Leah’s First Post
I don’t really know how to start this, except to say that life doesn’t give you a warning before it falls apart.
One day, we were arguing over where to order takeout. The next, I was watching my 34-year-old husband being rushed into emergency surgery.
It started with pain—persistent, confusing, and brushed off too easily. His primary care doctor dismissed it as a diet issue, suggesting he adjust what he was eating. But the pain didn’t go away and I knew something was wrong… It got worse. We ended up in the ER, expecting maybe a more thorough evaluation or, at worst, a prescription and some rest. Instead, after a long night in the hospital, scans showed something serious. A blockage. He needed surgery, now. I remember staring at the doctor, trying to understand what they were saying while also trying to keep my feet on the ground. There wasn’t time to process it. I broke down in the middle of that sterile hallway, I cried like I never have before. Because nothing about this was supposed to happen to someone so young.
The surgery revealed the truth we didn’t see coming. What started as a blockage became a diagnosis: stage 4 colon cancer. It had spread. And just like that, our world became hospitals, IV poles, pathology reports, and conversations we never imagined having in our 30s.
We spent a week in the hospital. I slept in his room on the most uncomfortable “couch bed” I’ve ever seen as many nights as I could. My mom drove in from New Mexico to watch the girls and sit with me while Cassidy slept. I learned how to silence alarms on machines I don’t understand. I learned how to advocate, ask the hard questions, and smile through tears when Cassidy needed to see strength. But I also saw incredible kindness—nurses who went above and beyond, and friends who showed up in every possible way.
They brought meals and snacks and care packages full of comfort items I didn’t even know I needed. They mowed our lawn when we couldn’t even think about what day of the week it was. They sent gift cards, groceries, and text messages that reminded me we weren’t alone. Some showed up physically, just sitting with me and filling the room with calm when my chest felt tight with fear.
And then there’s Chelsea.
I don’t have the words to fully describe what she’s been to me through all of this—but I’ll try. She sat in the waiting room during Cass’s surgery, when I couldn’t bear to be alone. She had the hard conversations I didn’t have the strength to start. She brought medical terms into a space where I could actually understand what was happening to my husband. She became my interpreter, my advocate, my anchor. She has carried pieces of this burden with me, without ever being asked. I truly could not have done this without her.
And even hundreds of miles away, Jenny—my best friend in Texas—has never once made me feel like I was going through this alone. She called and texted constantly. She sent food, supplies, anything she could think of to take something off my plate. She listened to me cry—completely and utterly broken—over the phone more times than I can count, never once making me feel like a burden. She reminded me to eat, to rest, to take a moment for myself when I felt like I was disappearing inside this diagnosis. Her love reached across the distance and wrapped around me when I needed it most.
Another bright spot during that dark hospital week was seeing the people who showed up for him—not just for me. Alex, Andy, and Sebastian came by multiple times just to sit with Cassidy. They didn’t need a reason or an agenda; they just showed up. And it meant the world to me, because I could see how much it meant to him. His whole posture would shift when they walked in. Even if he was exhausted or in pain, he lit up. Laughed. Felt a little more like himself. There’s something powerful in knowing your people are still your people when you’re at your lowest—and they reminded us of that, over and over again.
We’ve had so many appointments since then. So many new faces and terms and plans that feel both hopeful and terrifying. Chemo. Scans. Possible clinical trials. “Manageable, not curable” is what they say. We are holding space for all of it—the grief, the hope, the fear, and the fight.
This blog is our space to share the journey. Not just the medical stuff, but the emotional weight, the small victories, and everything in between. We want to document it honestly—for ourselves, for others who might be walking this path, and maybe for someone who needs to know they’re not alone.
Right now, I’m just trying to keep breathing. To be present. To love him fiercely. Because every day we get is a gift, even the hard ones.
If you’re reading this—thank you. For holding space with us…We don’t know what’s next, but we’re walking forward. Together.
