I Wanted to Remember Us—What I Would Tell Her
I remember the day like it was yesterday.
The photograph was taken on this early August day in 2020, just a day after Jon and I returned home from a follow-up MRI and our first appointment with his oncologist after his brain tumor had been removed. We met the doctor, now had a treatment plan for an incurable, aggressive brain cancer and had heard the sobering statistics that accompany a diagnosis no family is ever prepared to receive.
Until then, everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. It was all surreal.
Only a few weeks earlier, we had gone from an ordinary—as ordinary as it could be during a global pandemic—summer day to hearing the words no wife ever expects: “We found a mass on your husband’s brain.” There had been the ambulance ride, the transfer to another hospital, brain surgery, endless waiting, countless prayers, and more uncertainty than I thought a heart could hold. I am sure you have heard the story before.
Now the dust had settled just enough for us to begin asking the questions that had been looming in our hearts and minds. All the questions, fears and more that you’d expect to be pondering.
What exactly were we facing?
What would treatment look like?
How will we manage?
Time…How much time did we have?
No one could answer that last question.
Only God knew.
Although I remember so much from those early days, I don’t remember every word that was spoken in the oncologist’s office that afternoon. What I remember is the weight of it. And the worry on Jon’s face and how his life suddenly changed. I remember realizing that this wasn’t simply going to be a difficult season to get through. It was the beginning of an entirely new way of living. From that day forward, every plan, every decision, every ordinary moment would somehow be shaped by brain cancer.
Life forever denoted “before cancer” and “after cancer.”
I don’t remember much about the drive home either. Maybe we talked about treatment. Maybe we sat quietly. Maybe we both shed a few tears. Maybe we were each trying to protect the other from fears we couldn’t yet bring ourselves to say out loud.
What I know for certain is that we held hands the whole way home.
When we pulled into the driveway, neither of us rushed inside.
The limelight hydrangeas were blooming in our garden, and before life swept us into appointments, medications, radiation schedules, and all that was about to come, we stepped outside and took a few selfies together.
There wasn’t anything remarkable about the moment.
In fact, I think that’s exactly why I wanted to capture it.
I wanted to remember us. Remember us as ordinary as we could before we went inside to share with the kids what was to come.
Looking back now, I don’t think I realized just how prophetic that instinct was. Somewhere deep inside, I sensed that ordinary moments were about to become extraordinary gifts. I didn’t want our story to become nothing more than MRI scans, hospital rooms, treatment plans, medication schedules, therapy appointments, surgeries while juggling parenting, and launching kids too.
I wanted to remember the husband who still reached for my hand, the smile we could still share, the marriage we had spent nearly three decades building, and the ordinary life we were both fighting so hard to protect.
When I look at this photograph today, I don’t only see two people smiling.
I see a husband and wife choosing hope despite the sobering statistics.
I see two people determined to keep loving each other, even though the road ahead had suddenly become unimaginably uncertain.
I see two people who still had birthdays to celebrate, sunsets to watch, children to encourage and launch, prayers to pray, and memories yet to make. Life to live.
The smiles were genuine.
So was the fear.
That afternoon, hope and heartache began learning to live side by side. We made a decision—perhaps without ever speaking it aloud—that we would live as fully as we could in the present moment. We couldn’t control the future, but we could choose how we would spend the days God was giving us. We chose not to listen to the opinions and suggestions of others only to our medical team and the research we chose on our own. We chose to find joy in the moment and peace over fear.
We couldn’t control the future, but we could choose how we would spend the days God was giving us.
Heather Lebano
Any time I look at this photograph from that day, I find myself wanting to wrap my arms around the woman standing beside her husband.
There is so much I wish I could tell her because I know ALL that she has gone through, all she had to endure, all that she did for others while watching her husband slowly fade away.
I would tell her she doesn’t have to have all the answers that day. God will give her enough grace for that afternoon and, when tomorrow comes, enough grace for tomorrow too. And He did.
I would tell her to trust her instincts. She is Jon’s wife, the mother of his children, and the one entrusted with walking beside him through this cross. There will be moments when others misunderstand her, question her, judge her or make an already impossible road even harder. She won’t always feel confident, but she can trust that God chose her to love this man through these days. She doesn’t need anyone else’s permission to faithfully fulfill that calling. And I would tell her I am proud of her for doing exactly this even when it was hard.
I would also tell her not to overlook the ordinary moments. The conversations around the dinner table, the drives to appointments, the laughter that somehow still finds its way into the hardest days, the quiet evenings at home, the walks, the trips to the beach, the sunsets, and yes, even the photographs—these will become treasures. She did and she blessed others when she wrote and shared about all the beauty, trusting and living she did while her husband was fighting.
While it felt vulnerable at times to share deeply personal parts of her story, it will be both healing for her and helpful to others to know they are not alone on a journey like this.
Don’t wait for life to feel normal before making memories. Life will never be “normal” again. While she will always carry grief with her, she and her children WILL discover new things about herself and begin to rebuild a life that she loves.
Keep living.
Keep laughing.
Keep taking the pictures.
Years from now, she’ll discover that you never once regretted stopping to capture those ordinary moments.
