Marry Me

By Charles Marshall as told to B.J. Taylor

The first time they found cancer was in 2004, when Victoria was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with our daughter and felt a mass under her left breast. The doctor delivered Amira, and a week later Victoria had a biopsy. We sat in the surgeon's office and I held her hand when he delivered the news.

"Victoria, you have Stage IIIb invasive ductal carcinoma, a fast-growing cancer."

I wanted to scream. How could she have cancer? She was only thirty-four years old. She had just had a baby!

On the ride home, Victoria whispered, "Charles, where did this come from? I have no family history of breast cancer. How am I going to tell the boys? Am I going to die and leave them without a mother?"

At home, she huddled under the covers. Her mom and sister came. The days wore on.

"Honey," I begged one morning. "Get up. We have to tell the boys."

"I can't, Charles."

"They need to know," I persisted. Victoria shared a powerful bond with her two teenaged sons from a previous marriage.

She forced herself out of bed. We called Adam and Adrien into the dining room. She struggled to say the words.

A week later, Victoria had a mastectomy. Back home, she was filled with sorrow at the loss of her breast, but to me, that was only a small, physical part of her.

"Marry me, Victoria," I blurted out one night. We'd been together more than three years and had discussed marriage before.

"Charles, how could you still want me? I'm sick. Why saddle yourself with a wife who could die?"

"I love you and want to marry you." I held her until she fell asleep in my arms, her tears drying on my shirt.

Victoria endured radiation and then chemo, but when her gorgeous, long hair began falling out in clumps, she crumbled. She wore scarves and wigs, but to me, she was always lovely.

A few months after her mastectomy, a colleague invited her to run in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Orange County.

"I'm going to do it," Victoria said. "There are women there who are two-, three-, even four-time survivors. If they can do it, I can too!" A warm smile spread across her cheeks.

A year after her first bout with cancer, Victoria was pregnant again. We'd been told there was no chance of conceiving. This child would be a miracle. But the doctors advised us to terminate the pregnancy due to the cancer.

We held hands and prayed. Specialists kept a watchful eye on Victoria, and right on schedule in September 2006, our miracle boy, Sidney, was born -- big, beautiful, and healthy.

Soon after, Victoria had her left breast reconstructed and her hair grew back nice and curly. When she ran her hands through it and made silly faces, I began to see my old Victoria returning.

Life was good until the winter of 2007, four months after Sidney's birth, when Victoria stood in the bathroom one morning, wrapped in a towel and frozen in shock.

"Honey, there's a lump under my right arm," Victoria said to me. "It can't be back, can it?"

I pulled her close. Her heart pounded against mine. I had to be strong for her sake and for the children. But inside, I was gripped with fear. How could a woman so young be stricken again? I put my head down and wept.

The ultrasound showed three lumps and later, twelve tumors. Victoria was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer. The chemo affected her much worse after the second mastectomy and her curly hair fell out with the very first treatment. And she was perpetually tired.

"I can't get down on the floor and play with Amira. I can't bounce Sidney on my knee. I'm not much of a mommy, am I?" She was lying in bed, a scarf wrapped around her head, her gaunt face showing the effects of her battle.

"Shhhh, you're a great mom," I said. "Everyone is praying for you. Save your strength for the fight." Fight she did, but the doctors rushed her to the hospital with a very low blood count. I walked in one afternoon and found her sobbing so hard it scared me.

"What's wrong?" I rushed to her side and began to cry myself.

"A pastor came into my room. We had a long discussion about God and hope. Do you think I can live a long life? Do you think that's possible?"

"I absolutely believe you will live a very long life," I said. "We're going to grow old together."

Victoria put her head back against the pillow. "It's time to begin living without fear," she whispered. And then louder, and with conviction, "I'm going to look at every day as a good day to be alive."

She was soon released from the hospital, and gradually regained her strength. A few months later, I just had to ask her again.

"Victoria, will you please marry me?" I was down on bended knee, hoping for the answer I'd been praying for.

She fingered the scarf on her head. "I don't want to get married without my hair."

"You're beautiful. Marry me."

We locked eyes, hers searching and mine pleading.

"You know what?" she said. "Let's get married!"

On May 15, 2007, we celebrated Victoria's last chemo treatment.

"I made it," she said. "Again."

In July, we were bound together in a beautiful ceremony near the beach in Maui. The ebb and flow of the ocean reminded us of God's awesome power to heal, to restore our faith, and to rekindle hope. I lingered over a long kiss with my beautiful wife.

Every day is a good day to be alive.

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