My husband of 25 years, Dale, has been diagnosed with a nasty, aggressive form of stomach cancer - Poorly Differentiated Adenocarcinoma. After we first heard the words "you have cancer" in the ER waiting room he was moved to a hospital bed where we've been camped out for 12 days so far. His prognosis is very poor - we are hoping for the best, but have to brace for the worst. At the very least, he'll never work again. My retirement income (Social Security and a tiny stipend) is too much for him to qualify for Emergency Medicaid, but will not be enough to pay for his treatment and keep our home. I've been reminded that it's sometimes harder to accept help than to give it, and we are now at that point. For the past 25 years Dale has been a kind and caring step-father, an indulgent grandpa, and a loyal friend. My only goal is to make sure Dale is kept as comfortable as he can be, knowing he's surrounded by the love of his family and friends.