I waited until I’d found just the right woman. I married Annie on September 22, 2001, in the shadows of nine eleven. We saw our wedding as a statement of hope in the face of what was almost unthinkable. I was 46 years old, a hold out, wanting a romantic relationship as close to perfect as possible. I found what I was looking for.

For 14 months, I lived my idea of a perfect life. I had a marriage and career that was better than I’d dreamed of and I played about as much golf as I wanted, as if that were possible. On November 20, 2002, I started my round on the 10th hole at my home course, the Trophy Club of Atlanta. I was walking alone and enjoying an overcast and mild early winter day. The 11th hole is a 170 yard par three. I hit a splendid 6 iron that was headed for the hole. I had the thought it could go it and realized no one would be there to see it. Even so, I encouraged the ball to go in. It almost did. “Oh well,” I thought. “One day I’ll get a hole in one.” I’d been trying since my first round in August 1990.

I caught up with my regular golf buddy Richard as I made my turn at the first hole. He had a friend, Robert, with him. At the third hole, playing 154 yards into a bit of breeze that had come up, we waited for the group in front of us to play the hole. I’d been working on some swing changes and practiced them as we waited. I chose my 6 iron, the same club with which I’d had my near ace on 11. The swing change worked. There was that feel of a perfectly struck shot. What a sight to see the white ball against the backdrop of a gray sky. “That looks good,” Richard said. It did. I started to yell at it to go in the hole. My screams got the attention of the foursome on the 4th tee and the group on the 2nd green nearby. For once my encouragement really worked. The ball landed a few feet in front of the hole and rolled in like a perfectly struck putt. Finally, my first hole in one.

I savored the walk to the green. I was experiencing one of the greatest moments in my life. Perfection. I couldn’t have asked for more. It was a great shot, I could see it go in, there were plenty of witnesses and I was with my favorite golf buddy. The only regret was that Annie didn’t get to see it. I took the shot as a sign that my life was as close to perfect as it could get. What a feeling.

Everything changed a week later. While on the 11th green again, Pete, who worked in the pro shop drove up. “Mr. Reece, your wife is trying to get a hold of you. There’s some kind of emergency.” I picked up my birdie putt and called her. “They found something on my pap smear. It looks like I have cancer.” Instead of a near miss for an ace on #11, I’d always think of that green as the place I was when I got the kind of news we hope we’ll never get. So much for perfection.

A complete hysterectomy, followed by abdominal and vaginal radiation led to CT scans and blood work that showed the cancer was gone. As awful as the experience had been, she’d beaten stage 4 ovarian and endometrial cancers. We figured this had been a detour on what was a wonderful journey. We were wrong. A growing pain in her abdomen finally caused us to go the emergency room about a month after she’d finished her treatment. The cancer had either come back or had never really left. It was now in a lymph node.

Our cancer story was far from over. Chemotherapy and even more fear were next. We’d both figured since she was young and healthy before the diagnosis, she’d be young and healthy soon after. We’d worked hard to become the people we were, able to build a most loving relationship. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, too soon and too painful. On June 29th, 2005, Annie had her last chemo treatment. “Go on and enjoy the rest of your life,” her doctor told her. We were ready to get back on the road toward our perfection.

On July, 18th, 2005 I again started my round on the back nine, playing alone. I came to the 11th hole a bit upset that I’d missed an easy opportunity for par on the 10th hole. Again, I chose my 6 iron and took dead aim at the flag, 170 yards away. Since getting my first hole in one, I’d wanted another one, but now I had the satisfaction of having an ace, so my desire wasn’t as great. Again, I made perfect contact. Again I thought, “That could go in.” Then realized no one but me would see it. I gave the ball my best encouragement. It landed about 10 feet from the hole and perfectly took the break and dropped in. I let out a cheer and stood in awe for a while.

I called Annie. As I was dialing, it hit me that I’d just aced the 11th hole, the hole that would forever be the place where I learned of her cancer. Now that hole would have another place in history. Through tears of joy and gratitude, I told her I’d just made a hole in one on the 11th. We’d been struggling a bit to fully accept her cancer treatment was over. It felt odd to not go to the infusion center every other week. Her treatment had become so routine, it seemed like we’d do it forever.

“It’s a sign,” I told her. “The cancer’s really gone. It’s over.” We cried together, taking that perfect shot as a sign, believing the two hole in ones were bookends to our cancer journey, perfection on each side of an awful detour in our wonderful lives together.