There are many different journeys we take having gone through an illness that threatens our life, and therefore the life of our children, and of our family and friends.
But there are some journeys that are more heartbreaking than others.
I have two children, Anya, my now ten and a half year old old soul who is a mix of bad ass and hopeless romantic, and Brody, my now nine year old who is a budding paleontologist and snuggle master.
On Fridays our family has a tradition of Finger Food Friday and Movie Night. So every week, we do finger foods, then watch a movie as a family. It's a just an us-hanging-out event where for the most part, all sleepovers and what not are held off until Saturday.
After the movie, Anya and her dad, Brian, play first person shoot 'em up video games into the wee hours of the morning, and Brody likes to go camp out with Momma (raises hand) and snuggle. He and I are usually tucked in around 10:30 p.m. It is the sweetest thing in the world to me, and I absorb every moment, because I know it won't always last.
Apparently, it means the world to him, too.
Because after my diagnosis, once the first surgery was complete and I was on the mend, Brody came in the living room to snuggle with me on the couch.
"Momma?" he whispers.
"What's up, buddy?"
"If you die, who is going to snuggle me when Daddy and Anya play video games?"
It was one of the most heartbreaking questions I'd ever been asked, and during this time there have been a few.
But I assured him.
I'm not going anywhere.