Back at It – Again

(And Again, And Again)

Tobin starts chemo again this Wednesday.

Five weeks off sounded like a gift on paper. A little stretch of borrowed time. A break from the drip of poison, the sterile rooms, the endless appointments that crowd the calendar and our minds. But in real life, it went by in a blur—fast, chaotic, and heartbreakingly normal.

We didn’t take a trip. We didn’t make a vision board or post smiling selfies on a “healing journey” from some mountain retreat. There was no curated miracle. We just lived. Day by day. In the moments that weren’t big enough to post, but meant everything to us. A few beach days when we felt like dragging the chairs out and chasing the sun. Naps together, tangled under throw blankets, half-watching the latest serial killer documentary and half-watching Zara, our crazy kitten/cat.

We laughed when we could. I crack myself up with the stupidest things, he finds humor in things that aren’t me. I, however, think I’m hilarious.  We talked about stupid stuff—what to make for dinner, work nonsense. We bickered about the shower curtain and the thermostat and him telling me to tell Natalie to empty the dishwasher. We rewatched shows we already know by heart, because new plots take energy we don’t have, and comfort is a couch and something familiar in the background. Sometimes we sat in silence—him on the loveseat, me on the couch, or vice versa—breathing the same air. Sometimes our fingers or toes would reach out across the space between us, just enough to say, I’m here. We existed. Together. And that felt like a win.

But even in the stillness, cancer hums underneath everything. I catch him squeezing his hands together, a subtle twitch he doesn’t realize I notice—neuropathy. I see him run a hand over his arm and pause, realizing the hair is thinning again. He catches his own reflection and doesn’t say anything, but I can see it—the quiet shock of recognizing yourself and not recognizing yourself at the same time.

He’s still so beautiful to me. Always will be. Those brilliant blue eyes, but now they carry a heaviness, a knowing. The perfect salt-and-pepper beard that I tease him about, patchy now in spots where chemo has crept in. That same shit eating grin with the little snaggle tooth I’ve loved for years—but now, even that smile sometimes hides behind pain because his mouth hurts all the time. And still, he smiles. Still, he tries. Still, he lets me love him through it.

But now the break is over. We’re back at it. Again.

Chemo’s back on the calendar. This time, no set number of rounds. Just a scan in two months to see what the battlefield looks like. Same enemy. Same war. New phase. The doctor tells us gently—he always does, like he’s trying to cushion the words: It’s not curable. It’s inoperable. “Chronic,” they say. Like its allergies. Like it’s something you just learn to live with.

We nod. We’ve heard it before. But every time it stings like the first.

And the wild part? We keep going. We keep doing this. He keeps showing up. We wake up on those early chemo days—me anxious, him resigned—and we go. We drive to that building with its cold hallways and over-perfumed, yet tinged with the smell of bleach waiting rooms and sit in that chair. He lets the medicine in. He lets his body be taken apart in hopes of slowing down the monster growing inside him.

By mid-morning, we’re everyone’s favorite couple in the infusion room—the funny ones. The ones with the too-loud laugh. The ones who brings all sorts of stuff in a big ridiculous bag that says “Tobin & Deb”. Nurses stop by just to chat. He cracks jokes. I hand him water and snacks. He rolls his eyes when I fuss with his blanket. And then, as the hours stretch on, I see him start to fade. By the time they hook up “the push” (iykyk), he’s quieter. His eyes lose their light. He just wants to sleep. And then we leave, nine minutes home through too many red lights, holding hands and not saying much because the silence feels safer than the truth.

The quiet in that car is deafening.

I don’t know how he does it. I watch him endure, over and over again. I watch his body betray him. I watch his strength be tested in ways that make no sense. And still, he does it. I’m the one who wants to crumble.

There’s no manual for this. No YouTube tutorial. No checklist for how to be a caregiver and a partner and a mother and a functioning person all at once. Most days I’m duct-taping it all together with a steady flow of Dunkins’, a messy bun, my gold hoops and sarcasm. People mean well. They say things like, “You’re so strong,” or “God only gives you what you can handle.” I know they mean to comfort me. But sometimes, I want to scream. I don’t want to be strong. I want to be done. I want this to not be our story.

But this is what we’ve got.

So I do what I can. I pack the chemo bag—his charger, sugar-free candy, neck pillow, mints, that faded blanket my mother gave me before she passed. He loves that blanket. Says it makes him feel less cold. I bring my laptop, pretending I’m getting work done while watching him out of the corner of my eye. Pale? Too quiet? Is his breathing slow? Is he zoning out or just exhausted? My brain never stops. I am always scanning the perimeter of our life, looking for what needs softening, protecting, covering.

And then, when we’re home, when the house is quiet, and everyone’s asleep, I let myself fall apart a little. Sometimes a lot. Sometimes I cry in the shower with the water turned up too hot. Sometimes I lay in bed next to him while he sleeps and just stare at the ceiling, bargaining with God, begging for time.

This isn’t a call for pity. It’s not a perfectly wrapped little inspiration story. It’s just real. It’s raw. And it’s ours. I promised myself I would keep writing, even when it’s messy. Even when it’s painful. Especially when it is. Because love like this deserves to be witnessed. Not just the beautiful parts—the broken ones, too.

We don’t know what this next round of chemo will bring. We don’t know what the scan will say. But we know we’ve survived every awful, impossible day up until now. We know how to hold hands in the dark. We know how to laugh when nothing’s funny. We know how to sit in the silence and keep breathing.

And for today, that is enough.

Until next time. Love, Me.