"It's alright, baby girl"

Late summer '13 in Blacksburg

That's always been the mantra I whisper in Emma's ear when I have to leave her alone for the day, or when emergency vehicles scream by us on our walks.  It's not the words–those are for me–it's the way you say it.  My mother likes to point out that she's a 'delicate flower.'
     I've been repeating the mantra more often since she was  diagnosed: when the pain is particularly bad, when her pills come out, and when she is nauseated from the tonic of medicine, food, and pain.
     It's been a long road since September–longer than I would have thought, honestly.  While we were discovering the truth, a dizzying array of statistics were hurled my way.  Even with those estimates, I would not have thought I'd be typing these words in last few days of 2013 with Emma curled at my feet, looking better than she has since September.  I think I was pessimistic as a defense mechanism–it seemed appropriate to set low standards for 'successfully managing' terminal cancer.  Appropriate or not, here we are, approaching the median survival time following radiation and chemotherapy.  

Chasing me on the beach in Nags Head, NC

     We had a nice holiday in Nags Head, North Carolina.  The weather was beautiful, and the cancer was more dormant than awake.  This is how I rate the weeks of my life now, good cancer weeks and bad cancer weeks.  I will take the good ones any time I can get them though, no complaints.  
     Before I get you too excited, she isn't cured.  We've just bought her some more time.  Apparently, Emma's psychological frailty–crippling at times–belies her physical tenacity and will to live.  It stands to reason that a creature as mindlessly and effortlessly happy as Emma loves life so deeply that her will is an all but indomitable force–unless you happen to have a vacuum cleaner.