I spent last month in conversations and meetings with the genetics program at MacMaster Hospital.  I was sent there from my supportive family doctor.  We met to discuss the type of cancer that Marisa had and what that means long and short term for our daughters as breast cancer can be genetic.  My mom came with me.  It was good to have her even though the irony of that is thick.  My mom coming to a meeting about my girls who don’t have a mom.

When I got a letter back from the genetics program, it was a glorious, warm day.  After school we were all playing in our backyard.  Jacoba and Zekijah were running in the field chasing each other.  I went in to check on supper.

I grabbed the letter from the geneticists.  I read it.

I looked up from my letter.  I saw Jacoba’s long blong hair bounce up and down as she chased Zekijah while their face gave the sun a soft and purposeful place to land.

And I was reading the letter about her dead mom.

It was yet another reminder that what happened to Marisa and us has no finite end.  And the truth is sometimes I yearn for that.  Sometimes I wish I could have a day, week, moment off from this. 

But alas, that is not the case.

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