birthday boy

Today is Rich's birthday. Would have been his fifty-eighth. He never spoke about making it.

A year ago he wrote on his chordoma website: "57th birthday. Happy to be here."

I was an occasional reader of his site, not wanting to follow his precise charting of symptoms and surgeries. They were too much like prayer. A source of comfort for Rich, but only a reminder for me of how hard he was trying, how hard but he would lose, he would lose, it was futile.

Better to focus on the day-to-day living, I thought. Not to pretend that the chordoma wasn't eating away his life, but to immerse ourselves in the life that was shrinking.

I haven't made the shift, not fully. And I don't want to, yet. Life is still "ours."

For the past years, and especially the year now ending, whenever I wasn't with Rich I was in a hurry to finish what I had to do, knowing I had to be with him because soon this would not be an option. And when I was with him -- whatever strength I had was siphoned off, then I found more, until the day ended, always until almost the end, with words from him to me, and me to him: Tomorrow is another day. Sleep well, my love.

Happy birthday, my love. Sleep well. Tomorrow is still another day.

Candace