While I only disappeared from this space for a couple of weeks, it felt like a lifetime to me. A lifetime ago…before everything in my world turned upside down, blew apart, and settled into a picture of where we are now. Let me explain.

The house sold. Quickly. And they offered full price (wow!) for us to be out…quickly. In the meantime, I was diagnosed with recurrent basal cell carcinoma, and started treatment…quickly. Spring Break came, and Greg ushered us off to Virginia where family could care for me while he packed up our home…quickly. After 2 weeks of meds, the side effects kicked in…SWIFTLY, as in a swift kick in the ass. And in the head. And in the joints. Greg’s Mom drove us 10 hours home while I moaned in the back seat (that wasn’t quick…that felt like the longest car ride in history). The very next day, Carolann and I went hunting for an apartment in the cold, blowing rain. One morning of looking…AND…DONE. “Quickly” has been our mantra, in case that wasn’t obvious.

The day after, our home went primarily into storage. It was like a blur. With no appetite, an irritated digestive tract, a persistent headache, ringing ears, and God-knows-what-else was hurting at the time, the move was like a gigantic fog I can barely remember. I’ve been told I directed traffic, but in all honesty, I think I stood in one spot and whimpered. We lived in our empty shell of a home for a week while more boxes got packed (doubtful I touched any of them, but I do recall lying on the couch and feeling like the world’s biggest loser). Dad came, our dear friend Brian came, amazing friends and family took the girls, and BLINK.

We had moved. I was now throwing up in an apartment. Surrounded by boxes. But the apartment is newly remodeled and quite clean and close to everything. And honestly? I was grateful. I was even a little happy. We were finally off the highway, and I could hurl my insides and make it to school in time to hurl again. What a treat! I went through this treatment 4 years ago, and at that time, I had a 45 minute commute. The trauma which happened inside my minivan on a daily basis should never be uttered. SHH!!! NEVER.

All of this would have been trying enough, had I not been kicking off 2 very large events at school. Helping out, kicking off, holding up, writing about, cheerleading through, and otherwise trying to APPEAR to be…me. I was most certainly NOT ME, but I was doing a great job playing me on TV. I went to Sephora and said, “Look, I’m on an immunotherapy style chemo, and my plan is to keep it a secret. MAKE UP will be critical to my success. Let’s get started.” Immunotherapy doesn’t affect hair, and Kohl’s sells enough round neck shirts and chunky necklaces to hide my chest skin burning down to the fat layer. Add a ton of makeup and a huge bottle of Advil, and Game On.

AND ALL OF THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN TRYING ENOUGH, had our new house deal not fallen through. At Week 3 of treatment, the contract to build a new house just fell apart. Not the house we wanted to build on the lake. That fell through in February. Not the beautiful old Colonial we almost bought on the wooded lot. That fell through in February too. No…the cottage we planned to build on the perfect lot with the walk-out basement, after looking through several homes and finally finding our best fit. THAT DEAL. That one fell through. So I did the only thing I knew to do:

I put on that fancy makeup and burn-hiding clothes. I did my tired hair. I took some GI Meds. And at Week 4 of treatment, I marched into a management meeting at the builders and I negotiated our way back into our dream house. I negotiated as a career this side of 5 years ago, and those skills are dusty, but gang, they ain’t dead. And I ain’t dead. AND NO ONE TAKES AWAY MY DREAM COTTAGE WHILE I’M FIGHTING CANCER WHILE MOVING INTO A TINY APARTMENT WITH A BROKEN HOT WATER HEATER WHILE LEADING LARGE PTA EVENTS WHILE SELLING THE ONLY HOME MY BABIES HAVE EVER KNOWN WHILE HIDING THIS LOAD OF SHIT FROM MY BEST FRIENDS WHOSE MOMMAS HAVE STAGE IV CANCER! NO ONE. PERIOD.

As it turns out, I still got it, and I got our cottage deal back, in our dream location…and I went back to unpacking. Sleeping and unpacking. Fighting wicked exhaustion, and unpacking. But just a little bit happy, and content. This apartment is nice. And close to everything. And those things are good. But…that little rain? It wasn’t done falling.

Today I learned the pesky cancer isn’t gone. It’s “mostly” gone. And it still won’t kill me. And we’ve got some time to consider our options. For now, I’m left to heal, and sleep, and enjoy the fact I can walk to the grocery, and I can get the girls to school in mere minutes. And I never need get on the highway except to see my doctors, who aren’t even a little worried about the mostly gone cancer. When the summer weather turns back to cool, we’ll decide then. We’ll try again…then.

Until then, I’ve learned to accept this season. We all have seasons that seem impossible to traverse. We all have times in our lives that looking back, are nothing but a painful blur. Out of these experiences, our grace and grit are formed. Our friends rescue and our families love us with the determination of a thousand winds. And not for a moment have I been alone or frightened. There wasn’t a day I couldn’t hug my girls and see the depth at which they needed me to convey a happy resolve. There wasn’t a second Greg wasn’t holding up the load with his mighty arms. And I felt you’all there, in the background, patiently waiting for this rainfall to cease long enough for me to say hello.

Hello, my friends. And Godspeed. Godspeed most certainly, now more than ever…