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There is no tree. No presents for each other. Will is so sick and I am so pregnant that we decided our love was gift enough this year. His sister sent two boxes from Wichita. We used to joke about how she would start combing through the catalogues in October to find things we didn’t need—a plastic battery operated robot which could serve party drinks on a tray - that sort of thing. But this year, it is quite different. The sentiment behind any present is fully felt.

Will and I joked that three days ago, Saddam Hussein invited CIA inspectors for a holiday visit—to see for themselves he did not possess weapons of mass destruction. Not an offer the CIA is likely to take. Will and I wonder if our weapon of mass cell destruction is actually working. Chemotherapy is essentially a crap shoot. Cancer, scientists will tell you, can be clever and adapting. No matter how toxic the formulation, the cancer cell is so individual in nature, that they’ve seen chemo wash right through a cancer cell, like water, with no effect. Yet the toxic agents designed to target any fast multiplying cell will kill off hair and skin cells, while the cancer accelerates the patient’s metabolism, consuming protein, such a muscle for a midday snack.

Will’s lost 30 pounds. He’s muscular, more stocky frame is now boyish and slender. His legs—are thin and bony. The head nurse tells me it’s just the chemo. But I wonder if she meant to say - cancer.