In 1999, I applied for a full-time summer intensive program in publications at George Washington University. At the same time that I found out I was accepted to the program, I also found out that my mom had lung cancer. I quit my full-time, well-paid job as a desktop publisher in Arlington two weeks earlier than I’d planned so I could spend that time with my mom as she started chemo.

I finished the program at GW and spent the next year as a freelance writer and graphic designer. I got some work, but it was spotty, and frankly, I lived on credit cards most of that time. But I also had freedom and time and went out to be with my folks often and for days at a time, not having to answer to a boss or worry about a long commute.

In the spring of 2000, I accepted a full-time gig as a technical writer at Northrop Grumman (then TASC). By then, I was deeply in credit card debt and needed money badly. I was getting calls from utility and credit card companies for being so behind on payments. Mom was still in chemo, and the cancer had spread to her brain, so she was also receiving radiation treatments. In the midst of all this, she told me I was brave for striking out on my own and doing what I wanted to do as a freelance writer. She was proud of me.

A year later, Mom was dead. I was in the midst of buying my own house. I had to write a letter to Wells Fargo, explaining my bad credit history, but I got a loan for the house, and I still own it today. I was freaking out about money, but I never regretted a single minute I spent with Mom – not even in the chemo treatment room, eating Chicken McNuggets and watching inane daytime television and averting my eyes from the big needle in her arm. If I had it to do all over again, I would go into credit card debt and spend that time with my mom.

These days, I miss sleep the most. Good, solid, eight-hour stretches of sleep. Uninterrupted sleep. Peaceful sleep. I miss the quiet. I miss solitude. I miss being a couple, hanging out with Brian and talking for hours at a time. I miss relaxed shoulders.

But I just realized that these are all temporary losses. I’ll one day sleep again. I’ll one day have time to myself, have time alone with Brian, have relaxed shoulders. But I’ll never again have this time with Jack. He’ll never be ten weeks old again, sleeping on my chest in the middle of the night. I remember that time I had with Mom, how I wouldn’t trade it for all the money in the world. I eventually got the money back, bought a house, paid off all the credit cards. Yes, every one. Yes, really.

Do I feel exhausted and fried and frustrated a lot of the time? Yes. Do I ache and wish for sleep? Of course. Would I trade sleep and quiet for the wonder of seeing Jack smile, feeling his soft breath on my face, hearing him laugh at my funny faces? No frickin’ way.

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