Three-Hundred and Sixty Five Days (Times Two)

Today marks an anniversary--not the kind of anniversary that you celebrate with chocolates or roses or prettily wrapped gifts. Instead, it's one we are learning to remember with gratitude, reverence, and humility. 

Two years ago, on this date, my husband was in surgery having a life-threatening tumor removed from his colon.

Today, I choose to think about how far we've come since that day. I'm going to focus on how many accomplishments he has achieved since he faced his mortality at the age of thirty. I want to revel in the adventures, the moments of laughter, the memories we've shared in the past two years. 

Our lives are irreversibly changed, but for the better. I know that we have laughed more frequently, lived more wholly, and loved more completely. We both are reminded, on a daily basis, of how much we had to lose. All it takes is a glimpse of the purple scar that runs the length of my husband's abdomen to remember what could have been.

If nothing else has been accomplished in these seven hundred and thirty days, then there is one thing we can both be proud of. Something about the C-word, about surviving it and finding a life fulfilled after it, has driven us both to follow our dreams. Brian is thriving in nursing school and graduates in December. And I've followed my passion and started writing again--first with this blog, with a novel (hopefully) on the horizon. 

When I read back over the blogs I've written here, the one that stands out the most for me is the post I wrote last year on this date, detailing the day of Brian's surgery.  It was one of the hardest, but most rewarding, things I've ever written. It feels fitting to re-post it here, with only a small edit at the end.

Now onward, upward, to the life we are so excited to share together.

Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days

The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. We wake in the same position in which we fell asleep: flat on our backs, staring at the ceiling, our hands still clutched together between us. It brought enough comfort in the night to allow us to sleep, even for a few short hours.

My husband gets up without a word. The shower and the antimicrobial surgical soap are waiting.

I make the bed, wake his Aunt Tina, start the coffee maker. I debate for 5 solid minutes over whether I should lay out his clothes for him. I decide to do it. This isn't a normal day, so why should I act like it is?

Dressed and completely awake, we decide to get an early start to the hospital. The interstate is deserted. I'm unused to driving in the dark, and the empty highway startles me. Our headlights slice through the pitch black, and only road signs greet us along our asphalt path. For twenty minutes, we are silent. The radio plays quietly in the background. Tina asks me a question, I answer it. Brian sits in the seat next to me, hands folded in his lap. He tries to appear calm, but I can see the nerves dancing under his skin.

As we pull into the parking lot the sky just begins to turn pink. Morning has officially arrived. We gather our belongings--bags and afghans and books and sweaters. Changes of clothing. Warm socks. We trek to the sliding glass doors, a small caravan of modern day nomads.

The fluorescent lights are much too bright. I feel like I want sunglasses. Tina takes our stuff and makes a beeline for the waiting room "to get us comfy seats near the coffee maker." I smile. Brian and I head the other direction. I stare at the dark blue veins under the skin of his hand as he signs his name and hands over his driver's license. I rub my fingers down his back. He smiles weakly.

We sit. We wait. It feels like days, but it's only minutes. He plays Angry Birds. Tina and I make small talk. I want to stand up, pace, fidget. Finally, they call his name. And we walk back to finish the paperwork. I could let him go alone, but I can't abide it. So I squeeze in to the little cubicle with him. I listen as he answers the same 25 questions he's been asked so frequently these last few weeks. He jokes with the nurse who taps away on the keys of her computer. We sign where we're told to sign. 

They send us to another office. Here we go over how the surgery will happen. What the doctors will do. What we can expect. This nurse has less information for us than she likes. She keeps looking as his file, glancing at her computer monitor, swishing her mouse in search of more facts.

"Did the surgeons tell you what recovery was going to be like?" she asks gently.

No. We don't know what to expect because they won't know how bad it is, and they won't until they open up my husband's abdomen.

She nods once, plasters a smile on her face, and continues to walk us through the surgery plans she's aware of.

At this point we are separated. They take him back to prep him. I can't go. It's the first time we've been separated since the cytoscopy. I feel the panic start to creep up and I stamp it down quickly. No time for that now. He kisses me, squeezes my hand, and disappears through the thick wooden doors.

Thirty five minutes later my parents arrive. Dad hugs me, Mom squeezes my arm. I tell them all that has happened. They ask if they will get to see him before the surgeons take him to the OR. I say yes, we should get to go back any minute. Moments later they come for me. We pick up our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head to his room. 

