When Mary was diagnosed with cancer, she was already Stage IV. Do I understand her pain? Of course not. Do I understand her needs? Of course not. Do I understand her anger? Of course not. The question is not: “Do my efforts make any difference?” But rather is there anything more that I can do. The question is not: “Does she appreciate my needs?” But rather do I understand our needs in the context of her reality. The question is not: “Is her anger directed at me justified?” But rather what can I learn from whatever she says, The question is not: “Is her anger just from chemotherapy and exhaustion?” But rather how can I ask questions at the best time. The question is not: will I miss her? I already miss part of her - her penetrating analysis, her reluctant leadership in various groups. (She was always a slave of duty.) I miss her joy in playing the piano, the viola, the violin. Despite her exhaustion, she would help our grandson start on the violin. I miss her critiques of my plans. (I'm 68, with MS, but I still try to contribute to tikkun, to healing the world,. For anything that I can do in my various groups, I'm grateful.) I miss discussions of what is happening in the world. Is that selfish? The question is not … the one no one asks, partly because no doctor can or will answer it. Our constant companion (and everyone's) is almost palpably near. The question is not love. I love all that she was, as well as all that she still is.