I Still Can’t Believe…

Some days, I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe my husband has cancer.

I look at him — this beautiful, strong, funny, maddening, loving man — and I see him. The same him I married. The same him who makes stupid jokes at exactly the wrong time, who finds a way to make me laugh even when I’m falling apart. The same him who mows the yard because it makes him proud, who loves on our dogs like they’re his entire world, who looks at me like I’m his.

And yet, when I really stop to sit with it, the truth crushes me. Stage 4 colon cancer. How is that real? How is he the one who’s sick?

When we’re around other people, they say it too — “He looks so healthy!” And he does. His shell doesn’t show the fear, the fatigue, the chemicals running through his veins every other week. His smile hides the nausea, the bone-deep exhaustion, the dark thoughts that we both shove down so we can keep moving forward. He laughs. He goes to baseball games. He talks about Pokémon cards. He doesn’t look sick. But underneath that strong, bright shell, there’s a monster we can’t see and I hate that.

This past week, his brothers, Kelly and Cody, were here for their first visit since we moved to Denver in 2021. It felt good to see them all together — just three brothers, being brothers. They went to the Astros vs. Rockies series, a little piece of normal for all of them, and spent the rest of the time hanging around the house, catching up, being in each other’s space. There was so much comfort in hearing their laughter echo through the house, seeing the ease they share, the little moments that remind me that family is its own kind of medicine. I know it meant so much to Cassidy, and it meant so much to me too because even in this, he’s still him. He’s still a brother, a friend, a goofball who wants to talk stats and relive old stories.

But it’s those moments, the ones that feel so normal that somehow make the disbelief feel sharper. Sometimes I catch myself staring at him when he’s sleeping, wondering how it’s possible. Sometimes I sit in the car alone or stand in the shower and just sob because it doesn’t feel real yet it is.

I can’t imagine my life without him. I don’t want to. And yet that possibility is staring me in the face every single day. It’s there when we talk about scans, when we plan appointments, when I refill his meds, when we talk about “next year” and I hold my breath hoping we really get it.

He doesn’t look sick. But I see the moments when he’s tired, when he drifts off mid-sentence because the chemo has pulled every ounce of energy from his bones. I see the way he tries to shield me from the hard parts, but I’m not blind. I see it all.

And when I’m alone that’s when the weight hits me. That’s when the tears come. Because this man is my best friend. He’s my safe place. He’s my favorite person in every room. I can’t wrap my mind around a reality where I don’t get to grow old with him, or where I don’t get to roll my eyes at his corny jokes, or where I don’t find Pokémon cards scattered all over the house because he was excited about some new pull.

I love him so much it hurts. He doesn’t look sick. But cancer doesn’t care how you look. And I’m learning over and over again how to hold my hope and my fear in the same trembling hands.