I knew it was true when I almost ran a red light by our apartment across from the courthouse and juvenile detention center. She was coming. So were my final exams. I managed to keep her safely tucked away while I hand wrote my exams, uncomfortable in those swively law school chairs I thought would surely break should I so much as break wind.
She came, then another, and then another, and like Gremlins fed after midnight, two more came. I will admit, I did get my fair share of looks at hauling around five small children in the beautiful, beachy, horrendously weather-taxed Southern California.
Alas, Jason’s two minutes of fun did lead to a whole heck of a lot more fun. Yeah. We had a lot of fun those years.
So there we were, slogging along with a five kids and two JDs and one sweet lawyer-esque minivan.
13 years into our marriage, on the 13th best day of my life (sorry kids, you’re cute and all, but bringing you into this world hurt like hell), we received a pretty crappy diagnosis.
Stage IV cancer. Colon. Liver. Later lungs and wherever the little buggers could find shelter from the chemotherapy storm. The littles were little on that particular day – 9, 8, 6, 4 years and our littlest clocking in at 12 months and 9 days.
Like Kim Kardashian’s dress, we went from hanging around in life to hanging on for dear life.
And we hung on. For a long, long time.