Houston: Night Two
This morning, I sat in the hotel lobby waiting for the shuttle to MD Anderson, and something about it stopped me in my tracks.
The lobby was full—quiet conversations, tired eyes, paperwork tucked under arms, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Couples, parents, adult children… Every person there was someone’s person. A loved one, a primary caregiver.
And for the first time in a long time, I was surrounded by people who just… knew.
No one was explaining why they were there. No one was trying to soften it or make it easier with platitudes. There was an unspoken understanding that we were all navigating something heavy—something that doesn’t pause when you leave the hospital, something that follows you into elevators, hotel rooms, and restless nights. It felt strangely refreshing—and deeply heartbreaking.
I’ve never felt unsupported throughout this journey. People have shown up for us with love, generosity, and care, and I am endlessly grateful for that. But the truth is, this is one of those experiences where unless you’ve lived it, you don’t fully understand it.
Being the primary caregiver to someone with cancer changes the way you exist in the world. Your mind is always running in the background—tracking medications, symptoms, lab values, fluid intake, schedules, contingency plans. You become fluent in medical language you never asked to learn. You live in a constant state of readiness, even on the “good” days. Sometimes I personally find myself overcome with sadness at seeing an older couple in the store or restaurant because I’m scared I’ll never get those moments with Cassidy.
And that can be incredibly lonely. Not because people don’t care—but because there is a gap between empathy and lived experience that words can’t quite bridge.
Sitting in that lobby, surrounded by people waiting for the same shuttle, heading to the same place for the same reasons, I felt seen in a way I didn’t realize existed. No explanations required. No minimizing. No “at leasts.” Just quiet acknowledgment.
Once I got to the hospital, I learned that last night was hard. Cassidy was restless and confused, repeatedly trying to get out of bed and disconnect his monitoring cords. Normally, I would be there to redirect him, calm him, and keep him safe—but last night, I wasn’t in the room. Because of that, the hospital had to assign a sitter to stay with him overnight.
I am deeply grateful that MD Anderson has that level of care and support available. Truly. And still—there is something gut-wrenching about knowing your 35-year-old husband needs someone watching him all night to keep him safe. Two things can be true at the same time.
His confusion continued into today, which is another layer to navigate. I’ve learned not to correct him when what he’s saying isn’t quite right—it only confuses and frustrates him more. Some of the things he says make it really hard not to laugh, and sometimes that laughter sneaks out despite everything. Those moments of humor feel strange and necessary all at once.
We met with many doctors today, continuing to focus on stabilizing his sodium. It’s slow, meticulous work—but critical. One of the hardest things I’ve been grappling with over the past few weeks is how often I have to say “no.”
Cassidy is frequently on fluid restriction, and right now, telling him no feels like the cruelest thing in the world. All I want is to give him everything he asks for—every comfort, every want, every small request—because he has already had so much taken from him. But I also know that giving him what he wants in those moments could hurt him.
So I remind myself of this, over and over again:
Saying no now is how we buy time for so many yeses in the future.
That’s what keeps me steady when my heart wants to cave.
Today, the doctors here shared that they believe Cassidy has leptomeningeal disease—a condition that occurs when cancer cells spread to the protective membranes and cerebrospinal fluid surrounding the brain and spinal cord. It’s heavy information to hold. Serious. Scary.
And yet, there was also an unexpected sense of peace.
They were very clear that the treatment plan Cassidy received in Denver was the right plan. Hearing that lifted a weight I didn’t even realize I’d been carrying. There is comfort in knowing that not seeking a second opinion earlier wasn’t a mistake—that the decisions we made then were thoughtful, informed, and sound. Over the next few days, we’ll continue meeting with additional specialists, but for now, it appears that they agree with the plan his Denver team already has in place and ready to move forward.
Later in the day, Jenny came to visit, along with Cassidy’s brother Cody and his dad. There were laughs. There were long stretches of silence. There were moments where Cassidy simply sat and stared, content just being surrounded by people who love him. Those moments matter more than anything else right now.
Today was hard and clarifying, yet also reminded me that love in this season looks like vigilance, boundaries, and choosing the harder path when it protects the person you love most.
And tomorrow, we do it again.
