When the Words Came: Telling My Husband It’s Stage 4
When the Words Came: Telling My Husband It’s Stage 4
July 29, 2025 — a date seared into my memory.
It had been eight months since the first diagnosis: Stage 3 colon cancer. Those early days were a storm of shock, fear, heartbreak, and quiet determination. We chose to carry it with lightness because we believed with all our hearts that God was with us. Dennis began Neo Adjuvant Chemotherapy—six cycles of Oxaliplatin and Capecitabine—so surgery could come after treatment. We followed every instruction, never missing a dose or a lab test. The provision was real; the Lord provided in ways we could feel and trust.
The Hope After Cycle Three
After the third cycle we felt a miracle of sorts. A CT scan showed the biggest tumor had shrunk by half; several lymph nodes responded too. We cried with gratitude and held on tighter to hope. The oncologist decided to continue treatment, believing we could downstage the cancer further. For a while, it felt like we were moving forward.
Signs of Trouble
After the fifth cycle Dennis started to change again—constipation, abdominal distension, trouble eating and digesting. His surgeon ordered immediate admission for tests and imaging. I remember how ordinary the morning felt until the doctor called me outside and spoke words that made the room tilt.
“He has ascites from the peritoneal cavity, making the cancer Stage 4.”
I went quiet. I asked, “Until when, Doc?” The answer landed like a blow: “They don’t get to have five years.” I told the doctors I would hold on to whatever time we had—two years, eight months—but not now. I asked them not to tell Dennis so he could focus on getting better.
The Weight of Not Telling
In the weeks that followed his condition did not improve. Infections came one after the other. Dennis would say, “I am tired; my body is tired; and most especially, I am very tired for you.” He would also say, “I am confused. I don’t know what’s happening. Why am I not improving?” Each time he spoke those words, guilt pressed on me for keeping the truth from him. I wanted to give him clarity, but I feared how he would carry it.
I prayed for a sign. I asked God that if it was time for the truth, put me in a situation where I could not avoid telling him.
The Sign and the Truth
That sign came when Dennis was rushed to the ER with high WBC, heart palpitations, and oxygen desaturation. During the initial interview, an attending physician said aloud, “Yes, his doctor told me about it and it’s Stage 4.” I tried to contain it but was stunned. Dennis looked at me and said, without anger, “The doctor slipped. I am Stage 4. Maybe our doctors are not just telling us.”
That moment was my answer. I told him I had known and had asked the doctors to keep it from him. The ER filled with tears and honesty. Dennis, with a calm I will never forget, said he was ready. He said what made him ready was knowing I could live independently, and that he felt he had served his purpose.
What Changed After the Truth
Telling Dennis opened a space we hadn’t allowed ourselves before—real conversations about wishes, fears, and practicalities. There was an unexpected peace in discussing things openly. Chemotherapy was no longer an option; the timeline was uncertain and likely short. We began to live differently: one day at a time, one problem at a time, making sure every moment counted.
We still trust in God’s grace and hold on to hope for miracles, but we also accept what is before us. The clarity allowed us to remove the “what ifs” and replace them with intentional presence and care.
What I Carry With Me
- Gratitude for the moments of improvement, for provision, and for the strength to do what had to be done.
- Guilt turned to understanding, because protecting someone doesn’t always mean withholding truth; sometimes it means choosing timing and compassion.
- A quiet relief that we could finally talk openly and make decisions together.
- Faith that God walks with us in every step, and that living with faith does not minimize pain—it sustains us through it.
A Note on Love and Readiness
Dennis told me he’s ready whenever the Lord calls him home. That truth eases my heart. We don’t know when that day will come, and we cannot predict the length of our remaining time. What we do know is this: we are living with intention, care, and love. We fill days with presence, with small joys, and with gentle service to one another.
Closing
If you are reading this because you face a similar truth—whether as a patient, a partner, or a caregiver—you are not alone in the messy, tender, complicated work of loving through illness. Allow yourself to grieve and to hope. Pray if you pray. Ask for the moments of truth when you need them, and when they come, let love and clarity guide your choices.
We will continue to walk this path with faith, gratitude, and the quiet courage it takes to be present for each other, day by day.
Comments
Post a Comment