Reality Check

Even though chemotherapy hasn't started yet, David is still showing signs of illness.

We expected that.

But knowing something is coming and actually watching it happen are two very different things.

As we enjoyed our day at Adventureland Oktoberfest, we stopped to watch the Iowa Hawkeye football game. At one-point, poor David fell asleep.

Not because of alcohol.

Because cancer comes with fatigue.

I sat there watching him sleep, and I was coming apart at the seams. This man I love is facing the toughest battle of his life, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to take it away.

I wasn't planning on leaving his side anyway, but I made sure people knew I was there with him while he napped. He wasn't passed out. He wasn't drunk.

He has cancer.

And sometimes his body is going to need to rest.

We may still be choosing to live our lives to the fullest, but that doesn't mean the bumps in the road disappear. Some of them are already here. Others are waiting for us down the road.

The following Monday, David was scheduled for a bone marrow biopsy and to have his port placed.

This is one part of the cancer journey I wish someone had prepared us for.

I had confidence in my dad to take David to the appointment while I went to work. David was expecting to be sedated for both procedures, or at least to have enough local anesthesia that he wouldn't be aware of what was happening.

He was asleep for the bone marrow biopsy.

But he was wide awake for the port placement.

What he told me afterward was that a towel was draped between his chest and his face so he couldn't see what was happening. Unfortunately, he could still feel everything.

And then, at one point, the staff left him alone in the surgical suite.

That brought on anxiety and fear.

And honestly?

I completely understand why.

Imagine being strapped to a table in a cold surgical room, unable to see what's happening, feeling the procedure, and then being left alone with your thoughts.

That's terrifying.

And that's exactly why I'm sharing this.

If you or someone you love is going to have a port placed, ask questions ahead of time.

Ask what type of anesthesia will be used.

Ask whether you will be awake.

Ask what you will feel.

Ask what happens if you become anxious or uncomfortable.

And most importantly, don't assume you know what to expect.

We didn't.

I wish we had.

When I saw David that afternoon, it became real in a way it hadn't before.

He now had a port in his chest for the chemotherapy treatments ahead.

There was no pretending this wasn't happening anymore.

Cancer had physically marked him.

There will likely be a scar that stays with him for the rest of his life—a permanent reminder of this chapter of our story.

And as much as I hated seeing it, I also knew what it represented.

We were moving forward.

We can't go backward.

We can't undo the diagnosis.

We can't wish the cancer away.

So it's time to put on our adult underwear, grab our boots by the straps, and get ready for this next adventure.

Because ready or not...

Here we go.

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