A year ago we got news that mom was in the hospital and that they were running tests. They didn't know what they were looking for.
A year ago we got news that they found cancer on her liver. Metastatic.
A year ago we were hit with a tornado.
Suddenly, completely and without warning. The pain was violent.
We reeled. We reached out to each other. We hung on for dear life. We reeled some more.
Then there was a lull in the storm and we started to hope. It looked like it probably wasn't cancer after all. We waited for results. Tentatively, we hoped.
A second tornado hit. Absolute in its devastation.
We were wrong. It was cancer.
The pain was violent.
We held each other up. Taking turns being strong and being scared. We cried together and hoped together. We read and researched and clung to every encouraging word we could find. We waded through the uncertainty and sought desperately for answers and found very few. My sisters gave birth to their babies, I took care of mine, and together we rejoiced in what we could.
We mustered up all the strength we had. We have a lot.
Now a flood.
The waters are slowly rising and we can see them approaching. It's terrifying. But we have been given time. Time to save what's most important. Time to evaluate. Time to act.
Time to fight.
So we're building up walls. Calling in reinforcements. The best doctors, the most cutting edge treatments. Blessing upon blessing.
Progress, research, hope.
And prayers. We're building a fortress on the prayers of the hundreds - no thousands - who are lifting mom up in prayer.
The rising waters are a formidable foe indeed, but we've been given time and we're fighting the fight. A fight we're going to win.
The news hit us like a tornado.
Now we're dealing with a flood.