Yesterday we had leftovers.
Mom and I puttered around the kitchen, tucking items into the oven and shoving others in the microwave before arranging bits and pieces on the table and calling Dad to join us.
We've learned nothing new. A social worker called. I talked to several receptionists about moving Mom's surgical consult earlier as the mass is so small that I hate to let it grow before getting it out and away.
Dad's growing - we're all growing, I suppose - increasingly nervous about the oncology appointment tomorrow. The options - or lack thereof - concern me.
"How are you staying so calm?" Mom asked while we waited for the FDG to distribute before his PET scan.
I looked up from a People magazine (I've learned So Much about celebrities) and shrugged. "I trust that God loves us and is in control," I offered. "And I'm in denial, I think. Trying to just deal with the next step for both of you and not think about worst case scenarios."
She nodded. And reached for my hand as we waited together there in the silent waiting room in the basement of the diagnostic center.
"Do you have everything?" I asked the girls this morning, having pulled hair into ponytails and checked homework and bundled both of them in my Jeep. Mom had gone for an early prayer meeting and Dad waved to us from the window while we set off for school.
Little One brought home cards she'd had her class make for my folks. It was terribly sweet and moving - the kids know them as they take playground duty and help with classroom activities. And those folded pieces of multi-color construction paper made me feel much as I do when filling out medical forms.
This is really happening to us. Much as I wish it otherwise, those cells that multiply too quickly are our reality.
Smallest One and I escape into the iPad, playing games with dinosaurs and cavemen.
"You're villagers are hungry," I tell her absently as I glance at the screen.
"I know," she replies before tapping the cauldron for her little community.
"Fire," I warned her later and she moved to tap the animated flames and the little people on screen rushed over with buckets of water.
I pressed my check to the crown of her head and blinked back tears, eyes darting around the room to make sure nobody notices. I had a panic attack the other night over Blackie - the Katie-named '77 Chevy truck that Dad has had forever. Would I take it home? Fit it in my garage? If Mom comes to live with me, there won't be room. And I have to take care of Blackie.
So I read books and do work and always have a television on so that I can distract myself as much as possible. I sleep and stay close, immersing myself in their daily lives until I can figure out how to change them to better handle this.
Tomorrow we know.
And the knowledge that I may not be capable of hiding from that knowing terrifies me.