Bob and I were enjoying the stillness of the moment before bedtime last night. Henry was fast asleep. Joy was conked on the sofa beside me. I soaked in the momentary peacefulness.

“I can’t believe this is now our life,” he said to me. I knew what he meant. That feeling of a massive life shift knowing life will never be the same. Don’t get me wrong ­– I’m fully confident I will beat this. But regardless of the outcome, it still changes everything in a permanent way. You view life through a wholly different set of glasses from here on out. Is it a curse? Or a gift? I choose a gift.

What day was I diagnosed again?

I couldn’t remember the date, so I pulled up my calendar. It felt like a while ago. But when I saw it, I nearly took a knee.

April 18th at 4 pm. Not even four weeks ago. And I was only a few days from my third chemo infusion.

Leave it to something like cancer to reshuffle your deck of cards in one behemoth fell swoop, as you stand there in a daze. It’s a wonder how well we all seem to be doing with it. Amazing how we can rise to occasions we never thought possible when no other options are available. 

Like any parent, Henry has been at the forefront of my mind. We have every-other-day check-ins. 

How are you doing? How are you feeling? Have you come up with any new questions in the last couple of days? Anything you want to talk about? Anything new you’re worried about?

It’s helped keep the door of dialogue open, particularly with a kid who can barely communicate who he sat with at lunch!

During one of our recent conversations on our way to school on Monday (a chemo day), and to my surprise, he gave me a definitive answer.

“Mom, I’m mad at the doctor,” he said, with an angry tone. “Why can’t he just give the medicine for one month? Why does it have to be for five months?”

“That’s an excellent question!” I said. “The medicine is our friend. It is really, really strong and works really, really hard. And even as strong as it is, it still takes a long time to get that bad little ball out of my boob.”

Then, I was given a little divine inspiration.

“Instead of dreading medicine days, I think we should celebrate them every Monday! Let’s call them Celebration Mondays!”

“I don’t know, Mama,” he said.

“No, really, I think we’re on to something here!” I insisted. “Can you think of a good way to celebrate medicine days?”

He thought about it for a moment. Then a little smile spread over his face.

“How about Pokémon cards?” he said.

“Great idea!” I said. He looked like he’d won the lotto.

“Every Celebration Monday, we’re going to go get Pokémon cards to celebrate the medicine I’m getting to make me better. Do you know what it means when someone says, ‘Keep your eye on the ball’?”

He shook his head.

“During a soccer game, lots of distractions are all around you. People are cheering loudly. The other team is trying to steal the ball. Maybe cars are driving by or kids are playing on a nearby playground. But your job is to stay focused and keep your eyes on the ball. If you don’t concentrate on the ball and get distracted, the other team might steal the ball and you won’t win the game. But if you keep your eyes on the ball, that’s the sweet spot. It’s the same with the journey we are on right now. It’s easy to get distracted by things like my hair falling out, and seeing me sick in bed, and all the doctors’ appointments that mess up our normal schedule. But if we keep our eye on the ball – concentrate on the fact that all these things are going to make me better – then all those other things feel a lot easier.”

He lit up a little.

“So, what you’re saying is, we are going to take a baseball bat and knock that bad ball in your boob outta the park?”

You got it, Kid.

And that’s how Celebration Mondays were born. I dropped him off at school and watched him happily walk in with his friends, unburdened by our circumstances. My gratitude was deep for our conversation that I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was a divine gift plunked in our lap at just the right place. At just the right time.

This journey is a gift because of moments like that, moments that show me we are not alone, we are seen and loved, and we are right where we are supposed to be. Even when things feel crappy.

 In other news, I’m going to a wig shop on Saturday. To wig or not to wig… I’ve waffled on the topic. Shaving my hair will be hard for me, but being bald will not. I also feel deeply that I do not want to resist any part of this process in any way. And covering up a bald head is, in a way, an action that resists part of the process. However, the visual of me with (wig) hair will help transition Henry, and I’ll do anything to help that cause. Thus my 1 o’clock appointment on Saturday at Kimberly’s Wigs in Santa Barbara so we can find a wig that is as close to my normal hair as possible. (p.s. Wig shops creep me out.) I will probably lose my hair in the next week or two, so time is of the essence.

 Last night, I was invited by a dear friend to a local cancer group called “Thrivers.” My oncological naturopath, Dr. Heidi Lucas, was the speaker. It was a pleasure and a joy to be there amongst survivors whose lives had also permanently shifted. I’m gleaning so much new information on post-treatment life habits that help create an environment within the body that disallows cancer cells to survive. More on that in a future blog post.

 A few concluding thoughts for the week:

• Cheering for Mage in the Preakness this Saturday

• I’m still feeling fine. (In fact, I googled “Is Chemo working if you still feel fine?” Answer 1: Yes. Answer 2: Just wait. It’s coming)

• My parents have been on my heart especially lately through this ordeal. Please keep them in your prayers.

• I’m excited to have my dad join me at Chemo on Monday!

• We feel blanketed in your love, prayer, good thoughts, and support. It has meant the world. Truly.

 Here’s to taking a baseball bat to the bad ball in my boob. ️⚾️

With Love,

Evie