I still remember the moment our lives changed forever. My husband, Derek, and I were sitting in a small, dimly lit doctor’s office, the walls lined with the cold sterility of medical brochures and diagrams. We held hands tightly as the doctor spoke words that hit like a tidal wave: “Stage 4 cancer.” I felt as if I were watching a scene from someone else’s life, detached from reality, and yet it was ours. Derek had cancer in his kidney, and it had spread to his pancreas.
As those words settled, so did the realization of what this could mean. You see, pancreatic cancer took my dad not so long ago, and it was a brutal, fast-moving thief. Pancreatic cancer is notoriously aggressive. It steals loved ones before you can even wrap your mind around what’s happening. My dad didn’t even have the chance to fight. And here I was, faced with the terrifying possibility of watching another man I love go through this vicious disease. Derek held my hand, and I tried to steady myself, but inside, a storm was raging. All I could think was thoughts like, “He doesn’t deserve this. We don’t deserve this. I’m too young to be a widow. I can’t lose him.”
The days that followed were a blur of doctor’s visits, discussions about treatment options, and a seemingly endless parade of tests. I spent countless hours in waiting rooms, numbly scrolling through my phone, looking at him, and feeling a helplessness I’d never felt before. There were nights I couldn’t sleep, where I lay beside him and listened to the rhythm of his breathing, wondering how many more nights we had left to share a bed. I found myself memorizing every line in his face, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way he laughs, and yes, the way his perfect butt fills out a pair of jeans. There’s an almost desperate need to commit every detail to memory when you know that time might be limited.
Finally, the day of the surgery came, and as they wheeled him away, I felt every ounce of my strength slip away with him. I was terrified. They planned to remove his entire left kidney and part of his pancreas. The hours in that waiting room felt like lifetimes. And then, there was the moment the doctors called me back to discuss the surgery.
I walked in bracing myself for the worst, and they told me something so strange it took a second to comprehend. Derek, it turns out, had two spleens. Yes, two. And the second spleen was positioned in such a way that it had looked like a mass on the scans. What they had thought was a tumor in his pancreas was actually an extra spleen! The words washed over me with such relief I felt weak. “He doesn’t have pancreatic cancer,” I realized, and my knees nearly buckled. It was an answer to prayer—a miracle I hadn’t dared hope for. His Stage 4 diagnosis was officially downgraded to Stage 3.
But the relief was short-lived. The surgery was intense and left Derek weakened, both physically and mentally. He was in the hospital for weeks, struggling with pain that I couldn’t take away. I watched him fade from his usual strong self to someone who could barely move without assistance. His spirit, usually so vibrant and strong, flickered like a candle in the wind. I felt helpless in ways I can’t describe. Every time I saw him suffer, I wished I could take his place. And yet, all I could do was sit by his side, holding his hand, willing every ounce of my strength into him.
Then came the next phase of treatment: immunotherapy. Now, immunotherapy, for all its promise, is unforgiving. It attacks the body, forcing it to recognize and fight the cancer. But it’s brutal. Derek would be hit with intense waves of fatigue, nausea, and pain, sometimes so severe he couldn’t get out of bed or do move around for days. And it wasn’t just the physical suffering. The mental and emotional toll was staggering. His mood would swing unpredictably; some days, he was gentle, trying to keep up a strong front. Other days, he lashed out, frustration and despair clouding his usual warmth. And though I knew it wasn’t really him speaking, the words still hurt. They cut to the core. The man I adored was trapped beneath layers of pain and anger, and there were moments when even I couldn’t reach him.
I love Derek with a ferocity that I don’t apologize for. I often joke that I’m a “groupie” at “stalker-level” devotion—when you adore someone so much, it’s impossible to imagine a day without them, and I adore my Rock Star. To say I want a life without Derek is like saying I want to live without breathing. But loving someone through cancer is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Cancer becomes the unwanted third party in the relationship, an intruder that steals away joy, peace, and normalcy. Some days, I would leave his room to cry in silence, fearing that my own struggles would only add to his pain.
I realized I needed to do something with all this pain, all this hope, and all this love. So I decided to create Strength in the Shadows as a space to share this journey, to support other caregivers, patients, and loved ones who find themselves on this unchosen path. I know that Voguegenics is a place where people go to escape, to find joy and beauty in life’s lighter moments. But I wanted to create a place that acknowledges life’s darker times, too. I wanted to carve out a safe space for those of us living in the shadows of this illness, a place where we can find strength and solidarity.
Yesterday, I created two journals for caregivers and family members supporting their loved ones through cancer. These journals are meant to be lifelines, places to pour out the thoughts, fears, and small victories that often go unspoken. I’ve linked these on my Payhip Store (www.voguegenics.shop) and on my Voguegenics.bio site where you can find all my social media links and downloadable products.
And soon, I’ll release another journal specifically for cancer patients—a space for them to process, reflect, and perhaps, find moments of peace amid the struggle. As much as I first thought it unlikely, I’ve come to see firsthand how journaling can be a place to catch those fragments of courage, love, and determination, even when words feel inadequate. (Check out my previous blog post: Journaling 101: A Beginner’s Guide to Putting Pen to Paper.)
The journey with cancer isn’t over for us. Derek still has another surgery scheduled for December, to remove part of his right kidney and hopefully, all traces of this monstrous disease. We don’t know what the future holds, and right now, each day is still a battle. But we’re not alone in this, and I believe we’ll come out stronger on the other side. Strength in the Shadows is my way of holding a hand out to others who are struggling. It’s a reminder that even when life feels impossibly dark, there is always light to be found.
To each of you who has walked this path with us, offered prayers, or sent a kind message—thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Your support means more than words can ever express. Please, if you’d like to stay updated on Derek’s progress or join me on my journey with Strength in the Shadows, follow Voguegenics on social media (all links conveniently available at Voguegenics.bio, subscribe to my blog (check out our home page at www.Voguegenics.com), or join my email list.
Together, we can find strength, even in the shadows.
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