Brian lays on the gurney in his blue cotton gown. It looks so thin, I immediately want to ask for a blanket. He has a shower cap on his head, and blue booties on his feet. He's already got an IV in each arm. His skin looks grey in the too-bright lights.

Mom goes over to him immediately and smooths back his hair. "How ya feelin', kiddo?" she asks. She's been so strong throughout this whole ordeal. My heart swells. Dad and Tina talk about everything but why we're here. The C-word hasn't been used once today. We're denying its existence even as we are trying to eradicate it from my husband's body.

One of Brian's surgeons knocks and comes into the room. He is young and handsome and calm and kind. Brian and I share a secret smile--he's known in our house as Dr. Superman. I can feel Brian's nerves begin to settle as Dr. Superman walks us once again through the procedure. He reaches out a hand to me when he mentions how unsure they are of the outcome. "We won't know how much the tumor has spread until we're able to get a good look at it. It could be attached to his colon. It could be on his bladder. If it has infiltrated the wall of his bladder we will have to remove it. I don't think that will happen, but you need to be prepared for that." He gives my hand a squeeze. My heart is in my throat.

The activity in the room increases. There's no room for us in there anymore as nurses and doctors hover over my husband. We're allowed to kiss him goodbye. I lean over him and we lock eyes. A tear escapes even as I swallow a sob. "I love you to the moon and back," we say. And we're ushered back to the waiting room.

I can't stand it. I can't sit there and wait. So I leave Tina and my parents and I head to the financial aid office. I spend an hour asking questions, filling out paperwork, discussing our options with a social worker. I get a sense of calm knowing I've accomplished something. When there's nothing left to do I go back to the waiting room.

I keep waiting for the phone at the nurse's station to ring. It doesn't. Why aren't they calling? Shouldn't they call for an update? It's been nearly 2 hours and I'm beginning to worry. I'm contemplating getting up and asking the volunteer about it as Dr. Superman rounds the corner in his scrubs. He looks grim. My heart begins pounding so loudly I can't hear anything else. He asks to speak to us in a private room. Episodes of ER and Grey's Anatomy flash into my mind. The private rooms are bad. They only take you to the private rooms for bad news. My knees buckle. Someone steers me by the arm.

Dr. Superman turns the knob on the private room's door and it is locked. "Well, I don't have a key," he says. "And I don't want to keep you in the dark anymore. The surgery was a success. We got the entire tumor."

I don't realize I'm holding my breath until it all comes out at once. The tears that have been living behind my eyes for 3 weeks come out in a flood. My Dad is smiling, my Mom is crying, and Tina has a look of relief on her face I didn't anticipate. She never looked worried for a second before this moment. Now I realize she's been holding me up for days.

I hear only bits of everything else Dr. Superman says. The tumor was larger than they expected. His surgical scar will be about 10 inches long. The tumor was the size of a Nerf football and was only attached by a fiber to his colon.  Brian is going to be fine. He won't even have to endure chemotherapy. Dr. Superman gathers me into a hug and his reputation as a superhero is solidified.

We flutter back into the waiting room like so many birds. We are light on our feet, there's a song in our hearts. We each grab for a cell phone and begin the process of spreading the good news. I call Brian's Dad first. Then my brother. Then Brian's boss. I email and Facebook and text message. I could literally dance a jig in the middle of the hospital.

We're told Brian is on his way from recovery to his room on the top floor. We grab our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head for the elevator. We beat him up there. We stand in the hallway, afraid to occupy a room this isn't rightfully ours yet. The nurses see our posse and begin rounding up chairs. It's a private room, and we're all impressed that Brian will be treated like a VIP while in house. 

I hear the elevator doors open and a gurney coming down the hall. There is my husband, back in his blue cotton gown. The booties and shower cap are gone. They maneuver the bed into the room, plug in all his equipment, and retreat. I dash to his bedside, lean over him and say his name. I'm desperate to touch him, to connect with him, but there are so many wires.

Groggily, his eyelids open and I all see is ocean blue. He takes a moment to focus on me, and smiles weakly. "How'd I do?" he asks. 

I run my fingers carefully through his hair, down his face, and smile at him, wanting him to see nothing but joy and excitement and exhilaration in my face. "They got it, baby. They got it all. You're gonna be just fine."

