Editor's note: This is the first in an occasional series of columns by Kent Davy, editor of the North County Times, about how he and his wife, Joel, are coping with her cancer.

When she sleeps with the afternoon sunlight falling in mottled leaves of shade across her quilt, she is an angel, my angel struck low with cancer.

As I sit by her bedside watching the slow rise of her breathing, I reflect that we've changed roles. I am the housewife and guardian; she is my charge. I am the cook and caregiver; she the ward.

Joel was once a petite dynamo -- a 54-year-old woman, retired as a lieutenant colonel from the Air National Guard, a perpetual whirl of movement. Now she is a frail, semi-invalid struggling to keep her weight on and her illness at bay.

Her faith and spirit remain strong. Her optimism lifts me and we see hope for better days.

We both have stories to tell, but I am the teller between us, so consider this an invitation, at least for a while, to walk with us as she battles and I learn to care for her. With this column, and irregularly others, I hope to share a little about the lessons this hard road, one that so many others walk, has given us. I realize that each person's story is different, but if in sharing ours, you can find comfort, then this will have served its purpose.

Joel, my wife of 26 years, was diagnosed with metastasized lung cancer in late July. It was stunning, breathtaking news of an awful disease with a grim and deadly intent. It left me breathless, wracked with anxiety. She comforted me, saying: "It will be all right. No matter what, it will be all right."

Getting to an accurate diagnosis, before the oncologist delivered his opinion, amounted to a misapplication of Occam's Razor -- that is, that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. But in this case, the simple explanations weren't the right ones.

A seemingly endless series of examinations looked in the wrong places. The heartburn that seemed to be coming from an ulcer or gall bladder was from a tumor in her chest wall, stretching into her neck. The ache in the shoulder wasn't a rotator-cuff injury, but the tumor's tentacle reaching into the shoulder. The fatigue, the weight loss, all finally explained.

As is common with lung cancer cases, the disease comes to light only after it has spread.

If it weren't for a physical therapist who recognized that something serious was wrong and sent Joel for a scan, this story might already be over.

We quickly found an oncologist, a wise young doctor, who started Joel on chemotherapy at once. During that first consultation, he said: "I can give you statistics, but you are a unique individual, not a number."

We did not press for a prognosis -- the "how long do I have" question -- and still haven't.

We have instead carried on against this adversary, educating ourselves on the efficacy and side effects of chemotherapy, learning about nutrition and anti-nausea drugs, and experiencing the powerful therapy of friendship, laughter and prayer.

I have learned along this journey an obvious lesson: We exist only in this moment. Yesterdays are gone, sliding down the memory holes. Tomorrows -- whether they hold dread or great hope -- aren't here yet. They are worries and dreams for another day.

Instead, I need to concentrate on the small joys of the moment: A smile on my Joel's face. The whir from a cloud of purple finches outside the door. A flower's bloom craning to grasp a sunbeam. The savory aroma from a hearty soup. The cheer in a well-wisher's call from a thousand miles away. A visitor's prayer offered to God's ear.

These are true gifts, recalling the phrase Joel has always used to sign her letters: Celebrate life.

Kent Davy is editor of the North County Times. Contact him at (760) 740-5401 or at davy@nctimes.com.