“You survived.”
One night, she looked at me from beneath a hospital blanket.
“What if I don’t?”
I took her hand.
“Then I spend every day we have left making sure you know you were never the burden they told you you were.”
She cried.
So did I.
A year after I came home, we sat in a small oncology office waiting for her latest scans.
I had learned not to celebrate early.
Cancer teaches you that.
The doctor entered carrying a tablet.
Naomi squeezed my hand so hard my fingers hurt.
Then the doctor smiled.
The treatment had worked better than expected.
There was no detectable evidence of active disease.
Naomi stared at her.
“Are you saying I’m cured?”
The doctor carefully explained that oncology rarely offered guarantees and that Naomi would need continued monitoring.
But for that moment, the news was good.
Very good.
Naomi covered her face and began crying.
