Wedding Bells and World Tour: Part I

Every little girl dreams about her wedding day. Every little girl puts herself in a gorgeous dress, with every last bit planned in perfect detail. It is every little girl's fantasy to be a princess, to find her prince, and live happily ever after.

I was no exception to this. I still hold out hope for the sweetheart trotting up on the horse, metal duds glistening as he sweeps me off my feet.

And as much as I have done in the past year to cancel out how much I've lost myself when I lost Mitch, I can't always do it. I stumbled upon a picture today that had my mind reeling, and of course, caused me to post.

When you ask little girls what they picture on their wedding day, not many mention an oxygen tank or the kind of excruciating pain that leaves you speechless. I'm sure the beautiful bride, Katie, and her fiance, Nick didn't envision these things either. These two had known each other since they were kids. At 21, Katie was living with terminal cancer, unsure of the time she had remaining. They decided to get married, and despite all that was happening to her, they did it. She was a glimmering example of hope and perfection on her wedding day.

With the ring that Mitch sent to me... I feel like we were well on our way to becoming that. It's eerie to think that if he had lived, how similar our story would be to theirs. A healthy groom, a sick bride, fighting against cancer, tank and everything. Their love is palpable. You can feel it radiating from every picture. In these photos, I feel like I'm there with them, celebrating their love. Nick lost the love of his life five days after these pictures were taken. He lost Katie... and I lost Mitch.

I can't imagine going through the ceremony, uttering our vows, not knowing that the words "til death do us part" meant a short 120 hours. "Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a little while." That quote keeps me going day in and day out knowing that our love is just as real now as it it has ever been. It doesn't make it any easier however to come to terms with the fact that he's gone and I am without that person, "my person." As I've said before, I've never really expected to be in the situation, especially as the survivor. Something I'll just have to deal with as it comes. Ripples, tidal waves, I've felt them all.

A bit of a whirlwind weekend has come to a close. And regardless of all the sadness and pain that may have arisen from these pictures and story, I had a very positive experience with a very sweet oncologist. One thing that definitely helped was meeting Dr. C's colleagues at the Cleveland Clinic this weekend. What started out as a "workshop" was actually the chance to be evaluated by someone who is yet another expert in the field. I had coffee with this gentleman, the head of the department, Dr. R, one of Dr. C's closest friends. We sat and we talked. He can see me struggling, he knows how hard I am fighting. He understands the disheartened look that appears as I explain all of the treatment regimens (effective and ineffective) I've been through. He doesn't say much, but when he does, it means more than he knows. He has consulted with Dr. C on my case, discussing the most beneficial treatments for me. They have been in constant communication since Dr. C decided to take on my case. He did say one thing that stunned and comforted me. He said I looked different than he imagined. He didn't expect me to walk quite as tall, smile quite as much... be as much of "me" as I am. Dr. C told him I was a "spitfire," "a girl that burns with passion." With all that he has seen, he expected a broken girl. What he saw was someone who had never stopped fighting. He saw "a 22 year old warrior with unfailing kindness, compassion, and strength," to quote him. He said he was thankful for that... And so was I.