five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred.

Usually when I write words flow like a river, or wine. It's usually fast and furious. I've been trying to decide how to write this post for a couple of weeks now and I'm struggling to find the words. 

365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes (if you love musical theater you sang this one a la RENT). That's how long it's been since I started this blog; a blog I wish I never had to start. When I started this blog I thought I would be writing a much different story though, than the one I'm writing today. Maybe I'll write a book some day and call it "What to do when your Mom is going to die and then doesn't." Catchy title, no? 

The last year has been a blur. It has flown by and it has crawled by like molasses in the middle of winter. We entered a dichotomy a year ago. Split between life and Mom's diagnosis, treatment, disease. Everyone is a year older now. We are more settled in our South Florida home. The kids are 9, almost 7 and creeping up on 2 1/2 with a fire and fury the likes of which you've never seen before. We are back in the throws of flag football and dance and life. In fact, the bookfair is coming up next week (it was delayed because of a little lady named Irma. She was neither little nor a lady but that's another story for another day). It's the same bookfair where I was helping set up when Mom called and said those words I'll never unhear. "Corey I've got cancer." I'll never forget that day. That moment. That call. 

I think I said it best when I started this blog (it's ok to quote yourself right?) "Shock is a strange sensation. It's somewhere between a dream and reality. You float. Outside yourself, outside your life. Hovering above what you know to be true and what you want to be false. Not wanting to come down. Not wanting to wake up."  If I'm being honest, I didn't think Mom would be here, be alive, to read this post. I didn't. The doctors didn't. No one did. I really thought I'd be writing it, hoping she was hovering somewhere, over my shoulder hugging me while I wrote it. And in preparing for that scenario I have learned a lot; about life, about death, about the in between.

Hope is a hard thing. You can hold onto hope but when everything else is telling you there is no hope, hoping is hard. Countless people told me 'Corey, you have to have hope' and I sure tried, but shit, it was nearly impossible some days. It was hard because what works against hope is science, and fact and reality. And when the odds are overwhelmingly not in your favor, I struggled. You're supposed to hope and believe that your situation is different, that you will be the one. The one who beats the odds. And maybe I should have known better. Maybe I should have known that my Mom and her fiery spirit and her zest and her attitude and her passion and her crazy were going to beat this bitch. But I don't think she thought she was going to beat it. 

Embracing the reality of what we were facing instead of ignoring it, even if I did lose hope, allowed us to do things and say things that I'll never regret. 

You can do two things when you're facing a terminal diagnosis, which this was. You can hope and pray and put your head down and not face death. You can say you're going to defy the odds (and people do), and you can take your treatment one day at a time, never facing the end. Never believing that this is the end. And if it is the end, if the battle is lost, things are left undone; unsaid. 

We didn't do that. 

I'm not saying that facing death and talking about it and being realistic is easy. It's the harder road. It's gut wrenching and soul shaking. But there is peace after the pain. I know that if Mom hadn't survived the surgery or if she decided to quit chemo, I know that nothing was left unsaid. I know that we wouldn't have been in her last days trying to cram in conversations between doses of morphine. I know that she loves me with every ounce of her being. I know that she is endlessly proud of me and us and the life we have created. And I know Ross and Dad and Jenna know that too. This is not the easy road. It's far easier to deny it all and never feel the pain. But in the long run, I know that, just like she has our whole lives, Mom led us down the right path in her journey. 

And now, because she fought and because she has amazing doctors and because she is the one who beat the odds,  we start a new chapter. A bonus chapter.

This bonus chapter is going to be filled with time we never thought we would have. Bonus time. We get bonus holidays we didn't think we would share again. Celebrations will be whole because she will be with us. Any time from this point on is bonus time. If it's a year or 5 years or 10, it's a bonus; for her, for us, for everyone. Will the cancer come back? It's a possibility. Will it be hard to forget that it could come back? Sure. But here's what I know to be true right now: my Mom is alive, she is healing, she is cancer free, and her spirit is back. She's got some fight in her again. Her radiant smile that can light up a room is shining again. 

I don't know who to thank or exactly how we got here. Whether it was positive thoughts, the power of prayer, endless research and work to learn about her disease and how to fight it, or a miracle, or a combo of all of them, we will never know. But I know that I am so grateful that this blog post is different from the one I thought I'd be writing a year ago today. 

For those of you who have prayed. Thank you. If you danced naked and howled at the moon, thank you. If you sent good vibes, thank you. If you raised a glass in her honor, thank you. If you hugged one of us while we sobbed, thank you. Please know we will pay it forward and won't take one page of this bonus chapter for granted.