“I’m sorry that it’s not better news.”

It’s as if the breath has been knocked out of me. My ears ring.

I stare at the doctor blindly. His lips move, forming words that my brain refuses to process.

This cannot be happening.

I feel a slight pressure on my hand, and turn my head to the right. My wife stares at me. Her lips are pulled back in a watery grimace, and I can see the pain and fear in her eyes. A tear slides down her cheek.

Cancer.

The one word we all dread to hear.

A lump sits in my throat, heavy and cloying. I try to swallow it away without success.

“We need to listen, George. To find out what happens next.”

My wife’s words reach me as if from far away. I jerk my head in acknowledgement, and slowly turn back to the consultant. His hands are steepled together, his face a picture of sympathy.

I force myself to pay attention as he explains the severity of the tumour, the best course of treatment to follow, and the current chance of survival.

The prognosis he paints is bleak, each word a knife to my heart.

Besides me, my wife listens attentively. She appears to take everything in, asking the odd question when necessary.

A small ember of awe flickers deep within me. Once again I am amazed by her strength and temerity. Despite what she is about to endure, she is prepared to face it head on, no matter the outcome.

A slither of guilt pools in my stomach as I silently reflect on my own reaction. I should be the one carrying her right now, not the other way round.

This is not about me.

Everything rushes back to me, and I finally find myself present within the room. I return my wife’s earlier squeeze, my grip firm. Her thumb brushes over mine, message received and acknowledged.

Whatever my wife is about to face, she will not be alone. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, we will get through this.

Together.