The intervening thirteen years were eventful ones for us both. I’d survived an aggressive form of skin cancer that had already spread when it was first diagnosed and left me with a reconstructed shoulder blade, a small crater in the flesh above it and a skin graft that covered it up but did nothing to hide the permanent deep depression into which the new and unfortunately purplish skin plunged. I was also left with numbness in the back of my neck and a sharp pain that shot all the way into my fingers whenever I lifted my right arm above my head. Though, more importantly, I was cancer-free and told by my doctor I was “one of the fortunate ones.” In all, I missed six months of work but somehow during that time began a love affair with, then married, a kind, superhumanly patient and attractiv
