John was started on a new treatment. And aside from getting on a clinical trial, this was his last option for treatment. The hope was that this treatment would shrink the tumor enough that it could be safely removed by surgery within several months. John came home from the hospital. He couldn’t eat, so every 12 hours I’d mix up his IV nutrition, hook up his IV, and set his pump. Good thing I was already practiced at this!
One afternoon we were sitting on the porch in silence after a hard follow up appointment with his oncologist. At the appointment, she sat down and looked right at John and I. ‘If this treatment doesn’t work, this will likely be the end. I recommend you consider going on hospice.’ It was sobering. We had never considered this journey would turn out any way but positive. Call us naive, but we were so in love, we just KNEW we could never be separated.
We sat on the porch holding hands and just looking at each other. Beginning to process this may be the beginning of the end. With tears streaming down my face, I looked at John. ‘Do you want to get married?,’ I asked him. ‘Of course,’ he said. We held each other in the tightest hug and just sobbed. Hard.
One week later, on October 8th, 2017, we got married in our beautiful yard in the shadow of Mount Rainier. It was hands down THE best day of our lives.
In January of 2018, John had a major 5-hour surgery to remove the tumor along with parts of his small intestine and large colon. Surgery was deemed a success, and again, John was declared NED. Our happiness and relief was short-lived, however. At a follow-up CT scan in March, we learned the cancer was back, and this time, it was everywhere.
We traveled to Portland to enroll [in] a clinical trial. For this treatment, John was required to stay in the hospital. We spent our days snuggling in his hospital bed, watching movies, and just talking. As the days went on, I could see John getting weaker. I knew in my heart this treatment wasn’t working. John’s belief that he would beat this never once faltered. One night while sitting in his hospital bed with him, he said, ‘I so badly want this to be our fairy tale. Our happily ever after. I have to beat this. For you, for us.’
In May, we learned the treatment didn’t work. By this point, John had lost 20 lbs and was too weak to walk out of the hospital by himself. We were sent home and John was told he needed to recuperate before he could be considered for any other clinical trials.
By June, he was hardly eating and was so weak he could hardly leave our bed. I never left his side. I bathed him, fed him, loved on him, and tried my hardest to make him feel so loved and appreciated.
One morning after a night of vomiting, I brought him to the hospital. The cancer had spread rapidly and there was nothing else that could be done. His doctor came into his room, held his hand and looked into his eyes with tears in hers. ‘It’s time, John.’ John looked at me with his beautiful once sparkling eyes; now slightly dulled from the pain medication, and yellow-tinged from the tumors in his liver. I squeezed his hand hard, and while trying to stifle a sob, I just nodded in agreement with his doctor.
Let me tell you something about John. At age 18, he was paralyzed from the waist down in a snowboarding accident. He was told he’d never walk again. Guess what? He did. And snowboarded, and hiked, and coached CrossFit. He was quite possibly the most optimistic person I have ever met. He would set his mind to something and he would make it happen. He knew he was going to beat cancer; he KNEW it. And nobody, even his doctors, could tell him otherwise. He was MY rock. When I was sad or scared of what was happening, he would hold me tight, smile and say, ‘Babe, don’t worry. We got this!’
 term that many cancer patients dream about.){kind=link}