The Night Before…
There’s something about the night before chemo that makes the air feel heavier.
We don’t really talk about it, not directly. But it’s there—in the quiet, in the way we both move through the house, in the looks exchanged but not explained. It’s the kind of tension you don’t always have words for, but you feel it. In your chest, your stomach, and in the space between breaths.
I think Cassidy feels it too. He gets quieter. A little more still. Maybe he’s bracing himself. Maybe I am too.
We try to keep things light. We’ll watch TV or talk about something mundane. We pretend it’s just another Sunday night. But the truth is, it isn’t. It never is. Because we both know what tomorrow brings; another long day, another round of chemo, another chance for side effects to hit harder than the week before. And even though we’ve done this before, it doesn’t get easier. It just becomes part of the rhythm.
The night before chemo is when all my inner voices get louder—the anxious one, the worried one, the one trying to stay positive and grounded while also spinning a thousand worst-case scenarios. I try not to let Cassidy see all of that, but I know he feels it too. We’re both carrying it.
And then, sometimes, there are moments that come out of nowhere and catch me completely off guard.
Like Saturday. Cassidy mowed the yard and I cried.
Not because he looked unwell. Not because I was worried. But because it was the first time since his surgery that he felt good enough to do the one chore he actually loves. Something so routine, so normal, that I never would’ve given it a second thought before all of this. But on Saturday, I stood in the yard while he pushed the mower in long, careful lines, and I cried behind my sunglasses. I was watching my husband do something he’s always done and I was a mess.
He was so proud. You could see it in his face, in the way he moved, in the little smile he gave me when he caught me watching him like a hawk. I stood there not just to soak it in, but to make sure he was okay. I hovered from a distance, nervous he might overdo it, but also deeply moved by how much joy he got from simply doing something for himself. Something normal.
Grief doesn’t just show up when something ends…it sneaks into the moments that remind you of what you almost lost. And joy, real joy, lives right beside it.
This week will bring another round of chemo. More waiting. More managing. More unknowns. But for a little while, I’m holding onto Saturday. To the smile on his face. To the long lines in the grass. To the reminder that even in the middle of all this— there are still moments worth crying over, in the best way.
