Context

Context

Buying a 9 foot Christmas tree and a treadmill. This is how we are preparing for our cancer fight. The tree signifies normality. Business as usual. After all, this is our first holiday together. I love me some Christmas and Brian loves to make me happy, hence the XL tree. 

The treadmill, well, that’s for cancer. Because if you are about to enter the fight of your life, you’ve got to stay in shape. Health can defeat the Enemy.

Cancer entered our life just a few weeks ago, but the invasion had begun long before we were aware. Brian’s lung tumor is 10cm (doctors only use the metric system, I suppose non-mathematically based Americans are the only people still using the Imperial system). I didn’t know it then, but apparently this is large. Every nurse or staff member who’s asked us the size of the mass has unsuccessfully tried to not sound surprised. It’s abnormal to present as healthy as Brian does with the juxtaposition of how sick he actually is. 

I think I was a little in denial until the blood tests started coming back. Every abnormality, and there were only a few, had the potential to illustrate the presence of cancer. Trust me. I’ve looked it up.

Cancer is present. Cancer has heightened our emotions apart and together. It seems like the elephant in the room. As though it’s had a seat at the table and has been eating my husband’s lung one morsel at a time, and we knew nothing. 

So on this lovely Thanksgiving weekend, I choose hope. Happiness. Relaxation. All the while, knowing that multiple oncology appointments and body scans searching for signs of other potential invasions await us in the next week. All the while knowing life is going to change, ready or not.

Did I mention this is our first holiday together?

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