"Emily," Alicia protested.
"I'm just establishing expectations."
I nodded solemnly.
"Understood."
Emily studied me for another moment.
Then she smiled through her tears.
"Okay. Let's get you married."
The hospital staff quietly joined the preparations.
Rachel brought a small bouquet of white flowers from a nearby florist. Another nurse found a length of soft white fabric that Alicia could wear without discomfort.
Emily brought a simple white scarf.
Alicia wrapped it around her head, letting the ends fall gently over her shoulders.
When she looked in the mirror, she went completely still.
"Do I look like a bride?" she asked.
Emily sat beside her.
"You look beautiful."
Alicia swallowed.
"Even without hair?"
Emily took her hands.
"Especially without hair."
I stood near the doorway, suddenly unable to look away.
Alicia had lost much more than her hair. She had lost the future she once imagined, the freedom to plan years ahead, and the simple confidence that she would grow older alongside the people she loved.
Yet there she was, preparing to get married.
She wasn't pretending she wasn't sick.
She wasn't pretending she wasn't frightened.
She was choosing to celebrate something beautiful in the middle of something terrible.
And I loved her for it.
The rings presented the first problem.
Neither of us had purchased wedding rings, and there was no time to visit a jewelry store.
Rachel solved it.
She brought two narrow bands made from clean, soft medical dressing material, carefully shaped and secured so they could be worn briefly without irritating Alicia's skin.
They were not legal wedding rings, and they were not meant to replace anything traditional.
They were symbols.
Alicia examined them.
"These are perfect."
I held one up.
"They're not exactly diamonds."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Lucas, have you seen my financial situation?"
"You have a point."
"I have excellent taste and a very limited budget."
She slipped the band onto my finger.
"There. Now you're officially difficult to impress."
The wedding itself was arranged for late afternoon, after Alicia had rested.
A staff member helped ensure the ceremony would not interfere with her comfort or treatment. The room was tidied, and someone moved the medication equipment enough to make space for a few chairs without compromising her care.
Emily placed the flowers beside the bed.
Rachel adjusted the paper stars hanging above us.
Alicia insisted that the ugly star I had made should occupy the most prominent position.
"It's symbolic," she explained.
"Of what?"
"Of loving someone despite their obvious flaws."
"That's a generous interpretation."
"I am a generous person."
At four o'clock, we were ready.
I wore a clean white shirt and a dark suit borrowed from a colleague. My tie was a deep blue, selected by Alicia because she claimed it made me look less like a man about to announce disappointing examination results.
She wore her white scarf and the soft hospital gown she had decorated with a tiny paper flower.
The nurses gathered quietly.
Dr. Hayes joined us, and Emily stood beside her sister.
Alicia looked around the room.
"Is everyone here?"
Rachel nodded.
"Everyone who could make it."
Alicia smiled.
"Good. I don't want to start without my witnesses."
The ceremony was simple.
There was no elaborate procession and no expensive music. A nurse played a gentle melody from her phone, and Emily held her sister's bouquet while Alicia listened to a few words about love, dignity, and the importance of choosing one another in the time we were given.
I had never been so nervous.
My hands trembled when I took Alicia's.
She noticed immediately.
"Doctor," she whispered, "are you having a medical emergency?"
"Possibly."
"Should I call someone?"
"I think I'll survive."
"Good. I'd hate for my wedding to become a double tragedy."
I laughed, and so did everyone else.
Then the room became quiet.
I looked into her eyes.
"Alicia, I can't promise you a lifetime together. I can't promise that tomorrow will be easy, or that I can protect you from every painful thing that might happen."
My voice faltered.
"But I can promise that I will never treat the time we have as something ordinary. I will listen when you want to talk, sit beside you when you don't, and remember that you're a person whose life is so much more than the illness you carry."
I took a breath.
"You taught me that being alive isn't just about how many days we have. It's about what we do with them. You reminded me that laughter can exist beside fear, and that love doesn't have to wait until everything is perfect."
Tears filled her eyes.
"I don't know what the future holds for me," I continued. "But I know what you have already given me. You've made me a better man, a better doctor, and a better person."
I squeezed her hands.
"And for every day we are given, I choose you."
Alicia was crying openly now.
When it was her turn, she took a moment to collect herself.
Then she smiled.
"Lucas Bennett, you are the most stubborn, serious, sleep-deprived man I have ever met."
A few people laughed softly.
"You drink terrible coffee, you work too much, and you desperately need someone to remind you that life exists outside a hospital."
I laughed through my tears.
"But you also listen. You stay when things become difficult. You don't look away when someone is frightened, and you never make me feel as though my life has become less valuable because it might be shorter than we hoped."
She reached up and touched my cheek.
"I can't promise you years. I can't promise you children, holidays, anniversaries, or all the ordinary things people imagine when they say forever."
Her voice trembled.
"But I can promise you this: I will love you with all the life I have left. I will laugh with you whenever I can. And I will never regret choosing you."
She looked into my eyes.
"Even if you continue making terrible paper stars."
The room dissolved into laughter and tears.
We exchanged our simple rings.
When I placed the band around her finger, she held it up to admire it.
"Absolutely priceless," she whispered.
Then she looked at me.
"Can you kiss the bride now, Doctor?"
I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
She caught the front of my shirt.
"That was not what I meant."
So I kissed her gently on the lips.
For a moment, everything else disappeared.
There was no hospital, no diagnosis, no ticking clock.
There was only Alicia and me, holding each other in a room full of people who loved her.
When we separated, she smiled.
"Well," she said, "that was worth the paperwork."
Emily cried so hard that Rachel had to hand her several tissues.
