The nurse called my name and asked me to change into a hospital Johnny with my bare flank visible. This is how hospitals make you vulnerable. My surgeon knocked gently on the door before entering. I was both glad and embarrassed to see him. I apologized, couldn't say enough to say I'm sorry, and very smoothly and deftly, he told me that I had said nothing to be embarrassed about. He let me off the hook, but I believe we both knew what was said that night and that however you define it, this is some sort of love. It is gratitude en extremis.

All our lives most of us look for love. We seek the perfect companion. The one who will comfort us, stand by us "for better or for worse," and if you are a woman, in some way, I believe our instinct is to look for a stud, a savior. That savior may be different for everyone, and thank god — what a mess it would be if we all wanted the same man. But love comes in strange forms.

They say love comes when you least expect it, and experience tells me this is true. I have been in love twice, and both times, it was a surprise. Am I in love with my surgeon? No. Do I love him? Yes. But still, after much searching, I cannot define what this love is. I know what it is not, but that does not tell me what it is. It is not sordid. It is not inappropriate. It is not a betrayal of my husband, and the confidences we share are not secrets. Or they are, we call them "cancer secrets." We share a language that only others who have been to that thin place between life and death can comprehend, and even then, I think there are variations between each doctor and patient. But it is love. Of this I am sure.

sadi ranson-polizzotti