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Sensing that, Don looked at me with a pained expression. Hastily, I told him I loved him, but I felt disconnected from him—from everything.

A few days later, my tears arrived and I longed to go back to that evening at the restaurant, and a chance to share deeply with Don. The only problem was that although Don tried to console me, by then he was back to his usual logical self. That window to his emotions had closed.

Cancer proceeded to disrupt our lives—and our future plans—shattering the illusion that we had life under control. Within a week, with our two toddlers in tow, Don and I traveled from our home in Louisiana to Washington, D.C.'s Lombardi Cancer Center. After being evaluated, I learned the first two weeks of chemotherapy would be given at Lombardi, and later doses at my Louisiana oncologist's office.

"I'll fly home with the kids," Don said, "so you can stay here at your parents' house and get some rest in between your appointments." Though my exhausted body was thrilled at his offer, my mind was conflicted. His offer was a sacrifice, since he'd have to arrange babysitting during work hours and the task of caring for toddlers would be waiting for him once he got home. But more fundamentally I didn't like the way my roles were shifting. My functions as a wife and mother were being ripped from me.

After dropping Don and the kids at the airport, I cried on the way back to my parents' house. Does Don know I miss him and our kids? Does he know I'd rather be home with them?

But Don understood. When he called, I could almost hear him smile. "Amy, don't worry, we haven't forgotten you. You're an integral part of this family. And I love you." "Thanks, Don," I said. "I needed to hear that."

Don also had struggles. He's the kind of guy who likes his future to be orderly, reasonable, scheduled, and predictable. Even though my physicians had decided on a treatment plan, they couldn't know how my body would respond. When my blood's infection-fighting cells were too few to receive the next dose of medicine on time, or when I was too exhausted to go on a scheduled outing, Don battled within himself to accept the new plan.

"I hate how cancer causes upheaval in our lives," he told me one evening after I was too ill to help make supper and get our children ready for bed. "Living with the shifting reality of cancer is like hiking with a blister—it's always present and always irritating."

Don's way of dealing with our unsettled lives was to retreat emotionally—to grow quieter and less available for conversation. But the changes were difficult for me, too. I needed him to talk, both to help me adjust and to give me a glimpse into his inner world. So many times, I felt helpless and alone, and I'd wonder, At the end of this ordeal will we be closer, or will we have grown apart?

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