We were supposed to be okay

I was supposed to save her. It was my job. Rationally, I know how unrealistic that is, but it's how we talked about it. More than once, Sandy started a sentence with, "When you save me. . .," or "If you're going to save me. . ."

At Ocean Shores, April 2011, when we
thought we were winning the fight.

Several times, when she heard about people dying of cancer or suffering complications in hospitals from falls or infections or the like, she'd say, "They didn't have Brie." She told me once that she was surprised to realize how strongly she held the assumption that no harm would come to her as long as I was there.

When I complained of fatigue, and of not getting much done, she'd say, "Hey, cut yourself some slack. It's a full-time job keeping me alive!"

Just as it was my job to "save" her, it was her job to want to live and to do the things we'd identified to help fight cancer, improve her hip, and keep despair at bay. Just as she had faith that no harm would come to her with me on the case, I believed that as long as she wanted to live, as long as she didn't give up, she'd make it.

When I'd confide my fear of losing her, she'd hold me tight and say in a matter-of-fact, reassuring tone, "I'm not going anywhere." And I believed her, truly believed that she could make that promise.

So what happened? How the hell did the cancer slip past my vigilant watch to get into her central nervous system and leave us with no treatment options? And how did it manage to kill her when she'd done everything right, when she wanted to live? How could we both have been so wrong?