Lonely.
That was the feeling 11 years ago today, sitting by myself in a hospital waiting room, while Liz was in surgery. Denial was my companion as I faced the surgeon's 50/50 odds that Liz had cancer. Our life, bustling with the energy of three kids, seemed too full for cancer to find a foothold.
Today we're not just looking back on that time; we're marking over a decade of Liz's survivorship. A period that stands as a testament not to the shadow of cancer, but to the light of endurance and love that shone through it all.
This week also marks 25 years since we got engaged. I'm struck by the different memories of these anniversaries: one of the worst days of our lives, and one of the very best. All remembered together, every year.
Cancer has shaped our lives, defined our schedules, and infiltrated our thoughts and decisions with a permanence underscored by Liz's ongoing treatments every three weeks to keep the cancer away. My own battle and recovery added layers to our family's story, complicating our dance with this uninvited guest. And so many others haven't been as fortunate we have been.
Yet, this isn't a lament. It's a reflection of our reality, a blend of the weight of our experiences and the strength we've discovered within them. Our then-six-year-old Cohen, struggling to sleep, voiced the uncertainty we all felt 11 years ago, "Does mom still have the bad symptoms in her body?" His innocent inquiry captured the essence of our journey—confronting fear with the fortitude of family.
Our story with cancer is significant and everyday, shadowed yet illuminated by the strength and love we share. Here's to recognizing the depth of our journey, acknowledging the challenges, and embracing the life we've built, every step of the way.
Lonely no more.
11 years of beating cancer. 25 years together. Eternity to go.
You r my rock Liz!!
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