Friends, it's been the worst kind of week. My Chris has cancer. He went to the doctor Friday morning a week ago with a sore knee. He called me an hour later to tell me the doctor was concerned and sending him for a CT and MRI (more on that process later). That evening we found out he has osteosarcoma, a cancer of the bone. So we woke up Friday morning thinking everything was fine and went to bed in a new world.
The most unexpected things let you know something serious is going down.
- Chris voluntarily took off his sunglasses for some pictures.
- Chris left Rand in his Pull Up all morning while I was at the store, and I didn't care. I wasn't trying to be noble, I just Truly. Did not. Care.
- I dropped the f-bomb.
- My dad lost his keys.
- My mom burned the bacon.
- I threw a banana out of a moving car.
- And, most ominous of all, neither of us yelled at the children for an entire weekend.
Last weekend was tough, but holy and precious time. We couldn't do anything about doctor's appointments until Monday. We didn't want to tell the boys until we had more information (and were secretly waiting and hoping for some sort of superhero power that gives wisdom for telling children their father has cancer). So it was borrowed, sacred time. I snuggled with Chris whenever I could. We played football with the boys. I built with Legos. We sat outside. Chris played Scramble with his sister and claimed she made his cancer hurt when she beat him. I stared at the same page of my book and eventually just gave up and rested my mind. Rand served us all wooden food and called us buttheads. The big boys fought imaginary bad guys and argued over whether choosing an imaginary German rifle obliged one to fight against one's brothers who were armed with imaginary British and American weapons. I watched the last few carefree hours of my children's childhood.