Loving Him Through Stage 4
We met under fluorescent lights, now we live under a different kind of pressure—but love doesn’t crack.
It wasn’t exactly a Nicholas Sparks moment—Ashley Furniture doesn’t lend itself to sweeping cinematic romance. Too much microfiber and mattress sales quota stress. But three years ago, I met this quiet man with kind eyes, always wearing a cross, sitting alone at the counter height Bolanburg table, engrossed in TikToks, playing way too loudly, (which I later find out is because he is half deaf), and somehow, I just knew.
He didn’t talk much at first. I’d crack a joke, and he’d give me a look like I was a puzzle he wasn’t sure he had the time to solve. But slowly—over shared lunch breaks, hallway glances, and the kind of inside jokes that sneak up on you—I started to see what was underneath. Integrity. Steadiness. A deep, quiet kind of love that doesn’t announce itself with grand gestures, but shows up early, stays late, and remembers how you take your coffee.
We weren’t supposed to fall in love while trying to sell living room sets, but life rarely listens to the rules. And thank God it didn’t.
Months before we even started dating—though I was already very interested—we had our company Christmas party at a local bar. He showed up in a sport jacket and my personal weakness: a scally cap. Lord, have mercy. He looked so handsome. And then, during the white elephant gift game, he walked past and gently placed his hand on the base of my back.
That was it.
Fireworks.
For me anyway—he doesn’t even remember. Of course he doesn’t.
But I do. I remember everything. (well I try to anyway)
I remember our first phone call like it was yesterday. It started casual and stretched into hours—one of those long, winding conversations that only happen when there’s something real sparking underneath. He was drinking a bit that night, which meant the honesty started flowing, too.
He told me he had been married young, and that after the fallout, bachelorhood had become his comfort zone. He dated casually—never anything deep, never anything lasting. He said no one ever really kept his interest, and to be honest, he liked his peace. He didn’t want the weight of expectations, the pressure of shared responsibilities, or the emotional work that comes with truly letting someone in. He had his routines, his space, and no one to answer to—and that suited him just fine.
But then, somewhere between laughter and vulnerability, he paused and said, “Well… if we’re gonna be in a relationship, I want to grow in faith together.” That sentence stopped me cold—not because it was surprising, but because it was intentional. He wasn’t just flirting. He was setting a foundation. It wasn’t about games or convenience; it was about purpose. About us.
Now, here we are. Nearly three years later, not planning vacations or comparing paint swatches for the guest room, but battling stage 4 cancer. Together.
I won’t sugarcoat it—not that I ever do. Cancer is a thief. It has stolen pieces of our routine, our plans, our sleep, our sense of “normal.” It is relentless and unfair and ugly. But somehow, love is still louder.
When I look at him now, I don’t just see the man I met at work. The work we have both since left. I see the man who stepped into a father role without hesitation. No ego. No pretense. Just consistent, unshakable love. Watching him show up for Natalie has been one of the greatest honors of my life. He didn’t have to—but he chose to. He’s been there through her growing pains and teen moods, through the laughs and the hard talks. He’s prayed for her, protected her, and loved her like she was always his. And I know she sees it. I know she feels it.
I see a partner who has listened to my daughter talk through hard things, who has protected our little family with everything in him, even when his own body feels like a battlefield. I see a man who still hugs me hard when the world feels heavy, who still manages to ask how I’m doing when it’s time for bed when he’s the one hooked up to toxic chemicals.
And let me tell you—this love has grown me. I am a naturally fiery, no-nonsense, say-what-I-feel type of woman. Confrontation? I used to treat it like a love language. But somewhere along the way, I learned to set that part of me on a shelf—not because I’ve lost who I am, but because I love who we are. Even in the hardest moments, when I want to yell or storm off or throw a pillow at his head, I don’t. Instead, I try to make him smile. I crack a joke. I dance around in the kitchen like a fool just to get a smirk. And sometimes, that’s all I get—just a little curve of his lip and a look that says, “You’re ridiculous.” But it’s enough. Because that smirk is love. That smirk is still him.
We’ve learned new words. Metastasis. Chemo cycles. FOLFOX vs.FOLFIRI. The differences between PET scans and CT scans. We’ve learned a new kind of patience, a new kind of prayer. And I’ve learned that strength doesn’t always roar—sometimes it looks like just getting out of bed, making it to an appointment, holding each other in the quiet.
If love was a piece of furniture, it wouldn’t be fancy. It’d be something built to last—solid wood, a few nicks from life, but still standing. Still holding weight.
He is the love of my life. Not in a fairytale kind of way—but in a real, raw, holy kind of way. And though cancer has changed so much, it hasn’t changed that.
If anything, it’s made it even clearer.
“Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.” 1 Corinthians 13:7