Thursday, February 2, 11:30 PM. Amy.

Brewer seems happier than he’s seemed in years. He’s often smiling. He’s often down on the floor, engaged with the kids, playing Legos with Trevor or knitting with Claire or banging a drum while Garrett plays guitar. He’s spending time outside, working the animals or fixing things. He’s warm towards me—honeymoon warm, grabbing me when I’m cooking, looking for a kiss, or waking me in the middle of the night just to hold hands.

And yet, I can tell he’s doing worse. It’s slight, subtle. He’s a little thinner than he should be. He’s weaker. Shaving this morning he dropped the razor not once but twice. He says he has no headaches, but sometimes as he settles into a book I’ll see his eyes cross and uncross. When he’s energized with the kids or his work, he’s full of energy. But then he crashes and stays in bed for hours.

It’s cancer. I know it is. Or something that might as well be cancer. And I’m afraid it’s going to take him away from us. I’m afraid it’s going to take him away before the baby comes. At the very moment when our marriage was beginning to heal, when I was beginning to hope, along comes some chance disease to take it all away.

It’s cruel. But then, what else should I expect? Et in Arcadia ego. Nature is cruel.

What’s so frustrating is that it’s probably an ailment that could have been easily fixed when there were doctors around. It’s probably a tumor, but a benign tumor that is growing slowly and could have been cut out. If this had happened a year ago they would’ve taken care of it and he would’ve lived out the other half of his life. As it is, it’s eating him alive and he may not see forty-six.

It’s not fair. But why do I keep on expecting fairness? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

There’s something in me that I don’t know whether I should write down.

In my mind there’s a voice that’s telling me, “If Brewer dies, you might as well lay down and die too. You all might—the whole family. There will be nothing ahead but to die one by one, slowly and in torment, sick or crushed or devoured or frozen or starved, leaving those who remain with ever more horrific trauma and loneliness. If Brewer dies…get ready.” It’s a terrible voice. But I don’t know how to argue with it. What other logic is there?

Maybe I’m just being hysterical. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe he’ll be okay.