Loving Each Other Differently

Aug 8
5 min read

I've been thinking a lot lately about how cancer changed my marriage. Not in the obvious ways.

Obviously, it changed our schedules. There are more doctor's appointments than date nights some months. We know what it's like to have a variety of medical expenses right at the start of the year. We have several medicine bins/drawers/variety of different over-the-counter & prescriptions for all kinds of ailments. (Not exactly the home décor aesthetic I was going for.)

Those changes are easy to point to - the medicines seem to breed and pop up all over my house.

The harder ones to explain are the little shifts that happened so slowly we didn't even notice them at first. The other day Adrian asked me how I was feeling, and before I could answer, he said, "Actually...you're probably about three days out from treatment, so today is probably your rough day." And he was right. He knew exactly where I was in my treatment cycle without looking at the calendar.

Somewhere along the way, cancer became part of both of our routines. When people talk about cancer and marriage, they usually talk about all the caregiving that becomes entangled in the day-to-day interactions. And I get why.

Caregivers deserve every bit of recognition they receive. But I've never really thought of Adrian as my caregiver. He's my husband first and foremost.

He's the guy who somehow knows where every charging cable in the house is. The guy who loves a crunchy snack and keeps a variety of chips in our pantry. The guy who makes me laugh when I'm trying really hard to be grumpy.

Cancer didn't suddenly turn him into someone else.

One thing I don't think people realize is how quickly cancer becomes a third roommate - and honestly, a really, really shitty one. It has opinions about your schedule. It decides what weekends are free. It dictates vacation plans. It interrupts conversations. It shows up uninvited to birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and random Tuesday afternoons when you're just trying to watch TV. Honestly...it's kind of rude.

On particularly hard days, it feels like we spend more time talking about my symptoms, upcoming scans, and the TMI parts that come along with taking all these medications. And that's not exactly the recipe for romance.

Speaking of romance... Let's talk about that for a minute.

Because I don't think people talk about it enough.

Cancer has a funny way of changing what romance looks like. Before all of this, romance looked like going out to dinner, taking weekend trips, or staying up too late watching movies because we both knew we'd regret it in the morning.

Romance sometimes looks like Adrian bringing me water before I realize I'm thirsty. Or quietly plugging in my heating pad before I sit down on the couch because he knows I'm freezing again. Or asking if I want him to cancel plans because he can tell I'm trying to convince myself I'm feeling better than I actually am. Or bringing me soup in 100+*F weather because that's about all my stomach is willing to tolerate. Or taking care of the house and the cats when I don't have the energy to move off the couch.

Not exactly movie-worthy. But honestly... It's some of the most romantic stuff he's ever done.

Okay... (Deep breath - Mom and Dad should skip this section)

Let's have the awkward conversation. Sex.

There. I said it. (Again, parentals should skip this section)

Because nobody really tells you how much cancer can mess with that part of your relationship.

Everyone warns you about nausea. Fatigue. Hair loss. Surgery. Scars. Dryness - in all the places that should NEVER be dry. They tell you your body is going to change. They try to warn you that the relationship with your body is going to change.

What caught me off guard was how intense the shift was - like 0 to 10000000000 in just a matter of weeks.

Especially at the beginning, there were days I didn't recognize the person in the mirror. Losing my hair was harder than I thought it was going to be. Losing my breasts was hard - physically and mentally. Scars were hard. Weight changes were hard and very painful - my joints were not happy about the 60+ lbs I put on in less than 3 months during my first battle with cancer.

Menopause in my late-twenties? Also not on my bingo card.

I am not ashamed to admit that I spent so much time worrying about whether Adrian would still find me attractive and if he would still love me in this new body. During the transition period between my mastectomy and my reconstruction, I cried so much - and felt extremely ugly.

Turns out...He never stopped looking at me the way he always had.

While I was busy mourning the body I used to have, he was just happy I was still here.

Don't get me wrong - making this realization didn't mean that we quickly figured it out.

There were awkward conversations. There were tears. There were moments where I felt incredibly insecure. There were moments where I felt guilty about putting us through this situation.

There were moments where I wondered if we'd ever get back to "normal."

Eventually I realized... Maybe "normal" wasn't the goal anymore.

We had to figure out what our new normal was going to look like and what intimacy in our relationship was going to look like now. We had to redefine this area of our relationship beyond the physical act of sex.

Intimacy could now include: Sex, holding hands, lying on the couch together, crying when things fall apart, and laughing so hard that our stomachs hurt. Turns out intimacy is a much bigger word than I gave it credit for.

I think cancer made us better friends - and we were amazing best friends before.

There were months where I wasn't exactly the life of the party. To be blunt...there were months where I wasn't much fun at all. I was tired. I was GRUMPY. I was nauseous.

Sometimes I was all three before nine AM.

Adrian never made me feel like I had to be the upbeat version of myself all the time.

We got really good at just...making it all work...together. Some of my favorite memories from the past few years aren't exciting at all - They're just ordinary evenings where life felt normal for a little while.

If you'd asked me before cancer what made a good marriage, I probably would've said communication, trust, and shared goals. (I still think those things matter.)

But now I'd probably add adaptability because life changes - for better and for worse.

Marriage isn't about pretending those changes aren't happening. It's about deciding you'll keep figuring them out together - one weird and annoying symptom at a time.

Cancer has changed us. There's no point pretending otherwise. We're different people than we were before all of this started.

We love differently. We argue differently. We dream differently. We appreciate ordinary days a whole lot more than we used to. And we've become a better team because of it.

Don't misunderstand me - I would give almost anything to erase cancer from our story - I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

But I wouldn't erase what it taught us about loving each other. It taught us that romance isn't always flowers.

Sometimes it's refilling prescriptions. Sometimes it's being there with the ginger ale and crackers.

Sometimes it's sitting quietly in a waiting room holding someone's hand because there really aren't any words that make the situation better.

As much of an asshole cancer is, it taught me that love isn't measured by the easy seasons. It's measured by who keeps showing up when life gets really, really hard. I'm pretty lucky that every single time I've looked beside me...

Adrian has been there.

Talk again soon.

Olivia