The next day, I called the doctor.
“I want to know everything,” I said.
He explained the treatment options, the trial, the cost.
“Your husband is ready to spend everything,” he said.
“I know. And I want to try. I want every extra day I can get.”
We start next week.
The doctor suggested I keep a journal.
So I did.
Henry helps me fill in the details when my memory falters.
Last week, I forgot our daughter’s name for a moment.
I wrote it down immediately:
“Iris. Our daughter. Brown hair. Kind eyes. Loves gardening.”
Sometimes, I go into the garage and look at all the versions of myself.
The woman I was.
The woman I am.
The woman I may become.
And I think about Henry—the man who has loved me for sixty years, and will continue to love me even when I can’t remember why.
