<http://schema.org/articleBody>
"Late the other night, Nick and I were sitting in bed and obsessing over Alex, our three-month-old: Was he eating enough, sleeping enough, you-know-what-ing enough? And then, out of the blue, Nick told me that every night since I&amp;amp;#8217;d given birth, he&amp;amp;#8217;s lain awake thinking of me dying and him raising our son alone. &amp;amp;#8220;Your sisters even start encouraging me to date,&amp;amp;#8221; he said, revealing just how detailed his imaginings had become. My stomach knotted up. I asked him how old Alex is in his scenario. &amp;amp;#8220;Young,&amp;amp;#8221; he said, and turned his head away. &amp;amp;#8220;Don&amp;amp;#8217;t be crazy,&amp;amp;#8221; I told him, wiping tears from my face, trying, as always, to be strong, positive and upbeat. &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;m not going anywhere.&amp;amp;#8221; But the truth is, I&amp;amp;#8217;ve been thinking about the same thing. So happy and so scared In some ways, it&amp;amp;#8217;s still hard to believe Alexander James Ruddy is here (that&amp;amp;#8217;s partly because I&amp;amp;#8217;ve blocked out the 12 hours of labor and delivery). Even as I watched my belly grow, I refused to acknowledge that I&amp;amp;#8217;d risked my life to get pregnant. Since Gleevec enabled me to live like a normal person, I focused on that, rather than fretting about what could happen. These days, though, I am worrying about myself and letting my mind go to dark places. I can&amp;amp;#8217;t help it. I&amp;amp;#8217;m a cancer patient and a mother&amp;amp;#8212;two identities that don&amp;amp;#8217;t mix very well. Doctors don&amp;amp;#8217;t know for sure how long Gleevec will keep me in remission. What would happen if it quit working? How could I ever leave Alex without a mommy? These thoughts haunt me when I&amp;amp;#8217;m rocking Alex in his chair, giving him Eskimo kisses and humming lullabies I can&amp;amp;#8217;t remember the words to. I stare down at him and want to say a million things&amp;amp;#8212;that he is worth every ache and worry, that I promise I will never leave him&amp;amp;#8212;but as soon as I start talking, I cry. I just can&amp;amp;#8217;t get the words out. The most I can whisper is &amp;amp;#8220;I love you&amp;amp;#8221; before my tears start dripping onto his chubby little cheeks. Sometimes, they&amp;amp;#8217;re tears of joy; sometimes, they&amp;amp;#8217;re tears of fear. I&amp;amp;#8217;ve cried more since having Alex than I ever did in my entire life. Of course, I don&amp;amp;#8217;t want Alex to think his mommy is a freak, so we do other things besides crying. We watch The Ellen DeGeneres Show, go for long walks along the Hudson River and make up silly songs; my current favorite is the one about Alex peeing in his own face, which I let him do once (rookie error). I&amp;amp;#8217;m trying hard to focus on how beautiful he is&amp;amp;#8212;and how lucky I am. Six years ago I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t know if I would live to see my next birthday. Next month I turn 30, and Nick and I have a healthy baby boy. Someday, I hope, I&amp;amp;#8217;ll be able to get the words out to tell Alex just what he means to us."^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.glamour.com/health-fitness/2007/11/erin-zammett-ruddy-life-with-cancer>