Widowed at 27: An Introduction

 My name is Jamie and my wonderful husband passed away on December 27th, 2020.  Before I jump ahead to the present, I want to take a few initial posts to tell our story of dealing with cancer from the beginning.  Let me rewind back to June 2020 and the very first sign that anything was wrong with him.

It was right after Father's Day 2020, when he started having pain.  The day before, he had spent three hours doing yard work.  So when he started having pain in the left side of his lower back, shooting down his leg, it didn't raise huge red flags.  After 3 days, and the pain getting worse, he finally went to the doctor.  Again, we expected a pulled muscle, sciatica or, worst case scenario, a bulging disc.  The doctor suspected the same and wanted to rule out anything major so he was sent for an MRI.

Fast forward, a few days or maybe a week, the MRI showed a mass in his sacrum.  My heart stopped.  A mass?  On my loud, obnoxious, can't keep still, and never sick husband?  It couldn't be cancer.  It had to be a cyst or something easily treatable.  He had trouble with cysts and they look like cancerous tumors...that must be it.

We were sent to a neurosurgeon out of town and at this point, I was pushing my 6'2" husband in a wheelchair.  I'm 5'0" even so I did not manage this gracefully and may have ran him into the wall a few times.  Also, keep in mind, this is during COVID, so we had to stop repeatedly for temperature scans and, at that point, I was slightly thankful for the wheelchair because it meant he needed me to go with him in the doctor's office.

We finally met with the doctor, they spoke some French to each other (both having studied in French speaking countries) and the doctor sent us off for a more in-depth MRI.  Fast-forward again, and we return to hear the news, it is a tumor and you need a biopsy.  My heart sank to my stomach and rose to my throat simultaneously.  We had just decided to start trying to have a baby less than a month ago.  How could this be us?

We were then sent for a biopsy and, after much coercing, got the doctor to tell us that, while he hated to instill false hope, with my husband's age, health, and family medical history, he seriously doubted it was cancer.  Exhale.  Breathe.  See, we are fine.  It can't be cancer.  Not us.

Fast forward yet again through a week of waiting to hear what we expected to just reaffirm what we thought we knew.  It was a Friday.  I came home from work, my husband hadn't said a thing.  After getting myself a glass of wine, him a beer, and sitting down on the couch for a Friday afternoon movie, I casually asked, "Did you hear anything from the doctor?"

When he didn't answer and instead told me to come sit beside him on the couch, I froze.  I wanted to stay where I was.  I knew if I sat beside him on the couch, our lives would be changed irrevocably. I wanted to scream "No, never mind, let's just watch the movie," because once those words that I knew were about to be spoken were said, our future was shattered into a million pieces.

After a second of silence, I got up and sat beside him, against every instinct saying not to move.  My legs felt like led.  He told me what I knew was coming. "The doctor called, and he said it was cancer."  I started to cry but he wasn't done.  Oh no, we didn't simply get cancer.  "It isn't the original tumor, it is Stage IV."  We got a monster.

In one week, my husband went from a 100% healthy man with absolutely no symptoms to having what they referred to as "Stage IV metastatic cancer of an unknown primary."  I thought it must be a nightmare. I have lucid dreams, I screamed in my head to wake up. I vaguely remember actually pinching myself.  Just like you see in TV.  Who knew anyone actually did that?

And I was in a nightmare, it was just real life.