In its relentless progression
it extinguishes one’s light forever.
I never heard of pancreatic cancer,
until it stole the legal mind of Supreme
Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg,
the dance moves of Patrick Swayze,
the courage of Sally Ride blasting into space,
the operatic voice of Luciano Pavarotti,
and the technical genius of Steve Jobs, 
to mention only a few of its casualties.

The curse seems to prefer the famous 
and talented, but is just as brilliant
as its victims, avoiding attempts to cure it 
unless caught early when surgery is still possible.
For most, they are left only three to eight months.

It stole the creativity my husband displayed in over 
three hundred publications in chemical engineering
journals, two drawers full of awards, and induction
into the National Academy of Engineering,
situated next to the statue of Albert Einstein.

But it is Larry’s sense of humor I remember most.
Sitting in a hospital waiting room, he showed
our physician daughter and me a magazine 
as he grinned and casually remarked:
“Notice how there seems to be a support group
for everything but pancreatic cancer?”  Only he
could make us chuckle on the brink of his death,
conquering the enemy in his own unique way.