38 years

I love that look you give him when he's telling stories about you. The way you roll your eyes and snort, telling us how someone's got to set him straight, after all. You've been married for 38 years now, with one son and more memories than you can remember anymore.

You told me that you're scared, and that you wonder if it's even worth fighting anymore. You're afraid that you'll suffer through all these treatments only to find that the cancer remains. All the pain, side effects, uncomfortable procedures--all for nothing. You're more afraid of false hope than anything, afraid of what will be left if the treatments don't work, afraid of the weight of broken dreams, afraid that your heart won't be able to take any more bad news.

But I don't want to let you give up hope. Every time I see you, I want to make you roll your eyes and set that cancer straight.

And I watch your husband tell your stories for you, reminding you each day of the fight you've always had. Every day, even when you refuse to eat or get out of bed or watch the sun go down, he's right there with you.

Yesterday we took you outside to feel the sun on your face and the wind in your hair again, for the first time in weeks. I watched you smile as I sat at your side. And I hoped for you. God, how I hoped for you.