The Caregiver’s Chair

I’ve seen this role before.

When I was younger, I watched my mom care for my dad through his own cancer battle. I watched her manage appointments, juggle emotions, push through exhaustion, and somehow hold everything together. I remember thinking how strong she was—how calm and capable she stayed when everything around her was falling apart. I admired her deeply… but I also quietly promised myself: I hope that’s never me.

Now here I am. Sitting in the same chair. Holding the same clipboard. Living out the same relentless routine—except this time, it’s my husband. My person. My future. And I hate that I’m so good at this.

Because the truth is, I thrive when I’m in control. I’ve always been the planner, the organizer, the one who catches the details others miss. This role should feel natural—and in some ways, it does. I'm good at making sure nothing slips through the cracks. I stay on top of labs and scans and medications. I take notes in appointments like it's a job interview. I know how to keep the train moving.

But none of it fixes the part that’s broken. And that’s where the helplessness hits.

Because I’m a fixer. It’s how I love people. If something’s wrong, I problem-solve. I step in. I find a solution. But this—this thing living inside him, threatening everything we built—I can’t out-plan it. I can’t organize it away. I can’t fix it.

When people ask me, “What do you need?” I never know what to say. Do you want the honest answer? I need him to beat this. I need a miracle. I need the world to give him back his health and give us back the life we were planning. I know people mean well, and we’ve been held with so much kindness. But sometimes the question just echoes in my head, because the only thing I really need is the one thing no one can give me.

And so I keep doing what I can. I sit beside him during infusions. I laugh when he needs joy, and I hold space when he needs silence. I refill his water. I refill his meds. I refill my own strength from places I didn’t know existed. I make this work, because I love him. Fiercely. Desperately. Completely.

This isn’t the life I imagined for us—but it’s the one we’re living. And even in the darkest parts, I see sparks of light. In his smile. In the way he still makes jokes. In the tiny victories that somehow feel like mountains.

Cassidy’s first round of chemo was this past week, and while I had no idea what to expect, I knew one thing going in: I wanted to make it feel human.

We were in a private room for his first dose, away from the usual infusion bays. Just us, a few chairs, and a quiet kind of anticipation. I baked three dozen cookies for the staff and wrote little notecards introducing Cassidy—not as a diagnosis, but as a person. I wanted them to know what kind of music he loves, the way he makes people laugh, how smart and kind he is. I wanted them to have something to talk to him about besides cancer. Because he's so much more than a patient in a chair.

I brought handmade signs so he could take photos and mark the milestone—not to glamorize it, but to give him some sense of control. To say: I’m here. I’m doing this. And I’m still me.

His care team was incredible. Ari, his infusion nurse, is our age. A fellow Swiftie, full of warmth and wit, who made the whole process feel less clinical and more personal. And Sam, his nurse practitioner, has a calm presence that puts us both at ease. Between them, we felt genuinely cared for—like they saw us as people, not just charts or schedules.

The appointment lasted six hours. It was long, emotional, and quietly intense. But he did so well. Afterward, he went home with the chemo pump for 48 hours and tolerated it better than we expected. So far, the side effects have been relatively mild—slight headaches, some cold sensitivity, fatigue, and now a little nausea. We're watching closely, adjusting, and celebrating every small “okay” we get.

Watching him go through this with such strength breaks and rebuilds me daily. I would trade places with him in a heartbeat, but since I can’t, I’ll keep making cookies. I’ll keep making signs. I’ll keep trying to add softness to something impossibly hard. I know this road is long. And I know it won’t always be this manageable. But right now, we’re here. He’s here. And for today, that’s enough.

~Leah