I felt her cheek as she lay there, connected to those wires. Her skin was warm like it felt every time I touched it. Tears ran down my face as I watched her sleep. Anger was being replaced by self-pity. I felt so bad for her but worse for me as I knew I would still be here after she was gone.

There was a piece of paper pinned to her gown. I carefully unfastened the pin and opened the paper. It was her handwriting. I sat in the armchair next to her bed and read.

"I know you are upset. I know you might even hate me for what I've done to you. You are the best and most important thing in my life. I was sure I would die alone at 23, but when you sat down at the bar that day, I knew I was going to make it through this.

Your faith and absolute, unlimited love for me has kept me moving forward without any worries or fears. You saved me.

My parents would have loved you! Probably more than me! I wanted so much for you to go your entire life without ever finding out I was sick, but that wasn't meant to be. My symptoms came back, and I am forever sorry for the pain this has caused you.

I love you and will do everything I can to make it through this for you, for me, and our turkey, Mr. Wishbone. This I promise to you. Every fiber of my being will fight to stay here with you. As my mother once said, after escaping the gulag in Russia, "Keep trying because you never know what might happen." Dad was in seminary school at the time. They had yet to meet. I love you and will do everything in my power to be here for another 60 years to be with you every day. My hand is always in yours, and my heart is always in yours. My love ignites ablaze again every time I see you."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Two months after the initial hospitalization, Molly began chemo. The tumors in her brain were relatively slow-growing but were unfortunately located in remote regions, which made them inoperable. The diagnosis was crushing. Stage 4, no real chance of remission, three to six months to live. If trying chemo, may live for an additional 1-2 years or outside chance of remission.

Complete remission never happened. Molly fought. She would spend hours in the bathroom, lying on the floor, lacking the energy to move, yet not letting me help her as she waited for the next bout of vomit to take her. Her body began to look frail as the chemo decimated it, and she lost 24 pounds in a little over a month. I held her hand, her hair, her entire body as she slowly disappeared in front of me.

Friends would come by to check on us. She wouldn't allow anyone but me into the room, so I'd relay messages to her. My mother would visit often, making sure we were eating, staying safe and clean, usual mother things. She stepped up in a way I never dreamed.

We did one of those stupid photoshoots when we shaved her head. I wasn't about to shave mine. My mother had other ideas. As I sat there, cleaning Molly's locks off the floor, I heard the clippers turn on, then felt them as they smoothly, expertly cleared a swath of hair from the base of my skull to the top of my head. I was stunned. Molly found it hilarious, and Mom said I had to accept it because laughter is better than all the chicken soup in the world. When she was done I hoped I would make an attractive shaved-headed woman. I looked ridiculous. Molly looked absolutely stunning. Even in her emaciated, clean-shaven, cancer-ridden state, I got butterflies whenever I'd catch her looking at me.

After three months, there were signs of progress. The tumors she was fighting had shrunk to half their size, which was great news. They were back to the same size as her initial diagnosis at 22. The doctors considered slowing the chemo treatments and letting her live as she had before.

We discussed it over the weekend. Molly had been feeling better and was able to eat more than a couple of spoonfuls of soup. We decided that stopping the chemo was the best option.

If I had a time machine, I would go back and plead with her to reverse that decision. Instead, I sit here in tears and write this.