"That's good," he says, and drifts back to sleep.

My family talks quietly in the background. I watch my husband sleeping, and I allow myself to take in everything I see. I wrap my fingers around his bony wrist, stare at his chest as it rises and falls, wait for the pulse I can see in the vein of his neck. I'm no fool. I know recovery is going to be long and difficult. I know he's going to wake up when the drugs wear off and he's going to be in tremendous pain. I know we're going to be living at this hospital for a week, maybe more.

But nothing could tramp down the feeling of good fortune in my heart.

It's October 25, 2010.
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One year later...

The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. I feel my husband roll out of bed. For the next 30 minutes, I drift between sleep and awake. I can hear him rummaging about in the bathroom, opening drawers quietly, brushing his teeth. My eyes open when I hear him close the bedroom door behind him. It takes me less than a moment to remember what today is, to remember why he's up at all.

I climb out of bed. The lamp from the living room is too bright. I shield my eyes. 

Brian sits at the computer desk. He's dressed all in white.

I pad over to him, wrap my arms around his shoulders, rest my chin on his head. "Mornin' handsome," I say sleepily. 

"What are you doing up?" he asks. "It's too early."

"I just wanted to say hi, and have fun today." I say.

He stands up, wraps his arms around me, kisses me on the forehead. "I've gotta get going." he says. "It's a long drive to the hospital."

"Have a good day in class," I say. He pats me on the rear and I head back to the comforts of my bed.

It's October 25, 2011. What a difference a year makes. 
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Two years later...

The alarm clock blares into the semi-darkness. It's 8:00 a.m. The house is empty and quiet as I take my seat at the computer, hot cup of coffee in hand. I was aware of what day it was the moment I woke up, and know without asking that Brian does, too.

But I asked him anyway. Last night, the television blaring, his laptop open to the last throes of nursing school paperwork, I asked him. Quietly, so as not to bring too much attention to the subject, I asked, "So you know what tomorrow is, right?"

"Yes," he replied, and continued typing away at his homework.

And that was it. 

I turned back to the television, determined not to say another word about it.

After a moment, I felt his hand on my foot. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. And the cancer that once loomed over our lives, determined to take Brian hostage, retreated into the recesses of our minds again. Beaten.

We have nothing but our lives ahead of us now.

It's October 25, 2012. And we are two years Cancer Free.

Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days

The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. We wake in the same position in which we fell asleep: flat on our backs, staring at the ceiling, our hands still clutched together between us. It brought enough comfort in the night to allow us to sleep, even for a few short hours.


My husband gets up without a word. The shower and the antimicrobial surgical soap are waiting.


I make the bed, wake his Aunt Tina, start the coffee maker. I debate for 5 solid minutes over whether I should lay out his clothes for him. I decide to do it. This isn't a normal day, so why should I act like it is?


Dressed and completely awake, we decide to get an early start to the hospital. The interstate is deserted. I'm unused to driving in the dark, and the empty highway startles me. Our headlights slice through the pitch black, and only road signs greet us along our asphalt path. For twenty minutes, we are silent. The radio plays quietly in the background. Tina asks me a question, I answer it. Brian sits in the seat next to me, hands folded in his lap. He tries to appear calm, but I can see the nerves dancing under his skin.


As we pull into the parking lot the sky just begins to turn pink. Morning has officially arrived. We gather our belongings--bags and afghans and books and sweaters. Changes of clothing. Warm socks. We trek to the sliding glass doors, a small caravan of modern day nomads.


The fluorescent lights are much too bright. I feel like I want sunglasses. Tina takes our stuff and makes a beeline for the waiting room "to get us comfy seats near the coffee maker." I smile. Brian and I head the other direction. I stare at the dark blue veins under the skin of his hand as he signs his name and hands over his driver's license. I rub my fingers down his back. He smiles weakly.


We sit. We wait. It feels like days, but it's only minutes. He plays Angry Birds. Tina and I make small talk. I want to stand up, pace, fidget. Finally, they call his name. And we walk back to finish the paperwork. I could let him go alone, but I can't abide it. So I squeeze in to the little cubicle with him. I listen as he answers the same 25 questions he's been asked so frequently these last few weeks. He jokes with the nurse who taps away on the keys of her computer. We sign where we're told to sign. 


