Blood Boogers

Five months before my husband Wes was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, we moved to a new town for a fresh start. We were excited for everything this next chapter represented: better opportunities, a higher household income, a better school district for our daughters, and the chance to finally settle into the life we had worked so hard to build. It felt like things were finally falling into place.

Then cancer entered our lives and changed everything overnight.

One of the hardest losses as a caregiver is the loss of normalcy. Suddenly every part of life revolved around appointments, scans, bloodwork, side effects, medications, and waiting for answers. Everyday routines shifted in ways I never expected. Grocery shopping changed because his appetite changed. Clothes became too big from weight loss. We shaved his head together after his hair started thinning, trying to make the moment feel less scary and more empowering. Thankfully, he never fully lost his hair, but each physical change was still a reminder that our lives were no longer our own.

Even the way we talked as a family changed. At first, we referred to his cancer as “blood boogers” to help our daughters, who were five and two at the time, understand what was happening without fear. Eventually, our oldest looked at us one day and said, “Can we just call it what it is? Cancer.” She was old enough to recognize the weight behind the softened language.

There was also grief in the life we thought we were beginning. Instead of settling into our new home and enjoying this exciting chapter, we were thrown into survival mode. I stepped into the role of primary income provider while also balancing caregiving, parenting, and trying to hold our household together emotionally. Some days Wes felt almost like himself, and other days treatment completely drained him. We could no longer plan ahead because everything depended on how he felt physically and mentally that day.

At the same time, my own health quietly took a backseat.

I live with autoimmune disease, and before his diagnosis I had been actively focusing on my own health journey. Once cancer happened, my appointments and priorities were pushed aside. The focus became getting Wes through treatment. People would often tell me, “You look amazing,” or “You’re handling this so well,” but internally I felt like I was drowning. I became very good at appearing composed while carrying an overwhelming amount of fear, exhaustion, and emotional weight. More than anything, I wished people would simply show up without needing to be asked. I needed someone to acknowledge that caregivers are carrying trauma too.

Another difficult layer was that we had just left behind everything familiar. Wes had lived in our previous town his entire life. His family, childhood friends, and lifelong support system were all there. We were trying to build a new community from scratch while simultaneously navigating a cancer diagnosis. At times, it felt incredibly isolating.

Still, even in the middle of all that loss, there were moments of perspective that grounded us.

The medical care in our new location was significantly better than what we would have had before. Every referral, test, appointment happened quickly and efficiently. Looking back, we truly believe this move happened for a reason. We truly believe Wes’ care and treatment journey would have looked very different had we stayed where we were. What initially felt like terrible timing eventually became one of the greatest blessings in Wes’ treatment journey. That became our silver lining. I firmly believe there is purpose in the places life takes us, even when we do not understand it immediately.

Cancer changed our relationship too. There were moments where it felt like we shifted from husband and wife into patient and caregiver. The spontaneity and ease we once had disappeared for a while. But at the same time, this experience deepened our connection in ways I cannot fully explain. We learned how to support each other through uncertainty, how to celebrate small victories, and how to find gratitude in moments we once took for granted.

There was a clear goodbye to the life we knew before cancer. But in its place, we began building a new version of life together, one rooted less in perfection and more in presence, resilience, and appreciation for the time we have with one another.

Navigating life as a caregiver has required constant adjustment. There was no guidebook for balancing work, caregiving, motherhood, financial pressure, my own health struggles, and the emotional reality of watching someone I love go through cancer treatment. Some days felt manageable, while others felt impossibly heavy. I learned quickly that coping was not about always being strong. It was about finding ways to keep moving forward, even on the hardest days.

One thing that helped us tremendously was choosing optimism. Wes and I made a conscious decision early in his diagnosis that every difficult moment, every setback, and every piece of bad news was another step toward getting rid of the cancer. We allowed ourselves to feel fear and sadness, but we refused to let hopelessness take over our home. That mindset became something we returned to again and again throughout treatment.

We also worked hard to maintain a sense of normalcy for our daughters. Even in the middle of chemo and recovery, we continued attending school events, birthday parties, extracurricular activities, dinners out, and family outings whenever possible. It was important to us that our girls still experienced joy and stability, even during such an uncertain season. Maintaining pieces of our routine reminded us that cancer was something happening to our family, not something that completely defined our family.

At the same time, I realized I needed something for myself too.

Exercise and meditation became my outlet during this chapter of life. Movement gave me a place to release stress and anxiety that I had been carrying constantly. Over time, that outlet became something even more meaningful, eventually leading me to obtain my yoga instructor license. Yoga helped me reconnect with myself during a time where so much of my identity revolved around caring for everyone else.

Those moments away from home, even briefly, allowed me to reset mentally and emotionally so I could continue showing up for my family. It reminded me that taking care of myself was not selfish. It was necessary.

Social media also became an unexpected source of healing. I began sharing updates about Wes’ journey because I did not want us to feel alone. What started as a way to keep family and friends informed became a space where I could process everything in real time. Some days it felt exhausting to post updates when I was already emotionally drained, but I continued because it created connection and support during a season that often felt isolating.

Looking back now, those posts also became a record of resilience. They captured moments we may have otherwise forgotten: the hard days, the victories, the humor we found in the middle of chaos, and the love that carried us through it all.

This experience also reshaped our priorities as a family. Before cancer, life revolved around productivity, schedules, work, and future plans. After diagnosis, our focus shifted toward simply being together. Family movie nights meant more. Quiet evenings at home meant more. We became more intentional with our time because we understood how quickly life can change.

As we move forward into conversations about possible genetic testing for our daughters due to family history, there is still uncertainty ahead. Wes’ sister also had Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and his grandfather battled MDS. That reality brings its own emotions and fears. But this journey has also shown us how resilient we are as a family.

Cancer took a lot from us. It changed our routines, our plans, our finances, and the version of life we once imagined. But it also strengthened our appreciation for each other and reminded us what truly matters. The meaning was never found in the diagnosis itself. The meaning came from the way we chose to walk through it together.