We never saw it coming. And, in hindsight, it was probably better that way. No hype. No anticipation. No expectation – and thus, no chance for disappointment. We’d certainly experienced our fair share of that recently: the “almosts”, “about tos” and “hopefully soons” have been the landscape and language of our lives for months.

Predicting and planning had long ago yielded to guesstimating, not that this entirely obviated the letdowns. But at least it kept things consistently inconsistent. Nearly everything in our lives was predicated upon caveats and clauses. “If…thens”, “I don’t knows” and “maybes” were the likely answers to just about any question, and the expression “cautiously optimistic” made our approach to life seem boldly decisive.

Callen was particularly keen on the “when” questions: When will I / can I / will my blood be strong enough to”… And our answer had so often been “maybe tomorrow” that he once quite pointedly asked, “How many tomorrows will there be?” I struggled not to read too much into that one.

So there had been a lot of “tomorrows” in the making of that day - which I suppose was, in and of itself a build up to it. Although having lived it, it sure seemed like more of a beating down.

The 24 hours before it happened were some of the most exhausting and challenging to date. It wasn’t that anything new or devastating had occurred - quite the opposite, in fact. It had been more of the same. It was steroid week – and what those five days out of every month provide him in relief from his daily nausea and vomiting, they make up for with an absolute vengeance in secondary side effects. Think simultaneous PMS, OCD, the Terrible Twos and demonic possession and you begin to get the idea.

Callen was on his fourth day of ‘roids and rapidly cycling through emotions that he could neither identify, understand nor control. The steroids had induced an almost manic-like state. He was paradoxically restless yet exhausted from nights of not sleeping. His anxiety was visible, palpable and audible. He had chewed off the fleshy pad of his left thumb and picked the skin off of multiple toes. He screamed as the blood seeped from the edges of his self-inflicted wounds. When he wasn’t bent on self-destruction, he was foraging for his next meal or snack. And once he had made his selection, he obsessively supervised. He was either seated in front of the oven watching the timer count down, or perched on the kitchen stool watching intently as I prepared food precisely to his liking. And I do mean precisely. How many. What way. In what order. Cut into how many pieces. Each item of food came with its own set of instructions, his echolalia a constant refrain in my ears. Error or omission of any sort was poorly tolerated. An ill-timed bathroom break on my part would leave him searching for me, calling my name, the frantic desperation in his voice as he ran room to room nothing short of heartbreaking.

And it was only noon.

By the time Jim came home, we were all nearing our wit’s end. Mealtime was a chaotic disaster. Callen spent the hour prior pacing, repeatedly asking what was being served, when it was being served, how it was being served, and eyeing every pot and pan with suspicion bordering on paranoia. Did he like it? Had he tried it before? Did I make it exactly the way I had made last time? He cried about being tired. He cried about being hungry. He picked at his cuticles. He wrung his hands. Once we sat down, Callen was in and out of his seat every few seconds. But what to do? How to parent? He was little more responsible for his actions or reactions than he was the ruddiness of his cheeks, the fullness in his face or the protuberance of his belly that the steroids similarly brought. Any glance, intonation or directive aimed to stifle or redirect his behaviors resulted in him curling up in a ball. Retreating from us. Or himself. Or both. Wounded. Contrite. Olivia was herself in tears twice during the meal, the full effect of Callen’s words, behaviors and emotions simply too weighty for her fragile constitution.

After dinner I attacked the dishes with a vengeance, hoping to scrub the stains of the day off of more than just my tableware. And when that failed, all I could do was cry a river of fat, hot tears that became indistinguishable from the water pouring out of the spigot.

So having survived that day, albeit barely, there was no thought given to the next - other than to get us all through it as gently as possible.

But when morning came … It just happened. His energy was up without being frenetic. He was focused without being obsessive. He was eager without being anxious. And so we went for it. Without asking his permission or soliciting his opinion. He got dressed. I packed a bag. And without fanfare or discussion, we left the house.

Taking it a step further than that – for we had been here once before, in December - actually gotten into the car, only to promptly get back out to be sick - we pulled out of the driveway. I sent a message to his teacher. It was the furthest we had gone, the closest we had come, and it seemed best to notify her. This. Could. Be. Happening!

The drive was thankfully short, giving me minimal opportunity to think about what we were doing. We arrived perfectly on time and with the rest of the children. He asked me to walk him in (and I was thankful that he thought that was his idea, because there was no way it was happening without me!). Once the kids saw his face, they began calling his name, a chorus of “Callen!! Callen is here!” hung in the air. The teachers broke into smiles and cheers. There were waves and hugs and high fives. And there were tears. Oh so many tears. Of joy. And relief. And release.

We passed the classroom he’d last been in the year prior, his cubby and hook now reassigned. We found his new hook. And then, as if he’d never missed a beat let alone 349 days, he walked into his new classroom.

I updated his forms and I cried. I sat in the parking lot and I cried. I drove home and I cried. I received a text and photo from his teacher and I cried. I forwarded it to Jim and he cried. I got a pedicure and I cried. And on it went for three hours until I was in the carpool line, eager to see him and hold him and slather him in hand sanitizer and hear every detail about his day. And then I cried again because the answer to one of our questions was finally definitive. Today. Now. Five minutes ago. Yesterday. Last week. Now we know that it’s impossible for it to not happen. Because it did. We will always and forevermore have that answer: On February 25th, he went to preschool.

So is this just the beginning? Or will it end up an isolated event? Upon arriving home, and after posing for the requisite first day of school photo I now knew we could safely take, he asked when he could go back. And I, knowing full well the snow Mother Nature had in store for the morning, but being completely unawares of what cancer might have in mind, gave a solid, resounding and predictably unpredictable “maybe tomorrow”.