every single egg. one basket.

Initially, and even beyond initially, treatment wasn't really an option. Mom isn't a good candidate for surgery because her tumors are substantial in size. And chemo is a brutal battle she has fought before and isn't willing to fight again, at least not the same way, given the recurrence rates of ovarian cancer.

So she's almost a week into what I am calling 'chemo-light'. It's a very small dose of a very toxic drug. This is a trial period to see if she can tolerate it. If it doesn't make her sick, if her body doesn't revolt in response to the pill that she's not even supposed to touch with her skin (but put in her mouth?!?!) then the doctor will double the dosage. This is one of six oncologists she has seen for opinions. But this guy is also a palliative care doctor. And he's willing to work with her. He understands here paralyzing fear of chemo again, he knows the cards are stacked against us, but he's willing to try. And use baby steps.

So far, so ok. I don't want to jinx it. I keep waking up wondering if I will have a text from Dad telling me she had a rough night. Hasn't come yet. It takes away her energy, her zip. But so far, so OK. Knocking on wood and crossing fingers and toes constantly, that it stays this way and the drugs can do their job without making her miserable.

Cause the only eggs we've got, they're in this basket.

I think my parents have gotten into a decent spot where they're living with the cancer. It's a constant elephant in the room but maybe the elephant is an a garage apartment or something, sometimes. Maybe. The chemo is going to compromise her immune system so we have to start wearing masks around her. Especially my three germy kids one of which enjoys a good splash party in the toilet on occasion. That's ok. We are going to decorate them. Give them some flare. And sanitize. A lot. And support. My parents are working on finding it and once they do we will follow their lead. Don't think we can tackle the raw emotions of this alone.