By Christmas, I was deep into treatment and really feeling it. I was green, swollen, and I looked awful. The beginning of chemotherapy hadn’t been that bad, but over time, the cumulative effects took their toll. I became more tired and experienced more body pain than I ever imagined. My mind was getting foggy.

I remember sitting in the living room, watching my children decorate the tree. I wished I could get up and help them, but I just didn’t have the energy to even walk across the room. Still, I was enjoying watching them. I wondered: Would this be my last Christmas? Would this be our last Christmas as a family? How do you celebrate when you’re wondering if this is the end? And if it is, how do I keep it from being sad? How do I make the most of what we have?

I’ve never liked the mentality of “seize the day” or “live your best life every day,” because it’s a lot of pressure when you don’t feel well. Anyone who’s been through treatment can tell you there’s also serious financial strain—despite good insurance and our limited savings, we were pretty broke by this point. But I still tried to make things feel as normal as possible.

And my kids—my wonderful kids—made it happen. While they were decorating the tree, one of them dropped an ornament, and it broke. They all started laughing and teasing each other about being clumsy. It was all in good nature, but then one of them said, “Don’t pick on me… your mom’s bald!”

For half a second, the room froze, and every head swiveled to me, waiting to see how I would react. But I was laughing so hard I was crying! I love dark humor. I love that we could talk about it without it feeling taboo. I loved that, despite everything, we were living it together as best as we could.

In that moment, as that ornament broke and that joke was made, I knew my family would be okay. Later, I think about that Christmas ornament. This experience left scars, like little splinters of glass, but they’re part of our life now. That doesn’t mean we aren’t okay.