My scenario called for me to live and get well. My husband’s worried face told me that the doctors had painted dark pictures, but I got my strength from Marshall who insisted that there were either doctors or other methods of treatment, “just hold on hon, you will get better” . It was incomprehensible to either of us that I would not survive. My body and soul were being carried down the rapids of surgery after surgery, experiencing a fear each time that was totally paralyzing. This made the winding corridor trips to the operating theater unending, with me lying on a gurney, looking up at the squares in the ceiling, holding tightly to Marshall’s hand as he ran alongside until the attendants said “no further”. Then he would gently kiss me, squeeze my hand and tell me again it would be alright. I am filled with wonder and admiration for the many times he sat, prayed and waited – usually alone. To experience this over and over again for nineteen years enables us to be surrounded with a bond of love that was impenetrable. I cannot conceive of going through any of my medical history without our mutual love. Marshall made me feel love and needed in spite of the frequent interruptions in our lives when an ambulance would wisk me away to another hospital stay. I felt special and cherished not because I was ill, but because my husband remembered me as the girl with whom he fell in love.