We have routine scans and blood work and doctor appointments this week and it brings back all sorts of emotions, fears, doubts… It’s hard to live a “normal” (I say this in quotes because we are in a pandemic right now) life for a few months, just to open it all back up again.
I know I haven’t talked much about the second half of our 2019 and what we went through. And quite frankly, it’s because I’m not sure what to say other than that it stunk. If I’m being honest, I still sometimes wrestle with it, how to move forward and not identify myself as a cancer patient’s wife and how to put it behind us – especially because it comes up time and time again (hello, more doctors appointments!) And while these memories are painful and difficult to relive, they’ve shaped who we’ve become and have pushed us and changed us, and maybe that’s a post for another time.
Anyways, I documented some of the good and the bad that happened while we were in the thick of it all. It felt too heavy and hard to share at the time, so here’s my attempt to share what it was really like to watch my husband walk through cancer.
Everything we do outside of treatment is scheduled around treatment. It’s our new normal. And I know I’ll get a text every morning and every evening telling us of our doctors appointments the next day. It’s the most annoying yet helpful reminder.
I have my favorite nurse. She’s the only infusion nurse that knows me by name. She even saves Dave the private room every now and again for when he has visitors. She and I talk mountain destinations and share travel tips.
For his first day of treatment, I wanted to dress up for him and decided to wear a yellow dress. Yellow is a cheery color and I know it’s a dress he likes. But after the first day, I can’t even put make up on because I know I’ll cry it off, anyways.
I spend an unreasonable amount on groceries at Whole Foods. I come home and spend hours making a big batch of Magic Mineral Broth and fresh bone broth to offset the chemo. Only to later find out that he has no appetite for it and wants pizza. So we make a frozen pizza instead.
We get calls, texts, cards and packages from others who are thinking of us, and it warms my heart. But I don’t have much to say back other than thank you.
The most satisfying part of the day is when Dave takes a gigantic sharpie to the calendar hanging in our kitchen and crosses off yet another day. He’s never been the one to want to rush through days, but in this case it’s one step closer to being done with treatment and being cancer free.
The hairdresser gives Dave a buzz cut to try and fix his hair situation. I break down in tears at the salon because she wishes us luck and says she’ll cover the cost. She comes from a family of cancer survivors.
The cancer center is in downtown Boulder, so we drive past it quite frequently. Every time we drive by the building I think of all the patients in the infusion room, how unfair it is, and how I can almost hear their monitors beeping.
I go on a hike to get some fresh air and to see the fall colors. I can’t help but feel guilty for being out in the mountains, enjoying the scenery while he’s at home laying on the couch, feeling like shit.
The cancer center waiting room is not a fun place. Dave and I anxiously wait around with about 7-10 elderly. You can’t help but feel out of place. And then every now and again you see a young person like us walk in and even though they’re a stranger, you feel like you have this connection with them. But it mostly just breaks your heart that they are there, too.
We planned a date night for the weekend we knew Dave would have enough energy for going out. We get street tacos for dinner and order almost everything on the menu. Afterwards we sit outside a pastry shop sharing a slice of lemon chocolate cheesecake and a cappuccino. For a few minutes, things feel normal.
My sister takes me out, we go clothes shopping. I normally love shopping and am usually the one that goes diving through racks upon racks to find the best items. But in the moment, shopping feels so trivial and I stand there staring at a sea of things that don’t really matter.
Our new neighbors weeded our front lawn – that mind you, desperately needed it. It meant more to us than they’ll probably ever know.
I have a notebook filled with notes from the doctors, questions for the doctors, medication directions, appointment times, and follow up reminders for his various doctors… it’s information overload. And don’t even get me started on the thick ass binder we have for the never ending stream of medical bills and health insurance claims coming in. Most days I’m tempted to just throw it to the side and not deal.
I often go for a run during part of Dave’s treatment. It’s a half hour I get to myself with the Boulder mountain views. I mostly breakdown and cry my way through the run, it’s therapeutic.
I look forward to seeing the therapy dogs that come through the cancer center. They really do bring smiles to everyone’s faces. My favorite is a little lassie dog named Quigley. His owner gives me Cheerios to feed him.
We carry around excessive amounts of hand sanitizer in our home, in our cars, in our treatment bags (yes, we each have a specific bag we bring to treatment). The smell of hand sanitizer will now forever smell like this awful time in our lives.
Samson has a great intuition and knows what’s going on. He’s been there for every cry and every cuddle. I feel bad I can’t give him the attention or exercise he wants and needs.
We have a meal train and get meals delivered to our home every night. This is probably the second most exciting moment of our day. I love seeing what meals people bring us, it’s a fun surprise. It’s also a huge relief to not have to cook. There aren’t even enough words to say thank you to these kind people. I get overwhelmed thinking about the number of thank you cards I should write, but probably won’t get to.
We go to drop Dave’s mom off at the airport after her visit. He needs to quickly run into the terminal to go to the bathroom before we drive back home. I wait in the drivers seat, stalling the car. The airport security man yells at me, he says no waiting allowed and he wants me to leave and go around again. I can’t help but snap back at him – my husband is sick! I sit there and refuse to drive around.
My cousin gets married in New York and my entire family is there. Dave isn’t able to make it though and my heart straight up aches. It’s hard being at a very special celebration without my forever date.
Seeing my husband not look or act like my husband is the scariest part of it all. But when I get a cheeky smile or a bit of banter back, all is right in my world.