Afterward, someone brought a small cake.
It was an ordinary vanilla cake with white frosting and a crooked message written across the top:
CONGRATULATIONS, LUCAS AND ALICIA.
Alicia examined it.
"Who decorated this?"
"I believe the kitchen staff helped," I said.
"Well, they have excellent intentions."
She took a tiny bite.
Then she pointed her fork at me.
"If I don't survive this cake, I want a refund."
I laughed so hard that I had to sit down.
For nearly an hour, the hospital room felt like a celebration instead of a place where people came to receive devastating news.
We took photographs.
Emily stood beside the bed, holding the bouquet. Rachel took pictures of our hands, our rings, and the ridiculous paper stars above us.
Alicia insisted on one photograph with me wearing the yellow beanie.
"It's a wedding tradition," she declared.
"Since when?"
"Since today."
In the final photograph, Alicia was laughing with her head tilted back, her white scarf slipping slightly over one shoulder.
I was looking at her instead of the camera.
I didn't know it then, but that photograph would become the most important picture I had ever taken.
When the celebration ended, Alicia was exhausted.
The nurses helped her settle comfortably, and Emily kissed her forehead before stepping into the hallway to make a phone call.
I sat beside Alicia for a few more minutes.
She looked down at her ring.
"Lucas?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think this was crazy?"
I considered the question.
"Probably."
She smiled.
"Good."
I brushed a strand of fabric away from her cheek.
"Do you regret it?"
She shook her head.
"Not for a second."
Then her expression softened.
"Thank you for not making me feel ridiculous."
I took her hand.
"You could never be ridiculous to me."
She closed her eyes.
"That's good. Because I plan to be ridiculous for the rest of the day."
Within minutes, she was asleep.
I stayed beside her until Rachel reminded me that Alicia needed rest and I needed to eat something.
Before leaving, I bent down and whispered, "Good night, my wife."
Her eyes remained closed, but the corner of her mouth lifted.
"I heard that," she murmured.
I smiled.
Then I walked into the hallway carrying the memory of our wedding like a fragile flame.
I didn't know that it would be our only wedding day.
Alicia died two days later.
But before that, we were given a little more time.
The morning after our wedding, she woke up asking for pancakes.
Not hospital oatmeal.
Not toast.
Pancakes.
"With blueberries," she insisted.
"And maple syrup."
I reminded her that the medical team needed to approve any food she wanted, especially because her condition had become more complicated.
She rolled her eyes.
"You're a terrible husband."
"I've been married for twelve hours."
"And already you're restricting my freedom."
I checked with the care team, and they helped arrange a small portion of pancakes that she could safely eat.
When I brought them to her, she looked delighted.
"See? This is why I married you."
"Because I can obtain pancakes?"
"Because you listen to reasonable requests."
She ate slowly, enjoying every bite.
Halfway through the meal, she stopped and looked at me.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm watching you eat."
"That's unsettling."
I laughed.
She took another bite.
Then she said, "I wish I could remember this forever."
I pulled my chair closer.
"You will."
She shook her head.
"Not forever. You know what I mean."
I did.
Memory was a strange thing. We remembered some moments with extraordinary clarity and lost others without realizing it. I wanted to preserve every detail of those final days: the way Alicia's eyes crinkled when she laughed, the little frown she made when she concentrated, and the way she always held my hand with both of hers when she wanted me to take something seriously.
I began writing everything down.
I recorded her jokes, her requests, and the things she said when she thought nobody was listening.
She caught me one afternoon.
"Are you writing my biography?"
"Something like that."
"Make sure you include my excellent fashion sense."
"I'll consider it."
"And my patience."
I looked at her.
"You have no patience."
"That's a terrible thing to write about your wife."
I wrote it down anyway.
She made me promise that if I ever became famous, I would tell people she had been the reason I learned how to smile.
I told her I had no intention of becoming famous.
"That's what all future famous people say."
As the day progressed, she became weaker.
Her breathing sometimes grew uncomfortable, and the medical team adjusted her care to help relieve her symptoms. She slept for longer periods and spoke less frequently.
But when she was awake, she remained Alicia.
At one point, she asked me to open the curtains.
Sunlight spilled across the room.
"Look at that," she whispered.
Outside, the hospital garden was beginning to bloom. A small tree near the walkway had tiny white flowers, and a few people sat on benches beneath it.
"Spring is beautiful," she said.
"It is."
"Promise me you'll go outside sometimes."
I frowned.
"I go outside."
"Walking from the hospital entrance to your car doesn't count."
I couldn't argue with that.
"You need sunlight, Lucas. And proper meals. And sleep."
"You're supposed to be the patient."
"Exactly. I've learned a lot about what not to do."
She looked at me seriously.
"Promise me you won't turn into one of those doctors who forgets how to live because they're too busy saving everyone else."
I took her hand.
"I promise I'll try."
She nodded.
"Good."
After a while, she asked me to tell her about my childhood.
I told her about the tiny apartment, my father's injury, and the day I decided to become a doctor.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said, "Your mother sounds wonderful."
"She is."
"Your father, too."
"They're both stubborn."
She smiled.
"Now I understand where you got it."
I laughed.
Then she asked whether I thought my parents would have liked her.
The question caught me off guard.
"I think my mother would have adored you."
"Even though I'm constantly insulting your hair?"
"Especially because of that."
"And your father?"
"He would have pretended to be stern, then secretly given you money for ice cream."
She laughed softly.
"I wish I'd met them."
The words hung between us.
I felt the familiar pressure building behind my eyes.
"I wish that, too."
She squeezed my hand.
"Then you'll have to tell them about me."
"I will."
"Tell them I was beautiful."