“We’ll figure it out,” he said.
I believed him because we’d figured out everything else together.
We discussed treatment, rides, meals, and help at home.
Our daughter Claire came that evening; our son Michael called from work and promised to visit the next day.
We discussed treatment, rides, meals, and help at home.
Randall was unusually quiet.
I thought he was scared.
I was too.
“Are you going somewhere?”
The night before my first treatment, I found him in our bedroom folding shirts into a suitcase.
“Are you going somewhere?”
He kept folding.
“Randall?”
He placed another shirt inside.
“I can’t do this, Meryl.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
He finally turned toward me.
“I can’t do this, Meryl.”
I looked at the suitcase.
“Your fishing trip? Of course you can’t. My appointment is at eight.”
“You’re sick. I can’t do this.”
“No. I mean this.”
He gestured between us.
