My wife was born October 14, 1972.

As a child her body betrayed her. Her back bent in a way that would, the doctors told her mother, grow progressively worse. Her nerve endings would develop tumors that, though benign, could cause her some difficulty later on in life as they may begin to grow uncontrollably. Surgery was going to be necessary to correct the immediate problems, and further surgery would be likely down the road. The knife would know her flesh, and metal would be bound to her bones.

The child that would one day become my wife bared her teeth and met this enemy head on. Her mother wept at her side. She comforted her mother.

She was a warrior.

Skin grafts taken from elsewhere on her body would cover the wounds that resulted from her surgery, ironically leaving more scars in their wake. A nerve accidentally pulled in her back during surgery resulted in limited use of her left leg, which would eventually require even more surgery. The knife had become an acquaintance of hers, and her mother's weeping a familiar sound.

She never flinched. The warrior fought on.

As she grew older tumors were taken from her. More scars. More badges that she wore proudly, as does any warrior. "I have been here" the medals say. "I have done this, I have been through this, and I have survived! I am a WARRIOR!"

I met her, and I was lucky (blessed) enough to earn her love. Two children came, one through much difficulty. A third was lost, sadly. The warrior wept. Some scars cannot be seen, and never truly heal.

Another child came, a son. Our last. A ray of sunshine that burns so bright he makes our heart ache. Three children. The warrior prays to God almighty and gives thanks. Never a complaint for the battles she's fought. Never does she look back and lament on what might have been. She has been given the strength she needs to fight. Always fight, and never give up.

Now, thirty-four years after the day she was born, her body has betrayed her again. Cancer began to grow inside her. Idiot cells that can't remember what they are, ever-growing, growing, growing. No purpose. Just growing. There is pain. And fear.

The knife finds her again, taking away one breast. The tumor is enormous. The warrior takes up the sword again. Her teeth are bared and a howl escapes her.

Chemotherapy slowly poisons the cancer from her body. Her body grows tired and weak. There is no cancer in her spirit, however. No disease can get inside her soul, where the part of her that is a warrior lives. Never give up. Never stop fighting. The warrior meets the new enemy head-on. All the fear is gone from her. Victory is in sight.

Fuck cancer.

This is war.

She's going to win.

She is a warrior.