From Rorie....
I will always think of June 6, 1996, as the beginning of our story. I was a wreck when Robert and I arrived for my mammogram. The radiology technician was very kind, and she knew immediately that I had a serious problem. She was gently, thank goodness, and didn't hurt me at all. I was focused on my right breast and was devastated when she said they needed some extra films of my left breast. This lady was a stranger, but I told her about my fears and that I knew I would need to have a biopsy. I left with a welcome feeling of relief. I was actually going to do something about this awful distraction in my life. I was tired of my denial and wanted to move forward.

From Robert...
I wanted to take Rorie and escape to the beach for the weekend before the final mammography report arrived. We needed to be alone. How many years had it been since we were able to go to the beach by ourselves? Our vacations had always been family affairs including Rorie's mother and father until he died. Rorie loves the beach, and we kind of made an unspoken pact that weekend to live every minute to its fullest. The first day was quite cloudy and dreary, but we were determined to have fun. We didn't speak about the report waiting for us, and we held hands and touched more than usual. I think Rorie was terrified, and I was numb. But the sunset our last night was spectacular. We took picture after picture as the sun seemed to be slowly devoured by the gulf. It was as though we knew we would never look at another sunset quite the same again. Everything we would see and feel from that day on would be in the context of cancer...fearing it, fighting it, and remembering it.