day and every time I have thought of it since.

I have always said James and I had a great “how you met” story. Two people at a bar in Michigan figuring out they had lived two miles apart in Pennsylvania without meeting there. That night was full of laughter and joy and since then, we have built the life we dreamt of. But now, staring down the barrel of treatments without a cure and a pre-existing condition that greatly complicates immunotherapy options, I have to agree with Grandma, I sure didn’t think it would be like this.

As I talked with James tonight I said again, “this is our story,” but I added, “I don’t want it to ever be a sad one.” I have to figure out how to bring joy into every moment that we have. None of us know how many days we have left together, we just happen to have a doctor who is putting a slightly more precise number on it for us. I don’t want to spend that time in tears, I want to spend it laughing, the way our story began.

This is our story, afterall. If anyone can decide how it goes, it’s us.