A/N: So, I never had any intentions of writing a sequel to Swim. However, in the original outline, Swim was supposed to have an epilogue. I could never manage to actually write that epilogue though, which I eventually realized was because there was still a lot of story left to tell - hence this sequel.

If you haven't read Swim and/or need a reminder of what happened here is my three sentence summary (note that it is AU from around Adoption Day):

Two weeks after her non-adoption Callie developed a cough, which, blood work, an ultrasound, a chest x-ray, two CT scans, an excisional biopsy, a bone marrow biopsy, and a PET scan later, was revealed to be Stage 2A Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Cue six months of chemotherapy, where Callie loses her hair, her appetite, her energy, and her ability to concentrate but learns what it means to have a family that she can really depend on. Then, on the day that Callie is told that she is in remission, Lena gives birth to a baby boy, who they name Jacob after his big sister.

Chapter 1 will pick up essentially right where Swim left off but I wanted to start with this prologue as an intro. It serves as a slightly-better-than-the-three sentences-above summary of Swim and, if you squint, also provides a summary of this sequel.

This is for detective-smartypants, who is responsible for convincing me to post. Thank you for putting up with my rambling.

Prologue: Letters from the Future

Sometime about a year after her cancer diagnosis, Callie sat down and wrote a letter that would never, could never, be mailed. Even years later she would sometimes pull that letter out from a box and read:

Dear Last Year Me,

I think I'll lead this letter with, you're still alive. Trust me, you'll be glad to know that.

Also, you're adopted. I know you're worried about that, so I wanted you to know that you don't have to be.

You're about to hear some scary words. Words that you might think you know the meaning of but that, really, you don't:

Lymphoma;

Cancer;

Chemo;

And a bunch of other words that you've never heard before.

Actually, what's about to happen is sort of like one big vocabulary lesson but without a test at the end. Although, honestly, even if there was a test, you would probably ace it. Every single one of those new words is going to be branded into your memory - the rest of your memory, well, it's not going to be quite what it used to be.

Yes, it sucks. It's okay to think so. It's okay to say so too.

At first, things are going to move much slower than you want them to. Be patient, even when you think you can't be. Take it a day at a time, an hour at a time, if you have to. It's not going to feel like you're standing on the edge of a cliff forever, I promise. You're not going to fall off the cliff either, I promise.

It's okay to cry. It's okay to smile too.

In the next year, you're going to feel more loved than you've ever felt before. You're going to finally understand, finally remember, what it means to have a family, what it means to have people you can depend on, people who care about you and who take care of you, people who love you unconditionally.

In the next year, you're also going to feel lonelier than you've ever felt before. No one will really understand what you're going through and you're not going to know how (or want) to really, truly, explain. That's okay. One day you'll meet some fellow cancer survivors who will get the indescribable "it". They'll teach you how to stay sane even on the days that you feel crazy. Unfortunately, no matter what you do, some days you're just gonna feel crazy – it will be easier if you just go with it.

Give yourself a break. You won't be perfect. No one expects you to be perfect. I promise.

Also, I know you don't want to hear this, but, worry less about losing your hair. Oh and try not to be too annoyed with people who tell you not to worry about losing your hair and/or that hair grows back (for the record, it does grow back, slowly). It's hard to believe, but your hair falling out won't seem so bad once it actually starts happening – maybe because there are other things to worry about. You won't get used to it overnight but you will get used it. Unfortunately I can't say the same for losing your eyelashes and nose hair. Yes, you read that right. I know it's shocking news, but it turns out that nose hair has a purpose – I won't spoil the surprise.

Another piece of hair related advice, shave the stragglers the first time you consider doing it. Don't worry, you actually have a decent enough looking head, so you won't look so bad bald (plus anything will look better than the Gollum look you sport for a while).

Don't be so stubborn. Try and remember that you don't have to do everything yourself. Your moms really just want to help. Sometimes you should let them.

Speaking of being stubborn – try and worry less about what everyone else is thinking (or what you think everyone else is thinking) and worry more about what your body is telling you. When your body tells you it's had enough, listen. More importantly, listen the first time, not when you basically have a meltdown in a parking lot because a car door is locked.

Similarly, don't rush back to school so fast when everything is done and over with. Just because you feel a little antsy doesn't mean you're anywhere near ready for a full school day. You just killed your body over and over again for 6 months, no matter what you try and tell yourself, you're not going to be magically better overnight. It's going to take some time. And I don't just mean physically. Try not to push all those scary emotions aside. They're not just going to disappear, no matter how hard you hope they will.

I don't want to sugar coat things, the next year of your life is definitely not going to be great but, here I am, standing on the other side of that year, not much worse for wear, so please know that it's going to be okay.

Besides, the words "you're in remission" will feel so indescribably wonderful that for a second you will almost feel like the whole thing was worth it just to get to feel that way. The closest I can come to describing it is that it will feel like you could do absolutely anything - maybe even fly. The feeling won't last forever though, so try and savour it as long as possible. Afterwards, on the days that you feel overwhelmed, try and think about that feeling. Close your eyes and picture yourself soaring. It will help.

I could say I lot more but I think, unfortunately, you have to figure some things out yourself.

So, look in the mirror today and smile at yourself. Say hello and then say goodbye to the person smiling back at you. You're going to be a completely different person next year (and I don't just mean physically). It's hard to really explain what I mean by "different". People will assume that you're stronger but you won't really be. Some days you'll feel stronger but a lot of days you'll just feel weaker. I guess, the best way I can describe the difference is this: you'll mostly still be you but every day will feel just a little bit special. Every day that you wake up and you're alive, you'll be grateful - everything else about the next year might be a burden, but that there, along with your family, is a gift.

See you on the other side,
Love,
Your Next Year Self

Callie liked to re-read that letter because it reminded her to never stop being grateful, it reminded her that every day she woke up and opened her eyes was a good day.

Every time she re-read that letter though, it also reminded her of how difficult that entire year had been. Chemo, of course, had been horrible but the thing the letter really reminded her of was that her cancer journey hadn't ended with chemo.

She wasn't sure what other people assumed happened once a person was done with cancer, but what she'd assumed was that it went something like: you have cancer, you hopefully beat cancer, and then you get back to life and hope that cancer never bothers you again. As if cancer was just a minor detour. As if surviving cancer didn't require you to forfeit pieces of yourself that you couldn't possibly ever get back.

It was laughable, almost, how wrong she'd been.

Through six long months of chemo she'd comforted herself by thinking that she just had to make it across the finish line. That after chemo she could un-hit the pause button and just go back to her pre-cancer life, her pre-cancer self. No one had warned her that there was no pause button to un-hit. Time had been marching forward through each of those six torturous months. Her pre-cancer life, and her pre-cancer self, had ceased to exist that day in the doctor's office where she'd first heard the words Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

Life after cancer was nothing like she expected. The initial elation of the remission news, while wonderful, didn't last nearly long enough and in its place came fear, uncertainty, and confusion.

Sometimes she thought that the six months following chemo were just as difficult as those six long months in treatment. Chemo had been difficult physically but those six months following chemo were difficult mentally and Callie had never been great at dealing with her feelings.

As she learned the hard way, you couldn't just go from struggling to swim against raging currents to soaring overnight. She needed time to catch her breath. Time to make sure she wasn't just going to sink. Time to process what had happened. Time to accept how cancer had, and would continue to, impact her life.

Figuring out how to soar in her new post-cancer world wasn't easy but, at least, she hadn't had to do it alone.