LOVE IN THE TIME OF CANCER

The last time I stayed up all night was when we drove through the night to the Gorge to pitch our tent during sunrise. The time before that was our first date. We ate Thai food and watched Walk The Line at your brother's house, talking until we started to lose our voices. After that, it would never be the same.

Fast forward to this past weekend, and we just celebrated our third Valentines together. There are lots of things people tell you about long-term relationships in college, your young, young adulthood. It won't last. Make sure your friends approve, especially your parents. Don't let them hold you back. You aren't going to get married, are you? Don't get a cat. (We got a cat). Some had a lot to say when we moved in together. It's been two years and we still haven't killed each other, so we must be doing something right.

What you never learn about is how to be a partner when the going truly gets tough. There are just some things you can't prepare for. In December, during finals week, your Mom called you saying she found a lump in her breast that was being tested for cancer. We'd have to wait a few days to hear back. We told ourselves it was nothing, just like everyone else. This stuff happens all the time. So-and-so had the same thing and it was fine. It's not cancer.

And then it was. 

We canceled our trip to Bend that weekend and came back home. You hadn't been back since summer, and I could tell you were anxious. Yet you stayed positive and smiled, if a little forced. 

The first week of this term began with a trip to Kaiser at 5 am to start a long day, your mother's double mastectomy. We kept ourselves busy, socialized with family, grazed the cafeteria, and wandered the halls to keep our spirits light. It was going to be fine.

And then it wasn't.

After all those hours, all that pain, the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes, elevating the stage of her aggressive, douche-bag cancer. It quickly became apparent that the journey would not be over for a long time. But we had hope.

You were going to go to her first round of chemo last week but then you caught the flu, and were not allowed to be around her. It was hard, seeing that brokenness in your face as you tried to carry on and sleep off the devastation. You have always been brave, bubbly, loud and funny. And now our home is quiet, like a long, deep inhale that doesn't stop. It feels wrong. I've been watching how this all creeps over you like a shadow. One day you're busy in your homework, dedicated and enthusiastic. And then before you let yourself be happy, you remember, and again you're back in a dark place. 

I've comforted friends through break-ups, parent's divorces, and their own health issues, physically and emotionally. But I didn't know how to be the girlfriend you needed. Trying to put myself in your shoes makes me want to cry, and I can't cry. It's not allowed right now. 

The first step for me is becoming the strong one. I have to be the endless force of groundedness, positivity, and stability. And if I said I had that down right now, I'd be lying. But I'm trying. When we don't know what's going to happen next, we have to show that it's only going to get better, even in the smallest of ways. I have to be a spring of positive notions and reassurance, and shoot down all the dark thoughts, even the sarcastic ones. Just as she has to be an unrelentless force to stand up to this disease, we have to be soldiers and keep looking forward. The only way to combat this hardship is through constant love that never backs down. We have to be prepared to drop our work and sit on the floor and hug each other. Let you cry, but hold you tight. It's the little intimate details and acts of simple kindness that make the greatest gestures: the strength to keep going. 

We've got a long road to recovery ahead of us and I will do everything in my power to be there through it all. 

Because whether it will be okay or not, a good heart is prepared for anything.

And for the record, it will all be okay.