Just shy of a year ago, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. For a couple months I didn’t mention it on the blog, but then I did, in this post. For several months last year, Mom underwent chemotherapy, then had a double mastectomy this past January. As I understand it, at that point she was cancer free, but for the last six weeks she’s been getting radiation five times a week in order to increase her odds of staying in remission. Well, today was her last treatment. Other than taking a pill and (I’m assuming) the occasional checkup, she’s done.

What a year.

At the end of this last February, my dad went to the emergency room for his own set of issues, most of which had to do with his heart. In the hospital for a solid week, he’s been slowly improving ever since, largely due to the fact that my mom has taken over his diet. She counts his carbs, measures his sodium, keeps track of his calories. (Dad calls her The Food Nazi.) Also, Dad’s going to cardiac rehab, getting some exercise. Well, in just over two months, he’s lost 55 pounds. Isn’t that wild? Personally, I never thought I’d see the day. Like, I would have placed bets against it.

I’m just being honest.

As long as I’ve known him, my dad has been a big guy. He had a heart attack when I was in my early twenties, and, by his own admission, it didn’t scare him a bit. However, it did scare me–I started jogging that same day. Then I started going to the gym, and I’ve been off-and-on obsessed with my health ever since. For a while–a long while–I gave my dad a lot a shit about his weight. We’d go out to eat, he’d order a cheesecake, and I’d shoot him “the look.” Sometimes I’d even say, “Are you really going to eat that?”

He’d often reply, “You know, you’re not fun to go out with anymore.”

At some point, I quit trying to convince Dad to eat differently. I mean, I’d tried everything–information, logic, guilt–and nothing worked. Once he said, “You can’t say anything I haven’t thought myself,” and eventually I let that sink in. I thought, It’s his life, not mine. Then I started acting like it. It took some time, but I dropped all the food conversations. I got rid of the look. Slowly, there was less tension between us. Consequently, not only did we get along better, but I also liked him better. He hadn’t changed, but I had.

When Dad saw his primary care physician the week after his hospital stay, he said, “Doc, what I really want to know is–when can I have a cheeseburger?” In the past other doctors have said, “Never, Mr. Coker. You will NEVER eat a cheeseburger again.” (As Dad likes to say, that went over like a fart in church.) But this guy said, “How about you lose fifty pounds, AND THEN you can have a cheeseburger?” This strategy actually worked with Dad. For the last two months, he’s weighed every day, and has often beamed as he’s shared his results. Just a few days ago, he hit his (first) goal weight–he lost fifty pounds.

All this to say that today our family went out for cheeseburgers to celebrate. After Mom’s last radiation, she and Dad met Dad’s two sisters (my aunts) at Freddy’s Steakburgers in Fort Smith, which Dad’s had his eye on ever since they recently opened. (As I’m eating Autoimmune Paleo, I ordered my burger without the bread–but kept the cheese. So sue me.) And whereas we looked like everyone else in the restaurant–just a family eating burgers–it was a big deal–a ritual, really–an acknowledgment that big, scary things can and do turn around. For me it was a reminder that a storm can leave your life just as quickly as it enters it, that you can spend years in the darkness drenched and shivering, and then one afternoon the sun can break through the clouds. Perhaps this is what hope and healing are, suddenly feeling warm again as you watch the waters that nearly drowned you disappear into thin air.