For eighteen months, our marriage wasn’t defined by dates or vacations, but by white blood cell counts and chemotherapy cycles.
I became more than a wife; I became a nurse, a cheerleader, and a punching bag for his fear. I nursed him through stage 3 lymphoma. I learned how to flush a PICC line. I learned to cook food that had no smell to avoid triggering his nausea.
I was there for the ugly parts that no one talks about. I held the bucket while he retched until he was empty. I shaved his head when clumps of hair started falling onto his pillow, telling him he looked handsome while my heart broke. I slept in the hospital chair, contorting my body into shapes that left me aching for days, just so he wouldn’t wake up alone.
We fought the war together. And against the odds, we won.
The appointment was on a Tuesday. The oncologist smiled—a real smile, not the pitying tight-lipped one we were used to.
“‘Remission,’” she said.
The relief was physical. I felt like I could finally breathe for the first time in two years. We walked out of the hospital into the bright sunlight. I squeezed his hand, ready to plan a trip, a dinner, a future.
“We should celebrate,” I said, tears of joy streaming down my face.
He pulled his hand away. He looked at me, and his eyes were clear and healthy, but cold.
“I am celebrating,” he said. “The day the doctor said ‘Remission,’ he celebrated by asking for a divorce.“.
I stopped walking. “What?”
“I’m leaving, Sarah,” he said, his voice steady.
“But… we just won,” I stammered. “We survived. You have a whole life ahead of you.”
“Exactly,” he nodded. “‘I got a second chance at life,’” he explained, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
He looked at me—at the dark circles under my eyes from sleepless nights, at the worry lines etched into my forehead, at the woman who had seen him at his absolute weakest. He didn’t see a savior. He saw a mirror reflecting his trauma.
“‘And I don’t want to spend it with someone who reminds me of being sick.’“.
He hailed a cab. He got in and drove away toward his fresh start, leaving me on the sidewalk outside the cancer center. I realized then that to him, I wasn’t the partner who helped him survive the storm; I was just the wreckage he needed to clear away to enjoy the sunshine.