They send us to another office. Here we go over how the surgery will happen. What the doctors will do. What we can expect. This nurse has less information for us than she likes. She keeps looking as his file, glancing at her computer monitor, swishing her mouse in search of more facts.


"Did the surgeons tell you what recovery was going to be like?" she asks gently.


No. We don't know what to expect because they won't know how bad it is, and they won't until they open up my husband's abdomen.


She nods once, plasters a smile on her face, and continues to walk us through the surgery plans she's aware of.


At this point we are separated. They take him back to prep him. I can't go. It's the first time we've been separated since the cytoscopy. I feel the panic start to creep up and I stamp it down quickly. No time for that now. He kisses me, squeezes my hand, and disappears through the thick wooden doors.


Thirty five minutes later my parents arrive. Dad hugs me, Mom squeezes my arm. I tell them all that has happened. They ask if they will get to see him before the surgeons take him to the OR. I say yes, we should get to go back any minute. Moments later they come for me. We pick up our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head to his room. 


Brian lays on the gurney in his blue cotton gown. It looks so thin, I immediately want to ask for a blanket. He has a shower cap on his head, and blue booties on his feet. He's already got an IV in each arm. His skin looks grey in the too-bright lights.


Mom goes over to him immediately and smooths back his hair. "How ya feelin', kiddo?" she asks. She's been so strong throughout this whole ordeal. My heart swells. Dad and Tina talk about everything but why we're here. The C-word hasn't been used once today. We're denying its existence even as we are trying to eradicate it from my husband's body.


One of Brian's surgeons knocks and comes into the room. He is young and handsome and calm and kind. Brian and I share a secret smile--he's known in our house as Dr. Superman. I can feel Brian's nerves begin to settle as Dr. Superman walks us once again through the procedure. He reaches out a hand to me when he mentions how unsure they are of the outcome. "We won't know how much the tumor has spread until we're able to get a good look at it. It could be attached to his colon. It could be on his bladder. If it has infiltrated the wall of his bladder we will have to remove it. I don't think that will happen, but you need to be prepared for that." He gives my hand a squeeze. My heart is in my throat.


The activity in the room increases. There's no room for us in there anymore as nurses and doctors hover over my husband. We're allowed to kiss him goodbye. I lean over him and we lock eyes. A tear escapes even as I swallow a sob. "I love you to the moon and back," we say. And we're ushered back to the waiting room.


I can't stand it. I can't sit there and wait. So I leave Tina and my parents and I head to the financial aid office. I spend an hour asking questions, filling out paperwork, discussing our options with a social worker. I get a sense of calm knowing I've accomplished something. When there's nothing left to do I go back to the waiting room.


I keep waiting for the phone at the nurse's station to ring. It doesn't. Why aren't they calling? Shouldn't they call for an update? It's been nearly 2 hours and I'm beginning to worry. I'm contemplating getting up and asking the volunteer about it as Dr. Superman rounds the corner in his scrubs. He looks grim. My heart begins pounding so loudly I can't hear anything else. He asks to speak to us in a private room. Episodes of ER and Grey's Anatomy flash into my mind. The private rooms are bad. They only take you to the private rooms for bad news. My knees buckle. Someone steers me by the arm.


Dr. Superman turns the knob on the private room's door and it is locked. "Well, I don't have a key," he says. "And I don't want to keep you in the dark anymore. The surgery was a success. We got the entire tumor."


I don't realize I'm holding my breath until it all comes out at once. The tears that have been living behind my eyes for 3 weeks come out in a flood. My Dad is smiling, my Mom is crying, and Tina has a look of relief on her face I didn't anticipate. She never looked worried for a second before this moment. Now I realize she's been holding me up for days.


I hear only bits of everything else Dr. Superman says. The tumor was larger than they expected. His surgical scar will be about 10 inches long. The tumor was the size of a Nerf football and was only attached by a fiber to his colon.  Brian is going to be fine. He won't even have to endure chemotherapy. Dr. Superman gathers me into a hug and his reputation as a superhero is solidified.


We flutter back into the waiting room like so many birds. We are light on our feet, there's a song in our hearts. We each grab for a cell phone and begin the process of spreading the good news. I call Brian's Dad first. Then my brother. Then Brian's boss. I email and Facebook and text message. I could literally dance a jig in the middle of the hospital.


