Chemo’s Still Here, But So Is Joy
Lately, I’ve been sitting with a lot of gratitude. Not in the Instagram-worthy, #blessed kind of way—but in the quiet, grounding kind of way. The kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
One of those is my team at work. I’ll never stop being thankful that I’ve been able to sit with Cassidy during his infusions. That might sound small, but it’s not. I know what a privilege it is to be able to sit next to him while the hours stretch on, to hold his hand, to be there for the little things—adjusting the blanket, refilling the water, catching the look in his eyes when he’s starting to feel tired. I can do that because I have an incredibly supportive work team who’s made space for me to step away when I need to. Not everyone gets that and I don’t take it for granted.
Because every time I walk through the infusion center, I see people sitting alone. Alone with their bags of medicine. Alone with their thoughts. Alone in something no one should have to go through by themselves. And every time, it breaks my heart. I wish I could sit beside all of them. I wish I could pull up a chair and say, “You’re not invisible. You matter. You deserve someone beside you.” But I know all I can do in those moments is see them—and be endlessly thankful that Cassidy doesn’t have to sit there alone.
Another moment of gratitude came in the form of something so ordinary—and yet so profound: a beer.
When Cassidy’s nurse told him he could enjoy an occasional drink again, it felt like a dam broke inside both of us. So much has been stripped away from him—choices, routines, even little pleasures. Everything has been dictated by lab results, medications, and restrictions. But this? This was one piece of normalcy handed back to him.
It wasn’t just about the beer. It was about having a choice. About saying “yes” to something after months of “no.” Watching him take that first sip, I felt tears in my eyes—not because of what was in the glass, but because of what it meant. A small reminder that cancer hasn’t stolen everything. That joy can still sneak in, even here.
And as much as this journey revolves around caring for him, I’m learning I also need to take care of myself. That’s not easy for me to admit, let alone practice. But little by little, I’m trying. I’ve started playing pickleball more regularly again—not nearly as much as I used to, but enough to move my body, laugh, and remember I’m more than just a caregiver. Chelsea and I even started a podcast together called Ball Too Well—a fun mix of pickleball and Taylor Swift. It’s been such a bright distraction, something creative that belongs just to me, and a reminder that joy and connection matter even now.
We also got some exciting news: Cassidy was cleared to travel for his birthday. Planning this trip has been such a gift, because it revolves around the thing he loves most—baseball. We’re heading to Los Angeles to catch an Angels game, go to Disney, and then see the Rockies play the Dodgers on Shohei Ohtani night. As much as I usually hate traveling, I love this for him. I love knowing he’ll get to celebrate his birthday doing what lights him up. And I love being the one who gets to plan it.
This journey is still exhausting, terrifying, and unpredictable. But even in the heaviness, there are these quiet moments—moments that remind me we’re still living, still laughing, still finding little pieces of normal to hold onto. And for that, I’m grateful.
