Sometimes, for just a few moments, I forget. We could be driving, singing in the car, watching a tv show, and things seem so normal that I forget how sick Claire is. Then it will hit me with such a force that I feel like I am going to break down and cry. Oh, yeah, Claire has cancer. Again. But she is still the same person. Her humor, her tastes, the things that make her laugh, the things that make her grumpy are all still there. Cancer doesn't change any of that. But it does change you and the people who love you. I asked Claire if she ever had that slam of remembering after forgetting for a few moments and she said, "Yeah. Pretty much all of the time."

Today we started cranial radiation. One of the hardest things, and it will be this way for total body radiation, is that after the many technicians and doctors tweek and calibrate and set everything up, everyone leaves the room and Claire is alone. Just her, her cancer, and her treatment. I can't tell you how that feels for Claire. She does have a gift of being able to go into this still, zen place and see things through. But I can tell you that for me it is heart wrenching. I am a woman of faith, and today as I left the room I couldn't help but think of Jesus on the cross asking his Father why He had forsaken Him. And I think of the pain that God must have felt at having to allow His son to be alone in His time of pain and distress. Some paths must be walked alone, I guess. But Claire is never really alone. And that gives me some comfort.

Yesterday Claire had to sign about a million consent forms. Consent to be treated, consent to store the stem cells (which, once they leave Faith's body, are legally Claire's), consent to be treated for potential side effects, consent to be involved in a few medical studies, consent to have her information registered with the government so they can follow her health for the rest of her life. She also signed an Advance Directive. Yes, I had to discuss end of life wishes with my 19 year old daughter. I told her my end of life wishes. And yes, we both shed tears. But in the middle of all of this information and paper signing the doctor used the word that every cancer parent yearns to hear. Cure. The hope, the plan, is that this will be a cure for her. And we are going into it under the best circumstances. Despite her obvious weakness, there is no detectable disease in her bone marrow or her spinal fluid, and no detection of the Philadelphia chromosome. (In cancer speak that is 0 MRD,  0 CSF, and 0 bcr-abl, I think) But the journey will get a lot harder first. Do you think it is possible to hold our breathe until March?

This past weekend the husband and I actually went to a movie for the first time in forever. We saw The Martian. I loved the end when a student asked Matt Damon if he thought he was going to die. He replied that there would always be a time when they would think they were going to die. But you just solved one problem at a time until you realized you were going to live. Well, ok then.

          A much bigger breakfast than Claire could possibly eat at Huntsman.

When Claire noticed that her bandages looked like a Hun hat, she made me draw a thumb hun. Darryl.

Getting ready for her first of three cranial radiation sessions.