It has been said that love is not something you find; it's something you do. Loving Donna is the easiest thing I've ever done in my life.
We've been married to each other for twenty-five years, and we're still newlyweds, if you consider that marriage is supposed to be forever. A year ago, when the phone rang and I answered it, the voice said, "This is Doctor Freeman. Your wife has breast cancer." He spoke matter-of-factly, not mincing any words, although I could tell from his tone that he was not in a matter-of-fact frame of mind. He is a warm, caring and kindly physician, and this was not an easy phone call to make. He talked to Donna for a few minutes, and when she hung up the phone, the color drained from her face, and we held each other and cried for about five minutes.
She sighed and said, "That's enough of that."
I looked at her. "Okay," I said. "We have cancer. We'll handle it."
In the twelve months since then, Donna has had chemotherapy, a mastectomy, a bone-marrow transplant and radiation. She lost her hair, she lost a breast, she lost her privacy, and she lost the comfort associated with the assumption that tomorrow always comes. Suddenly, all her tomorrows were put on hold, and doled out, piecemeal, until the supply could be reestablished. But she never lost her dignity or her faith. She never gave up, and she never gave in.