The neurosurgeon wanted one more cat scan. The spot on the T-4 vertebrae was nagging at him. I walked next to Will who lay on the hospital gurney and we traveled through the beige hallways, down the delvator to a cramped space where I had to sit outside. Normall, I've asked to be in the room when Will is scanned. It's so claustrophobic for him to be slid in and out of that machine and so painful for him to lie on that hard surface. He's so think and vulnerable. I don't like to leave him with strangers. I'm just afraid someone will say something again to terrify him or react in some subtle way to the way he looks now. Just today, he looked in a mirror and pondered his appearance.  "I can hardly look at myself anymore". He is gaunt. His left eye is swollen shut. Wearing a patch over it is itchy and uncomfortable. His hair is thinning from the chemo. I can't love him more.  I told him what he sees in the mirror is not him. It's the cancer; that ugly, cruel bastard that's trying to take his identity away.  Will is still inside, fighting back. The person our friends and family love is still here. The beauty is in all the love that surrounds us.