easier

Last night I went upstairs with Jason. He was getting ready to hop on the elliptical and I was going to read in bed. I sat down and instead of reading, I found myself crying, not for any one reason but because sometimes this is all just so impossibly sad.
We had seen the oncologist earlier in the day. She explained my new medication regimen (ovarian suppression + an aromotase inhibitor*) and that it kicks our possible pregnancy efforts another three years down the road. She talked about chemo and how it could offer a small benefit, but also carries with it the smallish risk of permanent neuropathy and damage to my ovaries. She also used the word "curable" in reference to my disease. Curable. And that sounded like magic, a glistening possibility amid so much very darkness.
Still, I get sad. See, I spent so much time and effort adjusting myself to an end to surgeries and a date not so terribly far off when we could try to have a baby and I gripped it with all my might because I needed it so badly. I needed it to reassure myself that some new version of normal was out there. That life would go on and that it could be long and full. That it wouldn't all be cancer and fear.
And then this. I feel positively sucker punched, a stunned, gasping sort of feeling. And some days are harder than others.
So I sat and cried, and Jason brought me tissues, laid next to me and kissed my surgical arm, listened at the times I could talk and at the times when I couldn't. He picked up The Princess Bride from his bedside table and read to me (The Princess Bride, it turns out, is rather hilarious) until I fell asleep, able for the first time in weeks to sleep (as I normally do) on my side.
I woke up this morning to a kitchen full of treats: a red velvet cake cooling in two pans on the stove, an enormous balloon, a card, a bottle of fancy juice in the refrigerator.
Today is our third anniversary.
I wish everyone had someone who could make them feel so wonderfully cared for. It makes these days easier, and I'm grateful every day.