Here. Blink. Gone.

It was a long time coming, her leaving. It took almost 3 years for the stage IV ovarian cancer to do her in. Almost 3 years, that is, after she was diagnosed. Who knows how long IT was there, festering, until she got that terrible, loud, hacking cough that wouldn’t go away, and they found liters of fluid in the pleural lining around her lungs and a rotten ovary.

So much time: me worrying, her focused on beating it. So much time: us living with cancer, around it, in spite of it. It didn’t stop our son from growing 3 years older, 12 inches higher, and into a deep voice. It didn’t stop us from our fights over nothing and agreements about what was important. It didn’t stop her from working, until there were only weeks left. By then, time had begun to move like roiling thunderclouds across the sky. So dark, yet we could still see. We thought we could still see. We couldn’t really see. When it came, when she had to go, it was a complete surprise. To both of us.

So much time. So little time.

She was here. Now she’s gone.

Measured in years, or by the blink of an eye.