The Diagnosis That Changed Everything
My name is Angela. I’m a wife, a mom to four kids, and I work in healthcare. Two years ago, my husband Joel—only 42 years old—was suddenly diagnosed with spinal cancer. One MRI changed everything. A 10-centimeter tumor was pressing against his spine. That moment catapulted me into a new identity: caregiver.
We were told to go straight to the emergency room. Joel was admitted and didn’t leave for 11 weeks. At home, our kids—our life—were waiting, but I stayed with him every night except three. Surgery caused long term damage, affecting his bowel and bladder function, leaving him in severe chronic pain. I had to learn to be a constant, calm presence while everything inside me was unraveling.
“It was very traumatizing,” I remember thinking as I tried to balance being there for my husband while also caring for our four children at home. The reality of being a caregiver hit me immediately, but I had no idea how long this journey would be or how deeply it would change our lives.
What followed was relentless. We spent three months in the hospital and then 9 weeks temporarily relocating to Boston for radiation. A brief return home, and then we learned the cancer was back—and spreading.
The hardest part? I was Joel’s wife, but because of my medical background, I was also expected to translate, explain, sometimes even shield him from the truth. I’d dig through research for hours and present him with a version that he could hear. He needed answers, and sometimes he wanted them from me, even when he didn’t like what I had to say. That tension—of being both caregiver and spouse—was nearly unbearable.
Early in our hospital stay, Joel’s neurosurgeon brought me coffee and said, “Angela, you need to stop. Be his wife, not his provider.” I didn’t stop digging, not really—but I started hiding the intensity. I’d still research, still plan, but I tried to be present, too. Movies. Blanket forts. Cards. A wall of family photos.
The Hospital Becomes “Home”
I slept at the hospital every night except for three during those first months. Our oldest son, who was 19, moved back home to help with our other children, but the separation was hard on all of us.
My GPS still thinks the hospital is ‘home.’ I lived there with Joel for 11 weeks, only leaving the hospital room for coffee, laundry, or a snack run. That building saw more of my life than my actual house. I think part of me is still there.
I tried to make the sterile hospital room feel more personal. I printed family photos and created a little mural on his wall—pictures from recent vacations, our dogs, all the kids, just fun memories from the past few years. We’d often look at those photos and reminisce about happier times.
The Caregiver Struggle
There were moments when I thought I was going to break. I cried—usually alone, usually in the car. I’d say I was going out to get snacks, but really I just needed to scream or cry in private. I didn’t want Joel to see that. He had enough on his plate.
There were also moments of joy. Laughter in the hospital room. Watching Netflix together on tiny speakers I bought at Walmart. One day, during rehab, we escaped to a little bar across the street and shared a beer. He wasn’t supposed to sit for long. We did it anyway. It felt like freedom.
The Ongoing Journey
Joel’s cancer is still progressing and his treatment options are now palliative. We travel often for treatment, most recently we were in Houston for three weeks for another round of radiation on a fast-growing metastasis on his arm. I’m still his caregiver, and I’m still working and parenting. But I’m also learning—slowly—how to let others help. I’m learning how to say yes to myself, even if it’s just an extra 10 minutes in Target with my coffee.
As we continue facing the uncertainties ahead, I’m trying to remember that I can’t care for others if I’m not caring for myself. It’s a lesson I’m still learning, but one I believe is crucial for any caregiver on this journey.
This isn’t the life we planned. But it’s the life we’re living, and I’m doing my best to carry both of us through it.
