That's right.  You don't have to see it to believe it.  I learned to flip the script early on as I realized not a soul on the planet could answer the one question I really wanted to know.  The only question that really matters.  Sure, if I asked, I could get percentages, but what good is that?   So I never asked.  It's ok to leave some questions unanswered.  

Through sheer force of will, I had to find a way to believe without seeing.  Had to find a way to be at peace with uncertainty.  To believe in a positive outcome that could never be promised or guaranteed.  The alternative was to be dismantled by the unknown, so I chose to believe.  And little by little, I began to see.  Nothing tangible, nothing I can ever prove, but rather feeling awash in positive energy that is gently guiding and reassuring me.    

As we approach May 19th, the one year anniversary of Vivian's first witnessed seizure, I cannot help but reflect on this and other lessons learned.  As we drifted into peaceful sleep the evening of May 18th, we had no idea our lives were about to take a dramatic turn.  Our path, which had always been so crisp and clear, was about to become a Monet.  But on May 18th, everything felt good, everything felt normal.  Ignorance is bliss.

Our normal now revolves in three month cycles between scans.  Conor and I each have rituals for Rochester days.  We like to joke that we are not superstitious, but we are a "little stitious"!   Vivian takes her MRI in the morning, and then we wait, often passing time by playing the grand piano in the Gonda atrium.  For Vivian, once the MRI is over she is footloose and fancy free.  But for us, tension builds as the afternoon appointment draws near.   We hardly dare to breathe as Vivian's name is called in the waiting room.  Shakily, we enter the exam room...and again, we wait.  My heart pounds so hard it could rip a hole in my chest.  Despite my thundering heart, I can hear every footstep in the hallway as I wait for them to stop outside our door.   Our fate is dangling precariously by a thread.  I cannot continue to exist in this state, but do I really want to hear what's coming next, when it could shatter every bit of normalcy I've worked so hard to build?   Of course, it isn't really a choice, and I must hear the results whether I want to or not.  

We were down in Rochester again this Wednesday.   The same song and dance we have done several times, and will do many more.  Before I could get out of my head, Dr. Schwartz was entering the room with an ear to ear smile.  All clear.  Did I hear correctly?  All clear?!  Fist pump.  Relief washes over us and the next cycle begins.  

Part of coming to acceptance with the tumor is grieving the loss of our old normal.  The reality of a decade of monitoring hit as we were discharged from the hospital last summer.  Now, planning our family's schedule is always in relation to the next MRI.  Can I really go on a shopping trip with our Rochester visits looming later that week?  Will I want to attend a piano recital two days later if the news is bad?  Can we volunteer at the swim meet a week after the scan?  That sort of thing.  But regardless of how I might feel, I have learned the answer is always "yes".  Yes, we can still attend a recital, or go shopping, or coach the swim meet, because life must go on and this is how you create a new normal.  

10 years of heart-pounding, footstep-waiting anxiety is a tall mountain to climb.   You learn to take things one day at a time.  And fortunately, the passage of time gives new perspective.  We can believe in things we cannot see.  We have permission to leave questions unasked and unanswered.  We can go forward - and DID go forward - even on the days we believed the tumor was coming back.   This process requires patience to watch events unfold, free of judgement, for our anxieties have no bearing on the outcome.  With one year nearly done and nine to go, our Mt. Everest feels just a little more climbable.   I no longer need to see how I am going to get to the top.  I only need to believe I can get there.