It’s Friday night and Preston’s cancer is back. You don’t know this yet – we’re in that fun stage of things where we know, and the doctors know, but no one really wants to say it out loud because “there’s still a chance…”

Sure. But come on. You’re monitoring him every few months. And so when the exact thing you’ve been looking for shows up…

It’s back.

The most maddening thing about it right now is that I had let my guard down. I had begun to make plans. To daydream. To believe that we were’t “the cancer family” anymore. That we should probably ask the church to take us off the prayer list. That we could think about what vacation we would want to go on for our 10th anniversary.

Our 8th was Tuesday. We didn’t celebrate with much fanfare and it was lovely. Just barbeque chicken at home with Conor. And even though I knew he had scans coming up in a couple of days, I don’t think I gave any credibility to the very fleeting thought that it could be back.

Cancer families are’t allowed to daydream. It’s just not a luxury we get to have. I’ve gotten pretty good at living in the moment, and I think we could all stand to be a bit better at it. But, let’s face it, that’s just our reality.

And there is something so tragic about having that taken away. Humans, in general, are wonderful at planning. It’s said that people get more enjoyment about looking forward to the vacation than the actual vacation itself. We daydream when we’re bored or when we need a break from the day to day. We look forward to the next holiday or the next time we see each other. We grasp on to the fleeting moments of childhood while still wishing for this phase they’re going through to hurry on up…

The first time, it was not letting myself look ahead that became both my most important armor and darkest place. Watching the person you love most in the world suffer terribly for extended periods of time is devastating. So is sleeping in the guest bedroom (it’s always cold in there) putting on a brave face when it becomes your job to hold their discomfort. (side note: If I can hold it together, you can, too. And please don’t hug me because you’re upset. But I still love you, it’s cool.)

But being forced to live in the moment, feels rather different than making that choice.