Here we are, exactly 9 months after the diagnosis that turned our world upside down.  It’s been a while since I’ve shared.  I’ve been writing a lot, but everything I’ve put into words just seems too raw, or personal, or vulnerable to put out there.  So it sits in a folder and waits for a time where I’m ready, or think it could be helpful, if that time ever comes.

I’ll start with an update on Jesse.  Chemo is done, earlier than we had planned.  It was abrupt and unceremonious.  The last day of chemo shirt I bought will go unworn, and the vision I had of a celebration of this milestone faded away.  His body just couldn’t take any more.  He has made immense progress the last few days, and we are going home tomorrow.  This is amazing news and exactly what we have been fighting for since January when this journey began.  He is back on his feet and the pain has improved. 

I couldn’t be prouder of him or happier with the prognosis for recovery, yet I sit here tonight with a heaviness I can’t really describe.  Every time I talk, I start to cry.  The thought of just walking out of here and going home to get back to what?  Normal?  Life?  What does that even look like?  We just say “see ya” to the people who have sat with us and cared for us during the darkest times of our lives?  That feels weird and terrible and I hate it.  I also don’t know that there is an alternative – I’ve left gifts for all of them in the breakroom, wrote out our thank you note, but it’s not like we are going to hang out later.  These people aren’t my friends – they are amazing professionals who have changed our lives with the work they do.  And I will miss each one of them tremendously.  That’s’ not an emotion I was expecting to feel.   I used to cry every time we had to pack to come back here.  Now I'm crying as I pack to leave.  Life is strange.  

Jesse is filled with confidence and ready to be a kid again, and I feel like I did the first time I brought a baby home from the hospital. Now what?

 I’m excited, relieved, anxious, grieving, sad, thrilled, happy, optimistic, and terrified, and It’s tough to process all at once.  My entire life has been filled with the kind of before and after moments that change you – death, diagnosis, the type of events that force you to forget everything you thought you knew and start over.  I have no idea who I will be as I start over again.  If you are reading this, I am happy you are here to find out with me.