I used to run everywhere. I didn't see the point in walking, if you could get where you were going faster. It seemed like an incredible advance in human efficiency that grown-ups had simply missed. Eventually, though, I remember first feeling tired. I don't know when, or remember the exact circumstance, but I remember the distinct feeling. Oh. Realizing what grown-ups felt. But I remained a decent sprinter; speed wasn't my problem. But I have always hated distance running. I need to be distracted. Put a pack on my back, throw me in the woods, under a steady rain; anything to fight against besides my own head and my own legs. Even a soccer pitch is enough, I'll run for hours and reap the fatigue later. Just don't make me run distance. 

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"News". We plan and calculate who will find out when, and how to tell which people, and of course people find out before we planned. News of a wedding, news of our baby. And now this. It was exciting to savour the happy new information before, and spring it on people. Interject it mid-sentence, or plunk in into a drawn out silence, brewed in a lingering smile. Watch the shock and realization spread, as perhaps they realize that they're going to be a grandparent, aunt, uncle. This is an entirely different entity. This news is a bomb. Dropped to end a war of conflicting messages, with hints at something ominous, even as we go about our lives normally. A war waged in unconvincing smiles and strained conversations. Now the shock and realization are dark as they spread. 

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There are realities that are hard to reconcile. Concepts so vast in their enormity of meaning to the individual, that they can hardly be harpooned and dragged from idea into the grasp of the mind. The woman I love is carrying my child. Thoughts that rattle around loose in the head, undigested, loud enough to keep you up at night. Once one, already far beyond comprehension in its profundity; now two, as powerful as they are opposite in effect. The woman I love has cancer. Back and forth. Sometimes they tumble, end over end. Often they march steadily, one after the other. The woman I love is carrying my child. The woman I love has cancer. The woman I love is carrying my child. The woman I love has cancer.

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Sometimes you find yourself sitting in a situation that feels so... off. Foreign. Unusual. Ridiculous. This doesn't feel like that. And yet, I feel... unsettled. Because I am here, in this situation, and yet I do not feel like one imagines one might feel in it. I've seen plenty of hospital rooms, patients, doctors, nurses. I've imagined what it would be like to be here, now. Beside the woman I love, as she fights. But I imagined this differently; that it would feel... different. It doesn't feel like I am the husband of a patient, waiting by her side. I am simply Joel. and beside me is Anneke. And I love her. And she is sick.

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When you run a marathon, you focus your energy. You are completely occupied with moving forward. And the people around you who support you, and cheer you on, offer help. They offer you water, and you can drink as you continue on, and are sustained through the race. As we start this race, running side by side, we are surrounded by those we love and who love us, offering help. And I have been there before, offering help from the sidelines, often not knowing what I could possibly do, but being compelled to offer. Now I look up and see the road ahead of us packed with friends, acquaintances, family, coworkers, and even strangers; all offering love and support. There are no words for how much that means to us. Thank you.