Today it took two hours to help my wife, take a shower in our own home.

Two hours of lifting and moving, of prepping and adjusting.
Unhooking her IV.
Unwrapping layers of dressings and wound care.
Lining the shower with towels and placing the chair just right.
Washing her hair, combing it gently.
Finding clothes that work for a body in pain.
Changing the linens, warming the room, preparing her toothbrush—preloaded with toothpaste because her hands don’t work anymore.

Two hours of effort.
For 30 minutes of normalcy.
For 10 minutes of comfort.
For one more moment of feeling clean and human.

And then back to bed, with the “bear hugger” blowing warm air to keep her body from freezing. Her body can’t regulate temperature anymore.

She smiled when it was over.

But she’s tired.
I’m tired.
And tomorrow… she faces her third surgery in just 60 days.

We had held on to hope that she could go on the family trip to Japan—something she’s been dreaming of for a year. But this new surgery means she’ll stay behind, once again watching life from the sidelines of recovery.

That’s what cancer does. That’s what infection does. That’s what caregiving is.
It takes things—quietly, relentlessly.
It takes time, energy, tears, sleep, plans, dreams, vacations, strength.
But we keep giving. Because love gives.

I won’t give up hope.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not on her.

She’s still here. Still smiling through it. Still fighting. Still loving us in her own quiet way.

So we’ll keep going.
One day at a time.
One shower at a time.
One breath at a time.
Because this is what love looks like when it’s on the battlefield.