Snowflakes

We are now officially a sick household. The game commenced Thursday evening, when Aidan's coughing began. My old sinus infection, which never really went way, decided to join in the fun. Kids can stop, though, when they're sick; moms cannot. And now this morning, Daddy and His Little Girl both woke up with ... something. Don decided to stay home from work, ticking off one day of his seven precious flex-days for the entire year (10 more months to go), and Grace is red-nosed, puffy-lipped, coughing, and warm. Ho ho ho.

After a dismally dark morning, the sun is beginning to peek through random slits in the steely sky, illuminating the snowflakes that are falling to the cold ground. It's beautiful. But like I said, while the kids can halt their lives for a while, moms can't -- but there's a blessing in having my husband home sick. It frees me up so I can run to Kmart to purchase diapers and Tylenol and a few cheap stocking stuffers for the kids. Moms can't stop.

As I write this, my mom is just about ready to undergo yet another test. Remember that pesky liver that decided to be uncooperative a few weeks ago? Instead of getting the "all clear," that liver decided to bump the numbers up a bit ... not high enough to indicate the presence of cancer or a tumor, but not low enough to be insignificant. We grieved. Remember that ultrasound she got about a week later, to rule out the presence of anything fishy in that pesky liver? The technician said there's nothing there. We rejoiced. The oncologist, however, still isn't convinced. We grieved again. "I'm 95% comfortable with the results, that it's fine," he said. It's that 5% that sticks in that dark place in your spirit. One more test -- the MRI -- and our prayer is that the liver is fine. That she'll be fine.

She'll always have this, though. The oncologist said this is something something that will be hanging over her head for the rest of her life. Wow -- thanks for sharing. She might be done with it; she might not have another resurgence of cancer, in her remaining breast or elsewhere. And yet ... and yet ... and yet ... But that "life sentence" really is no different than anyone else's. Hers is just more specific. Looks like now our paths are parallel, our journeys similar. Be present. Today is today. Cancer might be down the road again, or it might not be. But we're here, we're a family, our kids brighten our days with each smile, each hilarious comment, each hug. Be present. The MRI will soon be over.

There's a picture of irony outside of my window. The sky looks so heavy, so pregnant, so swollen, so dark. Yet the snowflakes that fall are wispy, light, fragile, carefree. It's a picture of my spirit sometimes.