A Pregnant Woman's Ultimate Dream TV Wish List
I'm Not Dead Yet

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

Last week, the oncologist told my dad that it was officially time to stop the chemo. It still wasn't working. There was no reason to believe it would ever start working, now that he'd somehow soldiered on through three months of it, only to have the leukemia progress virtually unimpeded in the meantime.

My dad said, "Okay, now what do we try?"  

Tomorrow, "we" try a different chemo with a different drug. A drug my mom won't even tell me the name of, because she doesn't want me to Google it.

Today, I had an entirely different post saved in draft that I planned to publish. Today was always supposed to my the next entry in the series for the American Cancer Society More Birthdays campaign, and last week I decided to take a crack at getting that post written and out of the way ahead of time. "Last week," as in: "probably the day before that oncologist appointment, yeah, good timing, self." 

It wasn't a bad draft, or poorly timed or completely irrelevant -- I mean, when you're writing about your father dying of cancer, there are only so many shades of emotion or variations on not-exactly-good-news you can go with. But I deleted it anyway.

(And then I stared at the page for awhile wondering if I should undo that real quick, since I'm sick with some horrible flu or cold or flu-cold hybrid thing and so is Jason and Ezra is just getting over it but Noah's still running a fever and therefore my capacity for writing new content is pretty significantly diminished right now, Tylenol dipshit popsicle lightbulb.)

I deleted it because it wasn't about tomorrow. Which is all that's looming large right now. Everyone is scared. My mom just hopes the chemo won't do too much damage, and that they'll avoid an ER visit, and I'm skiddish of the same thing, because I don't know how many ER trips and hospital admissions my dad has left before he just won't get sent home, period.

No, the entry was about our visit with my dad over New Year's weekend -- a good visit, and one with a lot of conversation and jokes and I helped him download the new Tom Clancy book onto his Kindle and we talked about the new baby and how handsome Noah is and how Ezra is just as "cute as a button" and then Ezra blew him kisses as thanks for the compliment. 

One day those memories will be it, I know. And I'll probably wish I devoted pages of space to writing every single one of them down in more detail. 

But today, we still have tomorrow. Whatever it might be. The fact is our particular, specific tomorrow might not be that great. But dammit, we still have a tomorrow to write about in the first place. 

Deep breaths. More tomorrows. More birthdays


Beth at I Should Be Folding Laundry

Amy, I am so sorry for all of this. I am wishing tomorrow is sunny with only good things. And the day after and the day after that.

I wish I could help you. Sending love to you and your family.


Even your 'diminished' writing is better than pretty much anything out there.

Thinking of you and your family.

the grumbles

the depth of your sadness comes through like a freight train. hang in there.

Springsteen fan

Amy, you and your family and Dad are so much on my mind these days. Carpe diem, carpe minutes, hours and seconds. Carpe those memories, my friend. I wish this wasn't happening, but send you virtual support from a total stranger and big fan. Wishing your dad an easy time of it. [Jeez, words are lame, aren't they?]


Ugh. Fuck cancer. As much as this whole situation absolutely sucks, I agree with previous comments on your writing about it has been emotional and some of the best. I'm just sorry it's something that you and your family are being put through that you have to write about. Wishing the entire family the best throughout today, tomorrow, and the rest of forever really.

Miss Grace

My thoughts are with you.


You'll remember Amy. And you'll remember things you've forgotten.


I wish you could see inside my heart or see inside my head. Cause I'm living with cancer. I think your dad believes he's LIVING with cancer. You say he's dying.

You're not giving him enough credit!


I just came upon your blog recently and I keep coming back because I was in such a similar situation as you. In fact, we even have a similar commute. I grew up in DC but am living in Philly and had to make the DC-Philly drive every two weeks when I was pregnant to take my dad to chemo. He lost his short, 18 month battle with cancer in June. He was 64. It is heartbreaking.

He got to meet his second grandson though, my son, and be present for the first 8 months of his life. Being pregnant (with all the hormones and general craziness) and having a terminally ill parent is something I would never wish on anyone. I can't believe I made it through that time. I'm sorry for what you're going through. It's really hard.

Molly Chase

I feel you. Almost a year ago my dad was diagnosed with a grade 4 glioblastoma multiform, the same malignant brain tumor that killed Ted Kennedy. He lived 10 months and died the weekend before Thanksgiving. He had one more birthday, and one more summer. He had one more chance to tell each of his 5 kids and 9 grandkids and 3 great-grandkids and my mom how much he loved and cherished us. He had one more chance to admonish the squirrels in the back yard not to eat from the birdfeeders.

We missed him at Christmas. I miss him everyday. But I am so grateful that his life, especially this last year, has had so much meaning. It all counts, every minute, every birthday.


I'm so sorry. But I hope that tomorrow is as good as it can possibly be for all of you. I will be thinking of and praying for your dad, and for his tomorrows.


I was wondering about your dad as I clicked over here today. I'm sorry that there isn't better news. But please DO cherish those tomorrows. Enjoy as much of them as you can, no matter how hard that may be. I pray for all of you that there are many more tomorrows.