We're told Brian is on his way from recovery to his room on the top floor. We grab our bags and afghans and books and sweaters and head for the elevator. We beat him up there. We stand in the hallway, afraid to occupy a room this isn't rightfully ours yet. The nurses see our posse and begin rounding up chairs. It's a private room, and we're all impressed that Brian will be treated like a VIP while in house. 


I hear the elevator doors open and a gurney coming down the hall. There is my husband, back in his blue cotton gown. The booties and shower cap are gone. They maneuver the bed into the room, plug in all his equipment, and retreat. I dash to his bedside, lean over him and say his name. I'm desperate to touch him, to connect with him, but there are so many wires.


Groggily, his eyelids open and I all see is ocean blue. He takes a moment to focus on me, and smiles weakly. "How'd I do?" he asks. 


I run my fingers carefully through his hair, down his face, and smile at him, wanting him to see nothing but joy and excitement and exhilaration in my face. "They got it, baby. They got it all. You're gonna be just fine."


"That's good," he says, and drifts back to sleep.


My family talks quietly in the background. I watch my husband sleeping, and I allow myself to take in everything I see. I wrap my fingers around his bony wrist, stare at his chest as it rises and falls, wait for the pulse I can see in the vein of his neck. I'm no fool. I know recovery is going to be long and difficult. I know he's going to wake up when the drugs wear off and he's going to be in tremendous pain. I know we're going to be living at this hospital for a week, maybe more.


But nothing could tramp down the feeling of good fortune in my heart.


It's October 25, 2010.
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One year later...


The alarm clock blares into the darkness. It is 4:15 a.m. I feel my husband roll out of bed. For the next 30 minutes, I drift between sleep and awake. I can hear him rummaging about in the bathroom, opening drawers quietly, brushing his teeth. My eyes open when I hear him close the bedroom door behind him. It takes me less than a moment to remember what today is, to remember why he's up at all.


I climb out of bed. The lamp from the living room is too bright. I shield my eyes. 


Brian sits at the computer desk. He's dressed all in white.


I pad over to him, wrap my arms around his shoulders, rest my chin on his head. "Mornin' handsome," I say sleepily. 


"What are you doing up?" he asks. "It's too early."


"I just wanted to say hi, and have fun today." I say.


He stands up, wraps his arms around me, kisses me on the forehead. "I've gotta get going." he says. "It's a long drive to the hospital."


"Have a good day in class," I say. He pats me on the rear and I head back to the comforts of my bed.


It's October 25, 2011. What a difference a year makes.  

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This post is dedicated to my husband, Brian, who celebrates one year cancer free today. He is my heart. I love you to infinity and beyond, babe.

An Historic Day (For Me and My Wrist)

If you had walked up to me 10 years ago and predicted that I would someday go for a tattoo with my baby brother, you would've gotten this response:




It all started about a month ago. I was minding my own business on Facebook (wait, is that an oxymoron?) when I got a private message from my brother.


"Hey Sissy," it said. "I'm going to get another tattoo. You should get one, too."


My initial gut reaction was: "Me? A tattoo? He must be crazy."


But the suggestion kept popping into my head for the rest of the day. It wasn't until I climbed into the car with my good friend, Sam, that I realized I was actually considering it. 


By the time I went to bed that night, I started thinking about designs. I knew it would have to be something that held significant meaning. And I knew I wanted it to be simple, but profound.


The next morning, my husband found me at the computer researching tattoos.


"You're really serious about this whole tattoo thing, huh?" he said.


And I was.


It came to me like a flash: I wanted to get something to serve as a daily reminder to never take life, or love, for granted. I wanted something permanent. Corporeal. Sentimental. Like Brian's surgical scar.


My initial idea was to get something that represented our favorite love expression: I Love You To the Moon and Back. But I couldn't find anything that spoke to me. Finally, I widened my search to include other phrases we use, like "To Infinity and Beyond."


And that's when I found my tattoo.


Now that I had the basic design in mind, it was off to the races to find a shop, an artist, and the time. Enter Dennis of The Ivory Tiger. Five minutes into a conversation with him and I was totally relaxed, calm, and ready for the process to begin.


And begin it did.

I went first. Because I'm a chicken. Also, because I was promised it would take less than 10 minutes. When Dennis did the first "warning" line (which I think of now as pen to paper) I was shocked. Surprised. Delighted.


"Is that it??" I said. "Really?"

Everyone laughed.


