Tonight's post will be my last for a while. Tomorrow I'm shutting down the computers to spend my day with my love, who goes into the hospital for surgery on Wednesday. I'll be at his side, and hope to bring him home Friday or Saturday. If it all turns out well, this will cure his cancer, and he'll live to see our children grow into adults and maybe our grandkids.
I don't think about what happens if it doesn't turn out well, but we've planned for that, too. We are meticulous planners, my love and I.
Eight years ago I stood in an emergency room and tried to make a phone call to this man, to tell him what the doctors had told me. Our toddler son had contracted a lethal bacterial infection, one that had already killed two other children the week before, and there was a strong possibility he was dying. I've delivered that kind of news to hundreds of families, but I couldn't make that call. Even though I knew he would want to be there with us, I could not tell the father of my child that we might lose our son.
I refused to believe it. Our son survived.
We waited for months before we told the children about their father's cancer. They are old enough to understand how serious it is, but young enough not to believe all those things I was so careful to explain. In their opinion, that stuff doesn't actually apply to their father. Daddy is indestructible, because he's Daddy.
I know better, but I'm going to pretend I don't. I'm going to reach back and grab that blind faith that kept me awake and hanging onto my baby son's limp hand for three days in ICU Hell. I don't think I'll need it this time, but I'm going to carry it with me, just in case.