Your Wish Is Mine

The chemo pill that was supposed to extend Eric’s life wasn’t working. Seven tumors were growing in his body, two more since his last scan. One inside his lung was the size of a softball.

The cancer hospital in New York was out of ideas. In an effort to support her husband, Geodee had usually managed to control her emotions. But now the tears flowed. Eric embraced her, whispering, “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

But she knew it would not be. And when they reached home, they would have no choice but to break the truth to their daughters. In the cab to the airport, Geodee massaged Eric’s neck, trying to ease his headache. Her rings glinted in the shadows — not big or fancy jewelry, but each one was from Eric, a reminder of some milestone or celebration.

They talked about his wishes, and about a foundation that grants patients one last dream. Eric paused for a long time, wondering what his would be.

“I want to give you the wedding we never had,” he told Geodee. Young and poor, they had gotten married at City Hall in Chicago.

When Geodee argued that the wish should be something for him, Eric softly replied, “Your wish is mine.”