I cried when the doctor called and wanted to see my husband and me about Elise's MRI results before diagnosis.
I cried when I told Elise and her twin because that was almost traumatic.
I cried when I told my father (and was so devastated I had to hand the phone off to The Husband).
I cried during the first in-patient hospital chemo while she slept.
But nothing compares to the cry I had at the last day of radiation.
(Been living under a rock? Here's the song: This is Me. You're welcome.)
So, she's back there strapped to the table, unable to move a muscle, and this song starts playing at volume eleven. We can't see each other, but she knew it was me. I squalled like a baby. She cried too. When she came out and got to ring the bell that as the final act of her radiation, I was toast. Because until we complete scans to see our progress, that's it. We've done every single thing we can do for treatment thus far. And either it works or it doesn't. It was an enormous relief to just be finished either way.
I haven't cried all that much, because I believe.
I believe that no matter the outcome, we are stronger.
I believe that no matter the outcome, we are closer.
I believe that no matter the outcome, we are in the hands of a mighty and sovereign God.
I believe that no matter the outcome, my children are the fiercest human beings breathing air.
I believe that no matter the outcome, we can survive anything as a family.
I believe that no matter the outcome, God is still God and that is quite enough.