Not our story. Not our ending.

Was reminded of Mom again yesterday.

When my brother was diagnosed with cancer, my parents were in a room with the doctor some chairs and a chalkboard. My parents watched as the doctor diagrammed the tumor in his brain and discussed and wrote out treatment options. 

Surgery. 

Chemo. 

Radiation. 

When the doctor was done the room stayed silent. My father sat in his chair. My mother got up, strode over to the chalkboard and furiously erased all of the doctor's diagrams. She threw down the eraser and sat back down. Meanwhile my father sat. 

I picture her standing there tall and like a statue. She was a powerful woman of great strength.

Not my story.
Not my ending.
Write whatever you want.
Not my story. Not my ending. 

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