Just one more hand of cards

 Since I’ve been fighting Stage IV cancer, the word "persevere" has taken on new meaning. My body simply can't do the things I literally have dreams about. I wake up reaching for a version of myself that no longer exists, and because my energy is now such a precious resource, I’ve become very intentional about my time.

Thinking about this last week, I reached into my grandmother’s "happiness file" and pulled out a note she’d written: "Keep Going."

The timing felt perfect because I'd woken up with a brief reprieve from pain and fatigue. In fact, for the first time in a long while, I felt like “me.” So, I seized the moment and asked my son, Trey, if he’d spend the afternoon with me.

Trey is almost eighteen. He stands over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a graduation cap and gown waiting to debut in May. He's a man in the making; yet, when I asked for his time, the years practically melted away. His eyes lit with a familiar, boyish spark. He didn't want anything fancy, just to go for a ride and play cards at a restaurant—a ritual from the years before "cancer" became a household word.

My heart clenched when I realized he didn't just want a burger; he longed to relive a piece of his childhood from before I got sick. So, we grabbed my electric seated scooter—a necessary concession since I can’t walk very far—and headed toward a local spot. As we went down the sidewalk, the irony of this moment turned into something beautiful.

In 2020, doctors gave me two years to live. Yet, here we are in 2026. I'm still breathing the afternoon air, sharing salty French fries with my son, and losing spectacularly at Rummy. The weight of that miracle hit me mid-hand. He won the game, but I won the moment.

By the cruel math of my original diagnosis, Trey should've been mourning traditions, visiting a grave, and wishing for just one more hand of cards. Instead, we sat in a noisy restaurant, marveling at the miracle of time.

Cancer has taken my stamina, but it's paid in clarity. As parents, we try giving our kids the world, but what they really want is simply our time.