When the doctor came in, he looked around the full room, greeted each one of us by name, and then looked over to mom. She and dad were sitting in two chairs closest to the doctor's seat and the computer screen, and the three of us kids were sitting on the patient bed with Oliver in Amy's arms and Aunt Nancy beside me. He asked mom how she was doing, and she said, "not great". As he loaded the MRI scans on the screen I wasn't totally sure what I was looking at until he said that the one on the left with the big white looking ball was this today's scan and the one on the right with no perceivable white circle was October.

At that moment, my mom looks glassy eyed straight at us with a face that almost looks like she is saying, "i'm sorry". At the same time, dad lets out a small almost choking sound as the tears catch him in a sob. I stare at the screen with a quick flood on my face. We knew that moment was going to happen at some point, but that never makes you ready for it. Time stood still again as our hearts raced, tears cascaded and we tried to take in all the information after the news of the tumor return of what we could do now. It was so painful.

That moment was 13 days ago and I sometimes wish I could transport myself back to 14 days ago - the evening before, the salmon dinner with everyone gathered around the table - it was normal family chaos and gladness to be with one another. Once the next morning came, we've entered a different place, each personally and as a family unit. Some moments of the last two weeks are unrecognizable as the Wilsons crew - It's like intensity was waiting on the front porch 14 days ago and then it broke through, shattering the glass on its way in and consuming every room of the house and leaving unknown materials scattered all over the house. I hardly know what exactly we are solving for each day, there is so much to consider, and everyone has a different way of bringing order to the the materials strewn about.

I'm fighting now to regain a normal level of consciousness rather than the operational fogginess that life has been since getting the difficult news from the doctor but even more since watching my mother lose speech abilities each and everyday. Nothing, nothing, could have prepared my heart for what it would be like to see my mom lose access to her words, to stutter, to not be able to read a book to Hannah. It has been excruciating for me, and I cannot even imagine what that has been like for my capable amazing mother to grasp.

I have no way to even wrap up this post because it all feels quite undone still. We are all quite undone. Heartbroken. I accept this is part of life, this is part of God's revealing glory even as we do not see it now, i truly believe that, so I am fighting to stay alive in the battle. It's hard to sit still. Its hard to believe I'll hear God in prayer with the wildness of my head these days. I'm hoping to not just survive this this season but to live into it. I'm hoping for moments with mom that are full of memory, kindness, comfort and peace.