?You know,? I said to my husband this summer as we sat on a friend?s dock,  stealing some much-needed time away together. ?If I don?t make it??
?Hold on,? he tried to interrupt. 
?No, Mark, please, just let me say this. If I end up not making it, and you eventually move on?which I?m OK with?just please make sure there are no red flags with her when it comes to the kids.? 
?Crysta??
?Like if you fall in love, but she doesn?t warm up to Mavi and Eli, promise me you?ll run for the hills. The kids need someone who will love them like a mother.?
Mark sighed. ?We?re a long way off from these kinds of talks. We have to have hope.?
?I know,? I replied steadily. ?And I do have hope, but I also think about these things, and I need to know they?ve been said.? You know you?re a mother when you?re still trying to micromanage an existence?two childhoods?you might not be around for. Never did I think I would be having these conversations, matter-of-factly, let alone navigating cancer with toddlers underfoot while the uncertainty of my future looms overhead. But here we are. Metastatic breast cancer. Mid-pandemic. 
I was still on mat leave and breastfeeding my youngest when I was diagnosed with breast cancer on April 1, 2020. April Fool?s Day. Disbelief turned to horror when I was told that the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes in my chest and is thus metastatic. Although my oncologist reassures me that everyone is different, Google says I?ll have to beat some serious odds to see m...