Houston: Day Three

Medically, today was relatively uneventful. We saw the usual doctors, checked in, and waited. But the biggest news of the day was one we’ve been hoping for: Cassidy’s sodium has stabilized over multiple blood draws without the use of hypertonic saline. That may sound small, but it’s a huge win. Stabilizing on his own is a sign that his body is doing some of the work we desperately want it to do.

Because of that, the team talked about moving him out of the ICU and into a regular room, with hopes for discharge on Monday if things continue in this direction.

When I tell you his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree—I mean it. For the first time in days, I saw pure excitement cross his face. It was one of those moments where hope sneaks in quietly and reminds you why you keep going.

Other than that, today was calm on the medical front. No big changes. No new emergencies. Just steady monitoring—and for now, that’s enough.

Family filled the rest of the day. Cassidy’s brother Kelly came to visit before heading back home to Central Texas. His dad, mom, and Uncle Tim also joined us for a while, which was especially meaningful—Cassidy hadn’t seen Tim in quite some time. Watching him surrounded by people who know him from before all of this, who carry shared memories and inside jokes was meaningful.

Jenny, of course, was with us all day—steady and constant. And tonight, Cassidy’s dad is staying overnight so I can try to get some real sleep, which I’m incredibly grateful for.

There’s something I haven’t really talked about yet, though—Cassidy’s mental state. With leptomeningeal spread, the cancer often affects the brain in ways that cause vision loss (which Cassidy is currently experiencing), fatigue, weakness, and confusion. I thought I understood what that confusion might look like based on what I’d read—but the reality has been different.

Most of the time, Cassidy knows who we are and who’s in the room. About 80% of the time, he knows exactly where he is. Before coming to Houston, that number felt closer to 95%, and I suspect the travel and stress have played a role in that shift. What’s strange—and jarring—is how quickly it can change.

He’ll be sitting there having a completely normal, very Cassidy conversation… and then suddenly say something wildly out of left field.

For example, today we were talking about RockiesFest:

Me: “Who are you hoping to meet at RockiesFest?”
Cassidy: “Victor Vodnik, Chase Dollander.”
Me: “Does Hunter Goodman still play for the Rockies?”
Cassidy: “Yeah, his contract isn’t up yet—but I still think we should double check with John about the car wash because I’m worried our passes expired and the cars can’t get dirty. The birds in the nest are still laying eggs and I haven’t been counting.”

It comes out of nowhere. Sometimes it almost makes sense. Most of the time it doesn’t. And yet—he can suddenly sing an entire song, quote movies from years ago, remember faces and names perfectly. It’s a new world. One I never expected to be navigating, and one I’m still learning how to move through with patience, grace, and a little humor when I can find it.

This is also day three in Houston, which means day three of not spending the night together. I haven’t left Cassidy’s side overnight since April 11, 2025—the day he went into the hospital. That realization hit me hard today. Before cancer, nights apart meant something fun: a friendversary weekend getaway with Chelsea, or a guys’ trip for him. Separation was temporary. Planned. Safe.

Now, being away from him at night feels entirely different.

It’s hard to put into words, but there’s a quiet fear that sits underneath it all—the knowledge that one day, the nights alone won’t end. And that makes every night apart now feel heavier than it should.

And finally, there’s Jenny.

I don’t know how I would have made it through any of this without her. She has been unwavering, intuitive, and present in ways that feel almost unreal. She knows when to talk, when to sit in silence, when to make me laugh, and when to hold space for the fear without trying to fix it.

She is a fairytale friend—the kind of person you don’t even know how you earned. And every single day, I’m reminded how lucky I am to have her walking beside me through the hardest chapter of my life.

Here’s to hoping for discharge paperwork early in the day so we can get Cassidy out of the hospital and on to healing.