Doctors said my husband had less than a year to live.
They said it like they were reading the weather.
“Five to 12 months,” Dr. Patel told us.
“It’s aggressive.”
I stared at his mouth. Not his eyes.
Thomas squeezed my hand. Weak. Still warm.
He tried to joke. “So. I’m on a schedule now.”
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Dr. Patel didn’t smile. “It’s aggressive. We’ll fight it. But I need you to hear me. This will be tough.”
I heard him.
We have seven daughters.
I hated him for it.
I’m Mary.
I’ve been married to Thomas for 33 years.
We have seven daughters.
Emily. Grace. Lily. Hannah. Nora. Paige. Sophie.
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Overnight, my husband’s life became appointments. Bloodwork. Infusions.
Sophie is 15.
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