“When my mom was first diagnosed with cancer, I learned the word "malignant" and heard the word "spread" and knew the word "hope" was a mirage, a fantasy that would only make things worse. But then I learned the word "remission," and the doctors loosened their ties, cracked bad jokes (said her blood type was B-positive, so we should be optimistic, too), and they increased the odds of her survival to fifty-fifty, like she was something to wager on in Vegas. I slept well and ate well and celebrated on the inside. My kidneys shook pom-poms, my liver did an Irish jig, my small intestines did the worm. The future was bright with a likely chance of sunshine--and then it was over.”