Houston: Days Four & Five
Day Four ended with something we’ve been waiting for: Cassidy was discharged.
After another four-day stay in the ICU, we were finally free to leave. His sodium was stable enough—not perfect, not where the doctors ultimately want it, but stable. At this point, we’ll take the wins where we can get them. I have a lingering fear that his sodium won’t fully stabilize the way they want until he’s back on chemotherapy, but for now, this was enough to move forward.
Discharge, however, wasn’t simple. I couldn’t be there with him.
And the reason is something I’ve gone back and forth on even admitting out loud: his discharge room was on the 22nd floor of a 24-floor building, and I couldn’t do it. I am deeply afraid of heights and elevators, and after four emotionally exhausting days, I had reached my limit. I couldn’t stack one fear on top of another. I just didn’t have it in me.
That’s hard to admit. I’m used to being the one who shows up, asks the questions, takes the notes, advocates relentlessly. But that day, my body and mind said no—and I had to listen.
And this is where Jenny stepped in.
She didn’t hesitate. She was there with Cassidy, advocating when I couldn’t. She talked with doctors, nurses, and oncologists. She reviewed discharge paperwork, took notes, asked questions I would have asked, and made sure nothing slipped through the cracks. She was calm, thorough, and completely steady.
I don’t know how to properly express what that meant to me.
Jenny has carried me through this entire stretch with a kind of grace and intuition that feels unreal. She knows when to step forward and when to simply sit beside me. She knows how to advocate fiercely without making it about herself. What she did that day is something I will likely never be able to repay but I will spend the rest of my life grateful for.
After discharge, we went back to the hotel and did our best to settle in. That evening was filled with Cassidy’s parents and Jenny joining us for something that felt almost foreign: non-hospital time. No monitors. No IV poles. No alarms.
And then, finally, we crawled into bed together. Just us. No nurses, no visitors, no overnight rotations. We hadn’t slept in the same bed for four days, which sounds small, but when you’re living inside a diagnosis like this, it feels enormous. It felt grounding. It felt human.
Day Five came quickly.
It was a full day of appointments at MD Anderson. We met with the radiologist and the neuro-oncologist. Different specialties, different approaches—but the same message: time isn’t our friend right now. Both reinforced that the most important thing for Cassidy is to start treatment as soon as possible.
That means full brain radiation, alongside chemotherapy.
Radiation is new for Cassidy. It’s something he’s been able to avoid until now—but with his brain involved, it’s no longer optional. The radiologist here agreed with the plan our team in Denver already has in place, which gave us clarity and direction. We’ll head home and start as soon as we can.
That afternoon brought a gift we didn’t expect. We met Brent (my boss’s brother) who lives in the area. He took us to lunch, shared stories, and gave us a stretch of time where cancer wasn’t the center of the conversation. It was the first time in about a week that my mind wasn’t constantly spinning, and it felt like oxygen.
That evening, the hotel room filled again with love. Cassidy’s parents, Jenny, his childhood friend Patrick, and Patrick’s partner Curtis joined us. There was laughter, familiarity, and the kind of presence that doesn’t ask anything of you, it just shows up.
As these days unfolded, something else became impossible to ignore: navigating this new, hopefully temporary, normal of Cassidy’s physical abilities. Wheeling him through MD Anderson made it real in a way nothing else has. The sheer size of the place….the effort it takes for his body to do what used to be automatic. It’s humbling and heartbreaking…it’s something I’m still learning how to hold without letting it swallow me.
This chapter is teaching me that strength doesn’t always look like pushing through, sometimes it looks like naming your fear, letting others step in., accepting help, sitting in gratitude and grief at the same time.
Days four and five were full of endings and beginnings—leaving the ICU, leaving Houston soon, and stepping into what comes next with clearer eyes and a heavier heart. We’re moving forward. Not because it’s easy—but because we’re surrounded by people who make it possible.
