My Husband's Tumor

There wasn’t a ring.

There wasn’t a knee to take or a question to pop because between the two of us there was no question.

i love you.
i love you.
forever.
forever.
when this is all over, we’ll be married.
right away?
right away.

There was no hidden cameraman to take “candid” photos and no family waiting to celebrate the betrothal. There was no Facebook status to update and no posed photo shoot to book and no pile of bridal magazines to buy.

There was just a girl and a boy and a brain tumor and the promise of forever thrown in the face of uncertainty, with only the heart monitor and his mother, sleeping quietly in the armchair next to the hospital bed, to bear witness. 

Just the two of us clinging together in a single hospital bed like a life raft, promising to sail these dark, uncharted waters together.

Two weeks later on the night of his diagnosis, we lay together in his parents bed and swore the same oath, sealing it with kisses and clasped hands and tears that soaked the pillows under our heads.

No ring. Just a promise that beats in our hearts and fills our lungs and strengthens our bones: Forever.