If there’s one thing this cancer diagnosis has given us, it’s clarity. And that clarity has come from some of the most honest conversations Damon and I have ever had — conversations I don’t know we would have found our way to otherwise. I’ve come to believe those conversations are one of the real gifts in all of this, and I want to share why.
This past weekend, Damon and I got away, just the two of us, down to our property in Fernwood. A lazy weekend of visiting friends, driving through the forest, playing cards. For a little while, we got to just be ourselves, without the cancer hanging over our heads.
But it was the drive home that stayed with me. We had a straightforward, fact-based, nearly emotionless conversation about the future. The last time we had a conversation like that was right after Damon was diagnosed, also in Fernwood. We’d picked up a pizza, taken the side-by-side up to a mountain, and watched the sunset while we talked about what would happen if Damon didn’t beat this. The property mattered to him because he wanted it to be a legacy for our kids, and we talked honestly about what needed to happen to make that real. We talked about his care plan, how long he would fight, and when he wouldn’t anymore. As heavy as that sounds, it was good. We got it out. We got on the same page. And once it was said, it was said we didn’t have to carry the not-knowing anymore.
The conversation in the truck last Sunday was that same kind of conversation. We talked about our future and how important it is that I get healthy for our kids, and if he doesn’t make it, that I move on with my life.
That one was harder. After nine months of appointments and chemo and surgery, after watching him get more tired and not bounce back like he used to, it felt like a reality that didn’t seem so impossible anymore. But we talked about it. And I am so grateful that we did, because now I know. I’m not left guessing.
Here’s what I want you to take from this: it is never too late to have the conversation. It’s never too late to make a change. If you’re feeling stuck — in your relationship, in your life, in a version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore — you don’t need a diagnosis to give you permission to talk about what really matters. You don’t need a crisis to tell the people you love what you hope for them, what scares you, what you want your one life to look like before it’s over.
So sit down with your partner. Sit down with your child. Tell them the things you’ve been too scared to say. Ask them the questions you’ve been avoiding. It won’t erase what’s hard in life, but it means you won’t face it alone, and you won’t face it in silence. And you’ll never have to wonder if you said what needed to be said.
For the rest of my life, I will remember that first conversation on the mountain as we watched the sunset. And I will remember the conversation in the truck as we drove home from Fernwood. And because Damon took the time to tell us, I will never have to wonder what he wanted for me, or for our kids.