We all have our ways of marking time. As a photographer, my life is measured from one story to the next. My oldest son was born in the middle of a long story about the Endangered Species Act. My daughter came along with a pack of gray wolves.

 Twenty stories later, though, it’s the story in Alaska that I’ll remember best. It was the story about the loss of wilderness—and the story during which my wife Kathy got cancer. That’s the one that made time stand still. I stopped taking pictures on the day when she found that tumor. Cruelly, it was Thanksgiving. By Christmas, she had become very weak. Some days she was so sick she couldn’t watch TV.

 Early examination saves time. But ours was not early. By the time you can feel it yourself, it’s often bigger than the doctor want it to be.