The worst news ever

No mother wants to hear what I heard this morning.
"Mom, the cancer's back. There's nothing more they can do. I might have a year."
That's it, then. He had the worst care imaginable in Savannah at the beginning of his illness, and the news we got today is a direct result of that. On the other hand, he has had the best care at Duke. They have fought for his life as hard as anyone could hope.
But he will die from this. I'm beyond sad. I've fallen into a black abyss.
I got the call on my way into work and I don't even recall driving the rest of the way. I sat at my desk for a few minutes until Rob got in and walked over to his desk to tell him. That's when the truth hit me. It isn't real until you've spoken it, and then it rips your heart to shreds.
I would gladly give my own life to save his, but that won't work. I'm helpless.
All his life -- through the doctors' appointments when he was an infant, through nine operations to correct his birth defect, through battles with school systems to get him the best education possible despite his severe attention deficit disorder with hyperactivity, through depression as a teenager and drug and alcohol addiction and recovery and his first two cancer diagnoses -- all of those I could do something about. I could be there and advocate for him when he was too sick and weak to do it for himself.
Rob and I drove the four hours to Cary, where he lives, and he's thinner than the last time I saw him. He was in pain today, so we checked into a motel and we'll head back over there in a little while to sit with him. I want him to come back to Asheville and be with us. I want to spend every moment I can with him, to hold his presence until he's gone.
I want to breathe life and health back into him.
When my sister was dying, she kept telling me, "Every day above ground is a good day." I have to remember that for Michael.