We Celebrated Our Tenth Anniversary

The trip Mike planned for our tenth anniversary was beyond anything I could’ve imagined. The cozy little cabin and the scent of pine and damp earth felt perfect. We spent our first day there at a nearby hot spring, just talking, filling the world with laughter. And it was so much fun that for a while, I forgot about cancer. But my body has a cruel way of reminding me. 

After returning to the cabin, a crushing wave of fatigue and a deep ache settled into my bones. I fought it, trying to keep my eyes open and smile bright, but I’d begun failing.

“I’m so sorry, Mike,” I finally whispered, the words catching in my throat. “Don’t let me ruin this for you because I’m sick.”

As Mike’s brow furrowed with tenderness, and he appeared somehow even more handsome. He reached out to gently brush a stray hair from my face. “Just worry about feeling better so we can have a blast when you’re recooped.”

I wanted to say more—to tell him how much this trip meant—but my eyelids felt heavy as stones. I could only manage a slow nod before falling asleep.

When I woke up a little while later, Mike was gone. I knew he probably went out walking, maybe grabbing a beer from a quaint restaurant nearby. Apparently, Mike’s version of "experiencing life" is hearing stories from elderly men at the bar, and I love hearing my husband talk about it.

An idea sparked in my mind. It was our anniversary. We couldn't hike or dance together, but we could still do something fun. So, I grabbed my phone and propped my head back on the pillow. I clicked the talk-to-text feature and closed my eyes while telling a story into my phone, talking about the day Mike and I met.

When the cabin’s door opened again, Mike walked in, his cheeks flushed from the cool air. He looked at me with that signature warmth that somehow washed away my stress and made me feel worthwhile despite all the ways my health has changed our lives.

“You’re still pretty sick?” he asked, his voice soft.

I nodded sadly.

“Well, I went out and had fun, but what I really want is to be here,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “with you.”

“I thought of something fun,” I replied, my spirits lifting. “If you’re up for it?”

His eyes lit up. “Always.”

“Can you write a chapter about how we met?” I asked. “I wrote one too. Maybe we can read them to each other and compare notes on who has a better memory!”

“Sure!” he grinned.

So, instead of letting my illness derail the entire trip, we turned a bad situation into a "writers' convention" right there in the cabin. 

We had so much fun that we wrote on the way home, ending with seven chapters each! 

Reading his side of the story is hilarious; he describes our first date as the time he’d "never felt so romanced" in all of his life. I’ve laughed and even cried a couple of times, mostly because it’s so dang heartwarming.

A line from my grandma’s happiness file came to mind: “We all matter.” It’s so true. And that’s really what Mike does for me. Despite the treatments, the exhaustion, and the way my abilities have been altered, he never treats me like a burden. He always shows his love in every quiet look and kind word, which helps me know that I matter.

Not long after our vacation in the cabin, I went to see my oncologist. They did scans, and something shocking happened. I no longer have any cancer in my brain, which is miraculous news. I still have some cancer at the base of my skull and at the bottom of my spine, but all the other spots are gone! I had tumors in my pelvis, my hip, growths in my lungs, and at one point, every single vertebra in my spine. But now I only have cancer in two places. This feels like a miracle after all of this time!

“This is absolutely incredible.” I hugged Mike so tightly after the appointment. Maybe we have more chapters to write in life after all? I sure hope so! I guess we’ll have to wait and see.