Limbo

I feel like I’m in limbo.

And honestly? It sucks.

Waiting is its own kind of agony — too still to move forward, too heavy to rest.

Mike has good weeks, the kind that almost convince me we’ve turned a corner. I start to exhale, let my guard down, maybe even laugh without checking for shadows. And then the bad weeks come. The ones that remind me that healing isn’t linear and that hope, as stubborn as it is, can hurt.

The thoughts swirl.

Are we doing the right thing?

Is the juice worth the squeeze?

What if the tumor comes right back, and all this fighting just leaves him miserable half the time?

No one prepares you for this part — the not-knowing. The quiet dread between appointments. The way every new pain, every off day, makes your stomach drop. It’s like living between two worlds: one where things might get better, and one where they don’t. You can’t unpack your bags either.

So you just… float.

Hold your breath.

Do the next thing.

Feed the dogs. Make the coffee. Pretend you’re not bracing for impact. 

But somewhere in the stillness, I’ve started noticing the tiny sparks that make this limbo bearable. The silly flamingo skeletons in the yard that make me smile every time I pull into the driveway. The little experiments in my kitchen, using my family as willing guinea pigs for whatever recipe idea crawled into my brain that day. The belly laughs with friends who show up even when I don’t have it in me to be “fine.” The frozen raspberries I drop into my sparkling water — small pink confetti in a champagne flute — to remind myself that even an ordinary Tuesday deserves a tiny celebration.

Maybe limbo isn’t meant to break me — maybe it’s where I learn to find peace in the pauses, joy in the in-between, and strength in the waiting.