"I love you." "I know."

I remember the times in my youthful romantic relationships, the ones full of limerence and lust, when I would wait for the right moment to look at her to say "I love you" for the first time. Then wait anxiously for the response I so longed to hear: "I love you, too." I remember the devastating feeling that washed over me when the response was: "I know." I had hung all my feelings, hopes and dreams out there only to be crushed by a polite acknowledgment that committed to nothing.

I remember the times in my middle years in my long term covenanted relationships, the ones sometimes frayed, and bruised and threatening to come undone, when I would look at her and and say "I love you." and then anxiously await the accustomed response, the one we had practiced for years: "I love you too." I remember the sadness and sense of loss when the response was: "I know." I had made a peace offering, given a reminder of our history together and my hopes for our future, only to be rebuffed by a vague expression that committed nothing.

Over the past six weeks as Paula and I have plunged headlong into this medical nightmare, there have been many occasions when we have comforted one another with our habituated somewhat casual responses: "I love you. I love you too." But there have also been times when "I love you." has been met with "I know." Only now, in my mature years and probably more mature love, "I know" has taken on a whole new and profound meaning. It is an affirmation of commitment, a recognition of 15 beautiful years plus six weeks of hell, spent serving each other without asking anything in return. "I know." means I've somehow succeeded in cherishing and supporting another in the way they want to be loved.

I've been signing these blogs with "I love you all." Tonight, I want to say to all of you who have verbally and implicitly expressed your love and support for me---tonight I want to say:

"I know."