The truth is I don't know how to feel.
I'm here.
My body's significantly altered with the scars, far more internal than external, to prove it.
There's over 40 pounds less of me and, in spite of the scars, I like it.
My muscles atrophied and my stamina evaporated so I work to regain these things.
Cancer remains in my body though the Doctor's claim this a major victory in round one.
Round two is yet to be determined.
Every three months I receive an MRI to see if the fight's begun again.
Sitting at the table, Sarah sighs, then laughs, at the mountain of bills reflecting the costs to get me this far.
Our three year old Che lays on top of me as she does most every day and while she's an endless, boundless, energy ball of joy, there's a sadness she carries.
Laurel, our 16 year old, carried Che to Walmart where she runs into people she knows mourning the loss of a friend, so they hug and shed tears.
"I don't want my Daddy to die," Che cries, making Laurel pick her up.
The shopping trips ruined, Che fights to get out of Laurel's car when it stops in the drive, she runs to me crying, "I want my Daddy! I I want my Daddy!"
Against Doctor's orders to not lift anything weighing more than 10 pounds, I pick her up and cry with her.
Sarah and I nibble at the ongoing conversation of living life with cancer and it's unknown timelines.
Like with everything Sarah takes on, she's an expert on pancreatic cancer, treatment options, prognoses, odds of beating this thing and, in an effort to help me, keeps her fears to herself.
I'm trying to feel my way through this.
We can only really talk about hard realities in small doses.
Thankfully Che's returned to preschool every morning for four hours so Sarah works and I have mornings on the Beach.
We struggle mightily with living with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer because, in spite of the Doctor's claiming surgical victory, I still have it.
On the outside, everyone tells me how good I look.
On the inside, we hear my organs gurgle and slurp as they settle into new positions and I can literally feel the dull pain of moving into new quarters.
Time is no longer our friend.
We're endlessly rushed, overwhelmed and unsettled ourselves in this new normal that doesn't feel secure or safe.
How much time do we have left?
That's the question.
Then Sarah has a harder question to answer.
What then?
For inexplicable reasons Laurel is an Islands Highschool cheerleader who talks her Mom into making posters for this week's game to cheer for the Sharks. She and Sarah sit in the floor as we toss around fin-tastic slogans. Her friend Muhammad is called in to help. Che's asleep for the night.
As tired as she is, Sarah's giving it her best.
For me though, there's an epiphany of appreciating how special it is to live in this hot mess craziness of a blended family with teenage girls with social schemes during a pandemic, Sarah's ever changing and demanding work schedule, the relentless demands of a 3 year old and my new case of cancer fog which means I can't remember shit.
I'm part of this but somehow rising above it to see it for the blessing it is and that's what I'm living.
But I still have cancer.
It's very hard to fully live every moment knowing that, at any given moment, cancer flexes it's muscle and I'm actively dying.
Still there are these moments of clarity when I completely understand what a gift it is to be here now.
The rest is too much to think about.
I'm going to do my best to simply enjoy it all as much as I can.
