On July 2, 2007, my doctor told me I had esophageal cancer, one of the most very deadly cancers. For three weeks, my wife and I went from doctor to doctor, making decisions and planning treatments. When everything was in place, my radiation-oncologist told us he needed about a week to get all the calculations done and get everything set up.
Knowing that we were in for a half-year of treatments and sickness that would be even harder on my wife than on me (it turned into ten months) I decided that she deserved a special vacation. I got on the internet, and, with what can only be thought of as a miracle, I found last-minute frequent-flier seats to Paris, and a comfortable and affordable hotel room in the heart of the Latin Quarter.
My growing cancer made itself known constantly, but we had a wonderful trip anyway. One day, we took a train from Paris to the village of Giverny, where the impressionist master Claude Monet lived and painted. The photo at the top of these pages is a detail from a photo my wife took in Monet’s garden.
(This blog is about love.)