I'm not sure what I expected. I'd heard everything from "It hurts worse than giving birth," to "Don't worry, it just feels like a moderate sunburn."


Honestly, to me, it felt like just what it was--sharp metal dragging across my skin.


BUT--it was totally bearable. I didn't cry. And I was able to talk throughout the whole process.

Ok, maybe it did hurt. A little.

Halfway through the process, I asked Dennis if he was interested in knowing the story behind my tattoo. Considering the fact that I probably don't look like most of his regular clientele, I could tell he was intrigued. When I got to the part where I told him about Brian being diagnosed with cancer at 30, his hand paused. He looked up at me and waited for me to finish the story. He kept looking behind me at my healthy husband (who was manning the camera.) And he was visibly moved.


When the residual ink and oil were wiped away, I was left with the tattoo I'd never known I'd always wanted.

Because true love is forever.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little emotional. Not from pain, or nerves, or fear. But from the true gravity of what this little bit of ink on the inside of my wrist truly meant to me. Now I know that everyday I can look down and see a physical, permanent representation of Brian surviving cancer. 


My heart fills to bursting every time I see it.


Ok, enough sentimental stuff, now onto Baby Brother Adam's tattoo experience. He is a true tough guy and got his done on his inner bicep.


Every guy in the shop, when told where it was going, visibly winced. 

Probably my favorite shot of the day. Didn't realize my reflection would be so clear until I reviewed the pictures last night.

He's not flexing. Much.

Adam chose the Gaelic phrase "mo mhuintir, mo chroi," which translates to "my family, my heart." And it turned out just beautifully. 


To say he's been entering rooms bicep-first would not be an over-exaggeration. He's prouder than a rooster in a hen house.


By the time our tattooing was over, the guys in the shop were making fun of my endless picture taking. But I still demanded a photo with Dennis:

And, naturally, there had to be another picture taken at the "unveiling ceremony" afterwards, and my mom and dad's house:

That's right. I'm ghetto, yo.

I couldn't be happier with my decision to get this tattoo. It's more than just artwork to me. There is more meaning in that small swipe of ink than you can imagine.


I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I will love it for the rest of my life. Just like I know that, for the rest of my life, I will always be grateful to have my husband with me--alive, well, healthy. And 100% cancer free.

Nightmare

Fear has a way of finding you when you least expect it. Sneaking into your bedroom at night, closing its hands around your throat, whittling its way into your mind while you sleep. Some nights fear is gentle in its assault, easing its way into pleasant dreams. Other nights it rushes in, shaking you awake in a cold sweat. 


And it takes hours to wipe it all away.

I wake in a panic, familiar images of sterile gowns, blinking red lights, and IV stands still swirling in front of my eyes. I feel tears sliding down my cheeks, into my hair, wetting the pillow case. All I know for sure is that it is night time. The moon shines through my window, not enough to illuminate the room, just enough to give me a vague idea of the time. My breathing sounds haggard. Loud. Labored. I'm disoriented. Unsure of my surroundings. Unsure if I'm alone.


I reach out in the dark, fingers sliding over soft sheets. Searching for warmth. My hand stops on fur, a sleeping cat curled up close. I pause for a moment, seeking comfort by sliding my hand slowly over kitty's head, back, leg. And then continue my search through the dark for who I'm really reaching for.


My heart rate stalls, then slows as I close my fingers around his wrist. Warm. Present. Alive. I curl into him, concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Into the dark, I sigh and whisper, "He's fine. He's fine. He's fine," until my panic subsides.


It takes me about an hour to find my calm so I can sleep again. And he sleeps through it, not knowing the nightmare that interrupts my slumber.


I wake a few hours later, still curled into him, still gripping his wrist. The sun had begun its climb into the sky. Dawn chases the rest of the nightmare from the room, like dusting the dregs from the corners.

I release my husband's wrist, study the way his eyelashes curl on his cheek--his cheek that is pink with life--and smile. I roll over, facing the window. My last thought before I slip back into a dreamless sleep: it's cloudy. I wonder if it will rain today.

Lessons Learned

Our roles as "husband" and "wife" were pretty clear cut for the first 6 years of our marriage. Brian was the foundation, and I was the soft place to land. He was the rational one, I was the emotional one. He was the one who took care of me, I was the one who needed taken care of. We made a great team. I always knew that, when something bad happened, I could fall apart, knowing he would be there to deal with the details.

