Today I had a check-in with my boss. After discussing a couple of my recent projects, I asked him about an email I’d sent him back in January.

“So are you OK with my taking a couple of weeks off this fall?” I asked.

“Let me think about it,” he replied.

I don’t remember what we talked about after that. I felt like I’d been slapped. I found myself on the verge of tears for the rest of the day. I knew I was overreacting and being a bit irrational, but I couldn’t help it.

For four weeks I’ve been trying to maintain a sense of normalcy, trying to coexist with the uncertainty of my scary diagnosis, of not knowing what comes next.

And for three weeks, Esteban and I have been planning a trip to Paris. It seemed like the perfect way to celebrate our 20th anniversary.

It’s also been a marvelous distraction: Having that date on the horizon has given me something to focus on and hope for. I didn’t realize until today how important that had become.

So when my boss introduced uncertainty into this thing I’d been clinging to so fiercely, the ground fell out from under me. I felt adrift.

I was awash in tears when Esteban came home this evening. (Poor guy.)  I realized that tonight was the first time I’ve truly cried since the diagnosis. That little extra added bit of uncertainty tipped the scales and made everything come crashing down.

It’s amazing what you can weather when you have something to look forward to, and just a little bit of hope.

I hope my boss says, “OK.”