Just like she promised, Mom called every day that week. The appointments were going well. The doctors seemed to think they could slow the cancer with aggressive treatment. They worked with the clinic in Halifax and set Mom up with a treatment plan. She would go to the clinic three days a week for several hours each day. In the fall, she’d commute with Katie and me—we’d drop her off on our way to school and pick her up on our way home.
“I think it’s going to work, Meara!”
“That’s great, Mom,” I said. Her optimism was infectious.