When we suddenly lost our 1 year old cat, Eddie, to unexpected heart disease, I thought my life could never get any blacker.

Sweet little Eddie with the nubby tail.

I laid on the couch, crying, for days. I'd never considered the possibility that something so devastating could happen to us. And Brian was there--to console me, to grieve with me, to pick up the broken pieces I left in my wake.

We got through it. I still have a raw spot in my heart that is Eddie, but I figured out how to live again, how to breathe and laugh and feel good again. Brian helped me with that, his role realized. We moved on with our lives, and everything was good. We were making plans for Brian to attend nursing school. We were enjoying our lives with our friends. We were trying to have a baby.

On October 9, 2010, my husband went to the doctor with what we thought was a urinary tract infection. He came home two hours later with cancer.

No one can prepare you for that kind of news. No one can prepare you for the way the blood rushes into your ears, so it's the only thing you can hear. No one can adequately describe what it feels like when your life suddenly changes direction, like the earth just started spinning the other way on its axis. 

That day, I met my husband at the door. The fear was plain on his face, and clutched in his hands was a sheaf of paperwork 2 inches thick. "How To Deal With The Diagnosis," and "Dealing with Cancer," and "What to Expect in the Early Stages of Cancer Treatment." Lists of specialists, oncologists, surgeons, urologists, counselors. 

The first two days after the diagnosis are a blur for me. I'm sure we talked about it. I know we made plans. I know we put on our brave faces when we went out into the world, and I know that we clung to each other like frightened children in the darkest parts of the night. 

I also remember when the shift in our roles happened. For the first time, in a difficult situation, Brian needed someone to lean on. Someone to pick up the pieces. Somewhere soft to land. 

When Brian couldn't bring himself to do it, I picked up the phone and called all our family and friends to let them know that "Cancer" had been introduced into our lives. I answered their questions, called with updates, consoled those who needed consoling. I made arrangements for friends to stop by to keep Brian distracted while we waited those miserable 5 days for the biopsy results to come back. We went on car rides in a convertible with the sun beating down. We had potluck dinners with those we love most. We still managed to laugh and joke and stamp the worry down with the determination to win.

When Brian's doctor confirmed that it was a malignant tumor, and said it was approximately the size of a softball, Brian's demeanor changed. Surgery wasn't a maybe, it was a must. This tumor, if it wasn't removed quickly, could kill him. Words like "colostomy bags," and "bowel resection," and "possible removal of the bladder," were used. Brian's fear showed plainly on his face. He carried it around like a bulky backpack. He retreated within himself, living out his reality in his own mind, not wanting to burden me or anyone else with the fact that he was facing his own mortality at 30.

At that moment, hearing those words, I found resolve. I told myself I wouldn't cry. I would be strong for him like he'd been strong for me so many times in the past. I would encourage him, buoy him up, remind him of all he had to live for. And for the next few weeks, he never saw me break. When the panic would rise up in me like so much bile, I would retreat to the shower, letting the hot water wash away my fear and grief and nausea, so that I could continue to help him through. 

The day of Brian's surgery, I felt like there was an ocean behind my eyes, waiting for the dam to break. My head felt heavy, and the desire to lay down and weep was overwhelming. But I sat with him while they explained the procedure. Held his hand as we gave them all the necessary information they needed. Kissed him goodbye when they took him back for prep. Rather than fall apart, the way my body, my psyche, desperately needed, I gathered my things, left my family in the waiting room, and went to meet with the financial counselor. An hour later, mountains of paperwork completed and signed, copies made, I dragged myself back to the waiting room. 

When Brian's surgeon came around the corner and asked to speak with us in a private room, I stopped breathing. They only do that on Grey's Anatomy when it's REALLY bad news. And so I walked with him, heart in my hands, and waited. It was gone. Every last bit of the alien that had taken over my husband's body was gone. He would live a long, happy, normal life. 

The dam broke. I wept for all we'd been through, for the pain I knew he'd be in when he woke up, for the anticipation of his reaction when I told him the good news, for the knowledge that he would be fine. 

A fuzzy cell-phone pic of Brian about 2 hours after his surgery.

Throughout it all I learned some very valuable lessons about myself. I am stronger than I give myself credit for. My husband needs me as much as I need him. And nothing, not even cancer, can tear us apart.