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Here's when you cry

In the car on the way home from work with the radio loud and the dark winter night as cover.

Here's when you cry

In the shower on a Sunday when you have five minutes to yourself and even though the kids keep popping in you know you can hide behind the curtain and camouflage your tears with the shower spray.

Here's when you cry

In bed at night after your husband's breathing has become low and slow and you think about what a great dad he is and pray that he never has to do it alone.

Here's when you cry

When you see your kids in your rear view mirror and realize you can't miss one minute of their life, not high school, or college or first grade.

Here's when you cry

In the hallway outside your office on an October afternoon when the surgeon who did your breast biopsy calls and says cancer, before you go back to your desk and work for the rest of the day.

Here's when you cry

In a small examining room mid-November when the doctor says the word metastatic.

Here's when you cry

In the passenger seat of your minivan, on a foggy January afternoon, clutching your husband's hand and a printout of your PET scan results that say words like "illiac" and "acetabulum" and "hypermetabolic" and even though you have to google the words you know what it also says is:

Findings consistent with a significant response to therapy
Significantly decreased activity in the right breast
Right axillary/subpectoral lymph nodes and osseous structures no longer appear hypermetabolic

It says it is working and those are tears of relief and the only thing you can do is cry.