How do you measure a year in the life?
I measured it in ultrasounds and biopsies, black masses, and sinking feelings.
I measured in it terror-filled hyperventilating half-breaths,
early mornings, deep breathing and doctors visits.
I measured it in MRI's and EKG's, blood tests, urine tests, blood sugar tests, finger pricks, and baby kicks.
I measured it in 16 rounds of chemo, hair strands falling out, rainbows of bandanas, and pre-natal non-stress tests.
I measured it in confused stares, loud whispers, grasped hands and prayers.
I measured it in perfect baby girl first cries, in surgery, in CT scans, in pathology reports, in interminable medical bills.
I measured it in help from strangers, kind words, unknown prayers and donor milk.
I measured it in rainy days, grey clouds, heat waves, and electric purple sunsets.
I measured it in stifled shower sobs,
in laughs with chemo nurses,
in baby toes and late night feedings.
I measured it in 33 days of radiation, deep burns, painful cries and peeling skin.
I measured it in a 38th birthday, a 49th for my husband, and an awesome 3rd birthday for my boy.
I measured it in stupid cruel comments, in beautiful gestures, in buckets of tears, oceans of hugs, and yes, cups of coffee.
I measured it in long walks with baby, laughs with my boy, hugs with my husband, and love from family and friends.
I measured it in renewed dreams, hungry views of travel, terrified glances over my shoulder, tentative plans for the future.
That's how I measured a year.