The New Normal (for now)

Cassidy finished this round of chemo. And while that sounds like the ending of a chapter—it isn’t. Not really.

When someone has stage 4 cancer, the journey never ends. There’s no finish line to cross, no moment where you can exhale and say, “We made it.” There are milestones, yes, and this is one of them. But the truth is, chemo doesn’t stop—it just changes.

For Cassidy, that change means starting low-dose maintenance chemo every other Monday for the rest of his life… or until the next medical breakthrough comes along. Those words—the rest of his life—sit heavy in my chest. They’re hard to say out loud. They’re harder to live with. Because how do you ever fully breathe again when your life has been redefined by something you can’t control?

We’ve learned to find rhythm in the chaos, but it’s a strange rhythm. Every other Monday, we step back into that infusion room, surrounded by the same machines…the same quiet hum of people fighting for more time. And while I’m endlessly grateful that chemo is working, that his numbers are still trending down, that we get to keep going—I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t break me a little too.

Because people hear “he finished chemo” and think the hard part is over. But it’s not. It’s just… different.

It’s hard when others move on while we’re still here, stuck in this in-between. I don’t blame anyone, it’s human nature to crave closure. But there is no closure here. There’s gratitude, there’s exhaustion, there’s fear, there’s hope—but not closure.

Sometimes I think about that line from Taylor Swift’s Right Where You Left Me: “Help, I’m still at the restaurant.”

That’s what it feels like. Like everyone else got up, paid their bill, and went home—while we’re still sitting here, frozen in this moment, unable to move on because cancer doesn’t let you. The world keeps spinning, people keep living, and we’re just… still here. Stuck in this place between what was and what will be.

This is our new normal.
A lifetime of “every other Mondays.”
A lifetime of blood draws, side effects, and scans.
A lifetime of celebrating small victories while still carrying the weight of what’s next.

I’m trying to hold space for both truths…that we can be proud of how far we’ve come and still be terrified of what’s ahead. That we can find joy in the ordinary moments and still grieve the normal we used to have.

We’re still here…still showing up, still fighting, and even though the journey doesn’t end, I’ll never stop walking it beside him.