The weakness had begun to spread to Gene’s legs and to his right side. He was dropping forks; his impeccable handwriting had become a shaky signature. I had imagined a doctor and a lab and a research center that would give us a bottle of pills, a shot in the arm, a plan, a reason to hope. Instead, we’d found a widow. I expected Gene to rail against the lack of funds, the lack of interest in the disease that was wasting him, but instead he turned to me. What had I expected? Why had I insisted that we go, just to be reminded of what was ahead? “Promise me … Continue reading Sharon Fiffer