Seven years ago today...

When I think back to the months after his diagnosis, so much of it is blurry now. I remember the treatments, the medications, chemo and radiation, CT scans and MRIs. I remember waiting for results and trying to understand what the doctors were telling us while being terrified of what they might say next.

Mostly, I remember trying to buy time.

Toward the end, Craig had trouble swallowing. There was a medication that might help prolong his life, and I remember sitting there trying to get him to swallow it. Such a small thing... a pill ...but I knew what it could mean. More time. I wanted so badly for him to take it, but his body just couldn't anymore.

At the same time I fought for more time, I quietly prepared for the possibility that we didn't have much left. I was taking care of Craig, taking care of the kids and trying to keep our life moving while preparing myself for something I couldn't imagine being prepared for.

I don't remember the details of many of those days anymore. They have blended together over the years.

But I remember one day very clearly.

Craig and I sat in a hospital waiting room.

The fluorescent lights were too bright, making everyone look a little pale and tired. Rows of chairs were filled with patients and their companions. Some stared at their phones without really looking. Some flipped through magazines. Others sat with their arms crossed or their hands folded tightly in their laps.

Some people looked sick. Some didn't. Some had lost their hair or wore hats. Others wore sweaters even though the room wasn't particularly cold. A husband sat close to his wife. A daughter quietly talked to her mother. Others sat together without saying anything.

The room smelled like disinfectant, hand sanitizer, and stale coffee. The air was cool and dry. You could hear the occasional footsteps in the hallway, a cart rolling past, and the low voices of the people working behind the check-in desk.

Everyone had their own story, but we were all there doing the same thing.

Waiting. Every so often, the door beside the check-in desk opened, and someone called a name. Someone would stand, gather their things, and disappear through the door.

Then the door would close again.

I found myself watching each person and wondering what they'd hear.

Maybe their scan was clear. Maybe the treatment was working. Maybe they were going to hear that it wasn't. Maybe someone was about to walk into that room and hear something that would completely change their life.

I knew that feeling because we were waiting for our turn too. I was nervous, and I knew Craig was nervous. But then, for whatever reason, he started being goofy.

He began making jokes and saying ridiculous things. I don't remember what he said anymore. I just remember looking at him and wondering what on earth he was doing.

This was not exactly a room full of people looking for a comedy show.

Then someone smiled.

Craig noticed.

So, naturally, he kept going.

Someone else laughed. A person across from us said something back to him. Before long, people who had been sitting quietly in their own little worlds looked up and joined in.

I watched the room change.

Not in some big dramatic way. Everyone was still sick. Everyone still had an appointment. That door was still there.

But for a few minutes, no one was watching it.

They were laughing.

I leaned over to Craig and asked him why he was doing it.

He told me he wanted to help them feel okay.

He had looked around the room and seen what I had seen: the worried faces, the tired spouses, the people waiting for their names to be called. He knew they were scared because he was scared too. But instead of thinking about himself, he tried to give them a few minutes without thinking about what might happen next.

He told me, “Every second counts.”

I don't remember what happened after that.

I don't remember what the doctor told us that day. I don't remember what jokes he even made. But I remember what Craig was wearing: a dark grey T-shirt and beige cargo shorts. AND I remember the people laughing.

And I remember him sitting beside me.

That's the funny thing about memory. Of all the things I thought I would remember from that time, my mind didn't hold on to another scan or another conversation with a doctor.

It held on to Craig making a room full of scared people laugh.

Seven years later, I think about that day often.

I wish I could sit down with him now and tell him how we're doing.

The kids are doing great, Craig. They're growing up. They're finding their own way, chasing their own dreams and becoming people you would be so proud of. You've missed so many moments I wish you could have seen, and countless times I've wanted to look over and see your reaction.

As for me, I'm doing okay.

I've raised our kids. I've worked. I've traveled. I've tried things I never thought I would do and gone places I never expected to go. I've laughed a lot. I've struggled. I've gotten things wrong and figured other things out along the way.

Life kept moving, even when I wasn't sure I wanted it to.

For a long time, I thought moving forward might mean leaving some part of you behind. It doesn't.

You come with us.

You're in the stories we still tell. You're in the kids. You're in the things you taught me without ever meaning to.

And you're still in that waiting room.

Whenever I think about that day, I can see you sitting there, probably scared out of your mind, making a fool of yourself because you noticed that other people were scared too.

Seven years later, I don't remember most of what we were so afraid of hearing that day.

But I remember you making people laugh.

I remember asking you why.

And I remember what you told me.

Every second counts.

We're doing okay, Craig.

And we're still making the seconds count.

THANK YOU SO MUCH! LOVE YOU ALL!