Life of a Doctor's Wife

As always, thinking about you and your family. Praying for many, many tomorrows filled with love and laughter.


Ahhhhhgggg - "Tylenol dipshit popsicle lightbulb" made me fall off my chair laughing.

Hang in there, Amy. Your Dad is amazing...and so is his daughter, diminished capacity or no.



Thinking of you and your Dad in this very trying time. Your love comes shining through in each and every post you write, whether it's about the memories or the hardships.

Sending lots of positive thoughts to you and your family.


Sending hugs to you & your family, and am completely astounded at your writing (including typing and spelling) abilities while pregnant, with the flu in your house, and a sick dad. Be well.


I'm so sorry. Here, indeed, is to taking each day as it comes.

We buried my grandfather this morning. We made a special trip to see him after Christmas, as he lives far away, and ten days later he was gone. We figured it would happen this year, but not so soon. Every visit, every moment feels very precious to us right now.

Hang in there.


You and your family are in my thoughts.


Sending you love and hugs.

And was totally sure that this post would be about you going to see Annie! at the Olney Theatre. Which is what I did yesterday.


Chemo is terrible and so are drugs for treating cancer. The body needs reset with good food and energy from raw, organic fruits, vegetables, nuts and legumes. Please read about the Gerson Diet and cancer.


I'm sorry, this is all so incredibly hard. I have to admire your Dad's resilience tho', he is a tough guy.
Your family is in my thoughts and prayers.


Amy, I'm so sorry. This is really, really hard. I have thoughts that are too long for posting here, and anyway, they're really not much good when one isn't sitting right in front of a friend feeding her comfort food and a cup of tea. So, you know--I wish I could sit you down with some comfort food and a cup of tea. xoxo


Dammit, Amy, why are you making me cry? I'm sitting here - allowing myself a small break in my day of wiping noses and asses, sweeping crumbs, making meals that go uneaten - while my children watch TV and I'm bawling. I'm so sorry Amy. Just that you are dealing with this. I'm happy you have had memories, though, of your children and your dad. My dad passed away from cancer before I even met my husband. It overwhelmed me when my first child (and then second, and then third) was born and I knew they would never know the wonderful man that was my father. I can only make him live on through the memories I share with them. Sending you lots of love and hugs.


No advice. No URLS for you to follow. Just
Sorry --
You're Awesome --
and However the Fuck Y'all Cope is the Right Way.


Keeping y'all in the light.

Which is hardly enough but all I've got.

Kathy W

Both of my parents are fighting difficult, life-ending illnesses. I am an only child and even though I'm 48 and my parents are 76 and 78, I am 8 years old at heart and in my eyes, no older than I am now.

Amy, you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. I've been following your posts about your dad (he was diagnosed the same week as my mom's stage 4 cancer) and your posts give ME hope. He's still here, fighting for every precious moment because life is just too damn good to miss. My parents are fighting just as hard.

My prayer for all three of them is to live and fight but to know when it's time to be at peace and enjoy the comfort of their remaining days. No more sickness. No more drugs, no more pain. And that when it is time, it's joyful and peaceful and with ready hearts.

Peace to you...

Heather Ben

stupid cancer. so sorry.


Just breathe honey. Cancer is a cruel mistress and the treatment so often isn't any kinder. I'm still of the opinion that he should stop the chemo which has to be depleting the reserves of strength he has left but, just maybe, making that commitment IS what's keeping him going. Here's to tomorrow and a little bit of sunshine.


Parsing Nonsense

Coming from someone who lost her Dad to cancer a little over a year ago, I say: Enjoy every minute of your time with your Dad.

Try not to think of your agenda, or what he should be doing differently, or what you wish he'd be doing instead, and just enjoy him. The way he sounds when he laughs, the way it feels when you hug him, and the sight of his smile.

Keep those things as close to you as you can.


Fuck cancer, indeed. Praying for your dad, and your family.


I am sorry. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.


Love to you.




I've enjoyed your blog for years. I'm really sorry about your father.


I'm so sorry. Good luck to your family and your father tomorrow. Love and hugs to you.


Cancer sucks. Hard. Have you heard about the little baby girl in BC who has leukemia at 1 MONTH OLD!!!! Diagnosed CHRISTMAS EVE!!!! Her website is here if you are interested http://molly-campbell.com/w1/node/1


I'm so sorry you're going through this Amy. I'm keeping you and your family in my thoughts.


I'm so sorry. I'm still hoping for more small miracles and more peaceful moments for your family.


Take care, Amy, and keep doing what you need to do to get through. Hugs.


Hugs to you.

I am sorry you are going through this - I can't find the words to say anything else.

Sending you and your mother strength!


Tomorrow... is good. :)


I'm glad you still have tomorrow, and I so hope the new chemo works. xo


The hardest thing is knowing that there is absolutely nothing you can do to make it go away. Just keep making those memories. They are all that matters.

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