We are eight months into our marriage, and I don’t know if my husband will make it to our first anniversary.

We were married on a crisp, bright morning in November.

So much excitement. So much promise. So much laughter. So many tears of gladness.

And now? Well, now, there are moments (and, unfortunately, sometimes much more than moments) when my husband does not know who I am.

We are navigating unimaginably difficult and often heart-breaking circumstances. It is so incredibly easy to stay in survival mode. To keep my head down and grind and press and push forward. To drown in this endless sea of medical appointments, hospital stays, ER visits, medical bills, medication schedules, tests, patient portal messages, and therapy regimens. Easy… right.

But the hard thing, or rather, the harder thing is to live. Not to stay alive, although that often feels like a battle in and of itself around here some days… to keep my husband alive, that is. But no, the harder thing is to truly live. To truly find joy and create space for treasured moments of laughter, peace, hope, and romance together in the midst of all this horror. To seek to enjoy whatever time we have left, however long or short it may be, while navigating the fear, chaos, and hardship of chronic illness and declining health.

The doctors have told my husband that he should begin writing down everything throughout the day, even the smallest of things, to help him remember. Well, I think it is time for me to begin writing some things down as well. So I am writing this for me, for my husband (although he does not yet know), for us. So that we can remember together.

And I write for you, dear reader, in hopes that it may encourage you to live, too. Time is fleeting, slipping quickly through our fingers like grains of sand.

Let’s treasure the time we have left.

I love you, G.A.M.