There are things you never want to get used to: the sharp tang of antiseptic in hospital corridors, the cling of plastic wristbands.
And the way your hair clogs the shower drain for weeks, until one day there’s simply no hair left.
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At 41, my world shrank to a schedule of blood draws, chemo IVs, and bathroom tiles I could trace in the dark.
People called me “brave.”
Mostly, I was just tired, of fighting, of failing, and of making other people feel better about my odds.
The one thing I still believed in was my husband, Grant. He treated every appointment like a battle he refused to let me lose. He squeezed my hand so hard I sometimes worried he’d break it.
There are things you never want to get used to.
If I threw up, he’d wipe my face and crack a joke, like, “That one sounded like a champion, babe.”
He was always there, through hope or terror.