I found out I had cancer when I was 37. I recall sitting in the antiseptic office and hearing the doctor speak as if I were underwater. After the word “cancer,” everything else became blurry. At that moment, I wasn’t contemplating treatment plans or numbers. I was contemplating my life, my kids, my career, and my spouse. Everything that made me feel safe suddenly seemed weak.
The treatment started right away. Chemotherapy made me tired, my hair fell out in clumps, and I saw my reflection in the mirror change into someone I hardly recognized. However, I did not anticipate how profoundly lonely I would feel, even when residing with someone I believed loved me. At first, my spouse was there for me physically, but emotionally, he was leaving me. He became more distant and less patient. He didn’t look me in the eye. They stopped asking how I was doing. And little by little, he stopped coming at all.
It was one of those extended nights during which I was unable to sleep due to the effects of therapy and solitude. That’s when something inside me clicked. I knew I couldn’t trust him. Not really. So I started getting ready for that silently. I started a different savings account and moved little amounts of money into it over the coming months. There was nothing unusual or significant enough to cause me concern, but it was sufficient to ensure my safety. It seemed wrong and even shameful at times, but I knew I had to do what I had to do to stay alive.
Seven months into treatment, just as I was starting to feel better, something awful happened. I woke up one morning to find that our joint bank account was empty. My husband had left. There was no extended goodbye or handwritten message. There was a message on my phone that said, “It’s too hard to watch you suffer.” I have to move on.
I looked at the screen for a long time. After that, I laughed. Not because it was humorous, but because it proved what I had been afraid of all along. He didn’t quit because it was hard; he left because he couldn’t stand not being the focus of attention anymore. And I wasn’t going to beg him to stay anymore.
He didn’t realize that I had already let him go in my heart. The first time he ignored my cries and left the hospital early without saying goodbye, he was already gone. So even though he left, it didn’t break me. Because I had already begun to create a life without him.
I focused instead of whirling. I went deeper into my healing, not just physically, but also emotionally, spiritually, and financially. I utilized the peaceful nights to meditate, write in my journal, cry, and make plans. I got in touch with folks I had pushed away because I was ashamed and proud. And they came.
My pals made a timetable for transportation to and from appointments that changed every week. A neighbor I didn’t know well brought me home-cooked dinners twice a week. One day, I fell on the bathroom floor from tiredness, and my best buddy went across town to remain with me until I could get up. One of the oncology nurses gave me a silver bracelet with the word “Hope” on it because she saw that I came in alone every week. I wear it every day, not because it reminds me of sorrow, but because it reminds me that I was never truly alone.
Each of these moments put something back together inside me. They reminded me that not all help has to be loud or dramatic. The most loving things are often the quietest. I started to feel whole again, slowly. I took charge of my money, paid off as much debt as I could, and hired a therapist who helped me cope with both the pain of being sick and the betrayal that came with it.
Then, last month, I got the call that changed everything: I was in remission. I sat there, holding my breath, and listened to the words over and over. And then I cried, not because I was scared, but because I was free. I cried out of gratitude. This gratitude stemmed from the realization that I had overcome a situation that had threatened my life. I grappled with the agony of illness and the sorrow of abandonment. And I was stronger than I had ever thought I would be.
My life is entirely different now. I don’t go after folks who can’t handle my suffering. I don’t feel guilty about wanting time, space, or help. The most essential thing is that I don’t judge my worth by who stays. Instead, I’ve made something fresh that matters.
I’m forming a small support group for folks who are going through things they don’t think they can handle on their own. It won’t be glamorous; maybe people can meet for coffee once a week or have a Zoom call where they can wear pajamas and cry if they need to. But the purpose is clear: to let people know that getting better isn’t simply about your body getting back to normal. It’s all about getting your voice back. It’s about finding a new type of strength in the ruins of what was.
This is what I know now: being left means someone loves you. Being left behind doesn’t imply you’re weak. The universe is merely making room for you to finally stand up for yourself.
He left me in misery. But I took back my control.
And I will never give that up again.