Joy in the Numbness
There is something surreal about living in this space.
Some days I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life unfold instead of my own. I move through the motions, answer questions, make plans, laugh at jokes, pack diaper bags, and somehow it all feels slightly out of focus. Like I’m walking through a world that looks familiar but no longer belongs to me.
It’s a strange thing to know there is cancer inside your body.
I don’t look sick. I don’t feel sick. I can still chase Brooks across the living room floor as he beelines for the dog dishes and plants, carry him on my hip, laugh, and spend hours making memories. And yet every now and then I remember what’s quietly growing inside me, and for a moment the world stands still.
This weekend reminded me that life doesn’t stop while you’re waiting for answers.
We drove to visit one of my dearest friends. Brooks discovered the joy of crab cakes for the first time and enthusiastically approved. He took his very first boat ride on the Chesapeake, his little eyes taking in a world that is still so wonderfully new. We stayed up far too late swimming with his cousin and uncle before ending the night with pizza and tired smiles.
The neighbor next door, who has become an adopted aunt to Brooks, scooped him up with the kind of love that reminds me family isn’t always defined by blood. She loved on him like he was her own.
And in doing so, she reminded me of something I desperately needed to remember.
We are surrounded by love.
We wandered through a farmers market. Shared lunch with friends. I spent as much time as I could sitting on the floor playing with Brooks, studying every laugh, every new expression, every tiny hand reaching for mine.
I find myself wanting to freeze time.
Because I know life can change in an instant.
Cancer has a way of making every ordinary moment feel sacred. It makes you notice things you once rushed past. The softness of your child’s cheek. The sound of his giggle. The way he reaches for you when he’s tired. The people who quietly show up without being asked.
I don’t know what the weeks ahead will bring. I don’t know what tomorrow’s scan will show. I don’t know how this story unfolds.
But I do know this.
Every beautiful memory we made this weekend mattered.
Every laugh mattered.
Every hug mattered.
Every second mattered.
Brooks has no idea that he’s walking beside me through the hardest season of my life. One day, when he’s old enough to understand, I hope he knows this.
He was never just along for the journey.
He was the reason I kept taking the next step.
When I felt numb, he helped me find joy.
When I wanted to be afraid, he gave me something bigger to fight for.
He became the fire that kept me going.
And if there is one thing cancer cannot take from me, it is these moments. The memories. The love. The life that continues, even here.
Especially here.