By One week until chemo. I am doing the practical things — the things that make the impractical thing of poisoning your own body feel manageable. I bought soft hats for when my hair falls out. I bought ginger candy for nausea. I stocked the bathroom with the supplies the nurse recommended: soft toothbrush, alcohol-free mouthwash, gentle soap. I am preparing for war, and the battlefield is my own body, and the enemy is cells that were once mine and turned traitor.
I cut my hair. Not all of it — I went to the salon and asked for a pixie cut. My hair was long, halfway down my back, dark brown and thick — Dawson hair, the one good genetic gift from Gary's side. The stylist asked why I was cutting it, and I said, "It's going to fall out in a few weeks, and I'd rather have less to lose." She was quiet for a moment, then she said, "Let's make it look amazing," and she did. The pixie cut is sharp and flattering and makes my eyes look bigger, and I looked at myself in the salon mirror and thought: this is the last version of me that looks like me. The next version will be bald and thin and sick. But this version — this one — she looks pretty good.
Mason asked about my hair when I picked him up from school. He said, "Mama, you look different." I said, "I got a haircut." He studied me with those serious brown eyes and said, "I like it. You look like a movie star." This child. This kind, observant, generous child who sees his mother and says "movie star" when the truth is something less glamorous. I am going to be here for every one of his birthdays. Every single one. The cancer does not get to take that from me.
Brett came over Saturday and we talked about logistics — who takes the kids when I'm at chemo, who drives me (Scott has offered, and I've accepted, because whatever else is wrong between us, he will show up for the medical things), who checks in during the bad days. Brett put himself on the calendar for every Wednesday — "Brett Day," he calls it, when he'll come over and entertain the kids so I can rest. This is what family does. This is the net that catches you.
I talked to Mom about telling Mason more specifically. He knows I'm sick, but he doesn't know the word "cancer," and he doesn't know about chemo. Mom said, "Tell him the truth in small pieces. Children can handle the truth. They can't handle secrets." She's right. She's always right. So I sat with Mason on Sunday night and told him: "The doctors are going to give me medicine that might make me feel tired and sick for a while. My hair might fall out. But the medicine is fighting the bad cells in my body, and when it's done, I'll be better." He said, "Will your hair grow back?" I said, "Yes." He said, "Okay." Just like that. Five years old and braver than anyone I know.
I made Mom's cinnamon rolls on Sunday morning. The last batch before chemo, because I don't know when I'll have the energy to make them again, and I wanted the house to smell like Saturday mornings at the ranch, like Diane's kitchen, like home. Mason and Lily fought over the center one, the gooiest one, the best one, and I watched them argue and eat and get frosting on their faces, and I memorized it. Every detail. The light through the kitchen window. The sound of their voices. The taste of cinnamon and sugar and butter. I am memorizing everything now, just in case. Just in case the medicine doesn't work. Just in case this is the last time. I know the odds are in my favor. I know it. But just in case.
I’ve been thinking about cinnamon a lot lately—the way it filled the whole house that Sunday morning, the way it tasted like every good thing I want to hold onto. I can’t promise I’ll have the energy to stand at the counter rolling dough in the weeks ahead, but I can make this. No-churn cinnamon ice cream is as simple as it gets, and it carries that same warmth—the kind Mason and Lily will ask for on an ordinary afternoon, and I’ll be there to scoop it for them.
No-Churn Cinnamon Ice Cream
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 6 hours 15 minutes (includes freezing) | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 2 cups heavy whipping cream, very cold
- 1 can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
- 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
- 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
- 1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg (optional, for depth)
Instructions
- Whip the cream. Pour the cold heavy cream into a large bowl. Using a hand mixer or stand mixer, beat on medium-high speed until stiff peaks form, about 3–4 minutes. Do not over-beat.
- Mix the base. In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the sweetened condensed milk, cinnamon, vanilla extract, salt, and nutmeg (if using) until fully combined.
- Fold together. Gently fold the condensed milk mixture into the whipped cream in two additions, using a rubber spatula. Fold just until no streaks remain — keep the mixture light and airy.
- Freeze. Pour the mixture into a 9x5-inch loaf pan or a freezer-safe container. Smooth the top. Press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the surface to prevent ice crystals from forming.
- Set overnight. Freeze for at least 6 hours, or overnight, until firm all the way through.
- Serve. Let the ice cream sit at room temperature for 5 minutes before scooping. Serve plain, alongside warm cinnamon rolls, or dusted with a pinch of extra cinnamon on top.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 310 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 22g | Carbs: 26g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 115mg