My husband and I were packing boxes for a move when a sharp pain started on my right side. He thought I’d pulled a muscle. Normally, I would’ve agreed. But days passed, and the pain stayed. Something felt off, so I went to urgent care.
They mentioned appendicitis. Or maybe a muscle strain. Just to be safe, they ordered a CT scan.
It was neither.
The nurse didn’t rush into explanations. She just said more tests were needed. I stared at the wall, holding my breath. My husband, Dan, squeezed my hand—the way he does when words don’t help.
That weekend, we were supposed to move into our dream house near a lake. I’d already planned the garden. Chosen paint colors. Suddenly, the future we’d been building felt fragile.
The following days blurred into appointments and phone calls. Every ring made my heart jump.
Then came the answer: early-stage cancer.
I sank onto the kitchen floor and cried until Dan found me and sat beside me, silent and steady. The move went on hold. Boxes stayed half-packed. Life paused—except for the part racing forward without my permission.
Treatment started quickly. It wasn’t unbearable, but it wasn’t easy. Food lost its appeal. My hair began falling out. Dan shaved his head with me and said, “We’re doing this together.”
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