About halfway through our conversation the night we met, he casually mentioned he had stage 4 cancer and had chemo the following day. I didn't miss a beat and responded as if he told me the sky was blue. It was too late; he had already charmed me into having a crush on him; as if cancer could get in the way of my stubborn heart, he would have to try another line on this girl! We sat by the fire, shared stories until sunrise, danced to Maren Morris and Chris Stapelton, and laughed. His calm demeanor, his presence, the absence of fear in his voice that he was potentially on a path to death's door all stuck in my memory like a post-it note of moments you don't ever forget in life: birth of a child, loss of a loved one, meeting a man that is going to transform your life, for the better.
When we said goodbye, I had no expectations of seeing him anytime soon; I couldn't have known that he wouldn't let his health stand in the way of our courtship. I saw him one day later at his home. He was, unfortunately, a chemo pro at this point, with his infusion bag around his waist and a smile so large that you would have thought the fanny pack was a fashion choice, not administering potentially life-saving medication. When I arrived at his home, he had a bushel of rosemary from his garden gathered by his front door. He would probably deny this, but I recall him saying, "I wanted to have something for you; this rosemary is for you," so maybe he wasn't that romantic, but that's what I heard, and I'm sticking to it (he'll take the points even if he doesn't recall the moment).
We danced and laughed despite watching him effortlessly manage the nausea and vomiting that come with chemo. I began reading him one of my favorite books, "Walking", by Erling Kagge. I got through a few pages before he fell asleep, head on my lap, still, peaceful, kind, and gentle, but oh so sick. Over the next few weeks, we would nap on the grass, look at the sky, dance some more, and get to know one another. We would take a tap dance class at the community center every Monday night; we met each other's children far quicker than anyone, even the most brazen daters among us, would ever recommend; it felt natural, regular, and easy.
We were living in colors reserved for destined lovers. We held hands always; we went to dinners, volleyball games, family weekends, friend's concerts, and couples dinners with married people. We took so many naps (still do). My friends were both happy (oh my gosh, you are so in love) and terrified (oh my gosh, this guy is going to die, you are fucked). This was the second time he had cancer, and the survival rate for him was bleak; we never spoke about it. One day, I asked why he didn't talk about it, and he responded, "If we talked about it, it's all we would talk about, and I don't want that for us." He was right; he always leads us to the most peaceful moments, ridiculous adventures, and sometimes insanity, and I love all of it, all of him, all of us.
As much as everyone around him was worried he was dying, I'm not sure he ever believed he was dying more than the rest of us, and I am convinced that is why he is alive today. As weeks turned into months, we fell more in love, took more road trips, and spent more time with friends and family. After two months of dating, he announced that he was stopping chemo, with the notion "if I'm going to die, I want to die living, not die trying to stay alive." Despite the odds, his courage and resilience in living fully were terrifying and inspiring; I responded with 'Your body, your choice," though I was scared. Within weeks of him stopping the chemo, it was as if I was dating a new man; his energy, his weight, and his appetite all went up; we danced longer, we loved deeper, and we still took naps; he still had the best dad jokes.
We moved through the winter, cold plunging, avoiding sugar; he fasted, took liquid vitamins, cuddled up in the cold beneath Pendleton blankets by the fire, began daydreaming more, and sang lots of karaoke while, you guessed it, dancing. Our families spent Christmas together, presents under the tree for a family blended on speed; everyone knew that none of us knew what kind of time we had, so we smiled and played cards; we had holiday parties and sang by fires, he always danced, even if no one was watching, and he never worried about who was watching (he was living in a state of zero fucks in a way that can't be learned, it's earned).
The new year came, and both of our daughters got into schools across the country. We kept moving with a date circled on the calendar for a scan. It wasn't an actual calendar; it was a virtual, terrifying red light blinking in my heart, silently counting the days until the scan. On the day of the scan, we sat in the waiting room, as we do, singing. We have had both the moments where other patients smiled and maybe wanted to join in and others where they call security (see above for the zero fucks way). As a sidebar, I've never seen anyone tell a cancer patient they couldn't experience joy when it's not hurting anyone else, and I know this from sitting next to him, experiencing his joy very loudly and out of tune at times. But how do I love him, and how does he love me? There are too many ways to count.
In the middle of his cancer battle, life kept moving forward. We had disagreements, the honeymoon phase passed, and we still enjoyed all aspects of life together. We merged our lives increasingly with each passing day; we held our breath. He would often turn to me and say, "Thanks for saving me," "We are healing each other," or "So glad my cancer is gone." While this might sound like platitudes, this was his actual mindset, and I am thoroughly convinced that his mindset impacted his health positively.
Scan day came, and we sang while we waited. He danced to the room, and I held his hand as they got out a needle and brought him to the scan. He came out radioactive for a few hours. I joked that I never dated anyone who was actually radioactive. (My boyfriend is so RADIOACTIVE!). We laughed, and we held our breath. He immediately said, "Well, that's going to be the last scan because we beat it, honey." As much as I wanted to believe him and believe in manifestation, visualization, and positive thinking, it was entirely challenging to reconcile that, perhaps all this time, I was witnessing a miracle. What are the odds? Both low and high, that's what makes it a miracle.
It would be more than a month before we could go over the scan results with his doctors, and until then, he didn't think twice about it; I, on the other hand, thought about it all the time. On the morning of the scan results, he had invited college buddies over for breakfast without telling me - I reminded him it was a big day with doctors, to which he responded, "Yeah, no problem, we'll just take the call quickly." That is precisely what happened; we took the Zoom call quickly to find out he had No Evidence of Disease, and I started crying, which is when he admitted he realized it was a big deal. We returned to the porch, told his friends, and ate bagels after our jaws came up off the ground. I think somewhere deep down, he planned that breakfast with all the confidence that we would have something good to celebrate; we did.
Summer arrived, and our kids reached home; it was wildly chaotic at times, yet other times, so still. We were living in a miracle and still are. We just had another scan last week, and he jokes that the hospital is terrible - they can't even find the cancer, still no evidence! I shake my head like a wife of fifty years, and he begs me to grow young, not old, with him; I willingly oblige with a smile only he knows how to find from me.
Today, we are celebrating our first anniversary, a milestone I didn't even consider possible the night we met. As we fell asleep last night, he said, "It's been a long year, honey!" I looked at him funny, and he said, "It's a leap year, 366 days!" I laughed so loud you would have thought I was at a comedy club being paid to laugh. Then I started tickling him like we were teenagers growing young. It's been challenging to write this story because I keep tearing up; I'm not sure what I've done to be a part of this miracle life with him, but I wouldn't want it any other way. We are going dancing tonight because, of course, we are; we might even stop somewhere along the way and start singing in an unexpected place because, as far as I'm concerned, this is how miracles happen.
Thank you so much, Deb!! Grateful you give us lots of of great places to dance and sing and grow and that you dance and laugh with us!!! 🤍
This is so heartwarming, beautiful, and courageous! Congrats on your one-year, and here's to many, many more!