Treating cancer is a three-legged stool.

One leg is all the friends and family. They are the cheerleaders. They offer support and love, hold your hand, do dishes, make meals and happily scrub toilets. They pull beauty out of the ugly and know how to make you laugh. You my friends and family, have done this and so much more. Jase and I have been so touched by the bottomless well of your kindness and generosity.

The second leg is the medical team. They need to be trusted and respected. Period. Sure, it's great to have a breast surgeon who holds my hand and sings songs before I go under. That's a fun bonus. But I also have a deep trust of where she wants to lead me. And that goes for my oncologist and gyn onc, too--including that damn robot. In fact, the gyn onc and her PA bow down to the robot. The robot has made surgery down there a game-changer.

The third leg is the caregiver. This is a lonely job. While all the attention is on me, Jason works tirelessly behind the scenes--and tries to do so with a smile on his face. All three legs of the stool are invaluable, but the burden on the caregiver is most acute. It is entirely held up by one person: Jason. And things would get very interesting if we didn't like each other. He would fill me with his impatience and resentment, and I would heal awkwardly if at all. Thankfully, Jase and I do like each other very much, so he fills me with his love and irreverence. And I get the benefit of laughter and care. But caregiving is very, very exhausting, still.

No marriage escapes this. At some point, one will get sick and the other will become the caregiver. Perhaps each person will take on both roles during a marriage. Perhaps multiple times.

So to Jase, the John to my Abigail Adams, the Bert to my Ernie (remember, I'm a eunuch), the Piglet to my Pooh (or vice versa depending on the day): thank you. And I love you--in sickness and in health--very, very much. And happy Father's Day, too (because in our fucked-up universe, Father's Day will simply have to come next year).