And when her world felt like it imploded and shattered, she will begin to see all the places where God and the Blessed Mother, Mary, were ever so close and in the details of her story.
Looking back now, I am incredibly proud of that woman.
Without realizing how little time you actually had, you and Jon squeezed every bit of life you could from those years. You celebrated birthdays and holidays. You escaped to the beach (and the mountains) whenever they could. You gathered around the dinner table. You laughed. You cried. You danced in the kitchen. You prayed and made it to mass. And together you kept encouraging your children to keep living boldly, even while you were learning to carry an unimaginably heavy cross and giving your husband and those children a whole lot of hope and love.
If I could tell her—the woman in the photo or anyone reading this who finds themselves walking a road they didn’t expect—one more thing before we left that garden where we took those photos, it would be this:
Don’t apologize for being exhausted or constantly question whether you’re doing enough.
Caring for someone you love is holy work. It is beautiful and it is very costly.
There will be days when you feel you have nothing left to give and you will question how you can keep going. There will be difficult conversations with your children and with others who won’t always understand or extend the grace you need. There will be sleepless nights, impossible decisions, and the agony of watching a disease take over your husband’s mind and body, but never his soul. And your good and faithful Father will give you the grace you need for one more prayer and one more faithful step.
Your good and faithful Father will give you the grace you need for one more prayer and one more faithful step.
Heather Lebano
Most of all, I would tell her to stop carrying burdens that were never hers to carry.
She doesn’t have to spend precious energy managing everyone else’s expectations, opinions, disappointments, or misunderstandings. Her energy belongs with the man she loves. It belongs in protecting his peace, loving their children, and living the life still in front of them. She doesn’t have to defend every decision or carry everyone else’s emotions.
Those moments are too sacred to lose.
I also think often about the people who walked beside us during those years.
If you’ve ever wondered how to love a family navigating cancer, let me assure you that you don’t need perfect words.
You don’t have to know exactly what to say.
You don’t have to fix anything.
You simply have to stay. Don’t disappear because things get uncomfortable, or because the person caring for her husband and children during the most excruciating time of her life doesn’t have the time or energy to fix other things or be the friend, sister, or cousin you want her to be. She is likely living the very definition of survival mode. Please offer grace, compassion and understanding.
Sit in the waiting room if you can. If circumstances, as they did during the pandemic, make that impossible, stay as close as you possibly can. Send the text. Make the phone call. Drop off the meal, the coffee, or the flowers. Pray faithfully. But don’t expect long, heavy conversations or even a thank you. Give space, and be mindful of words. Sometimes the people carrying the heaviest burdens are simply trying to survive the day. And when you don’t get answers to what “they need,” don’t be offended, because most often a caregiver does not even know what they need day to day, but when they ask you for something specific, please make sure you don’t them let them down or forget when they did ask for help. Please show up.
Your quiet, consistent presence will be remembered long after your words are forgotten.
I also wish those standing at a distance understood something.
When a family is carrying a cross this heavy, they don’t need opinions. They don’t need assumptions or expectations. They don’t need to hear you are speaking ill of them when things are not going your way. They don’t need unnecessary burdens or unsolicited medical advice added to an already impossible load. They need compassion. They need gentleness. They need people willing to protect their peace instead of disturbing it.
There is so much hidden inside the photograph that no one looking at it could possibly see.
Behind our smiles was anticipatory grief already beginning its quiet work.
Behind our sunglasses were tears and pain in their eyes—and heart—no one else could see.
Behind Jon’s smile was extraordinary courage and a lot of unknowns and fear. A person navigating a terminal cancer diagnosis carries a different weight than the caregiver/spouse of that person. Be gentle with both of them.
And behind the front door of our home was a life slowly narrowing to what mattered most.
Laundry and dust piled up.
Paperwork—endless paperwork—waited and still is.
The weeds continued to grow.
Rooms sat untouched.
Projects were left unfinished. “Normal” life halted in ways I am just beginning to process now…
It wasn’t that we didn’t care, but our energy had become precious.
When you’re caring for the person you love most, you begin to understand that there are only so many hours in a day, and only so much of yourself to give.
Everything else simply waits.
In our case, some of those things waited years.
Looking back now, I don’t regret that for a moment. I wish one of the after effects of cancer treatment and death wasn’t having to eventually face and repair all the things that had to be left undone—home repairs, cars, my own health, even fractured relationships—but it is.
I would choose Jon and supporting his care exactly the way I did again.
I would choose those conversations. Those sunsets. Those wheelchair walks. Those evenings around the dinner table.
Those moments planting seeds and bulbs and pulling weeds to just feel normal. Those long drives to appointments that became our “little dates.” Those ordinary moments that became extraordinary simply because we were still sharing them together while facing an incredibly catastrophic thing.
And moments like pushing the hospital bed out onto the deck, to inhale the spring air while our daughter baked pizzas in the oven—though we didn’t know it at the time—for THE last time Jon would ever be outside.
Walking through a terminal cancer diagnosis with your spouse is unlike anything I can adequately describe.
Until I lived it, I couldn’t have understood it. And I am still only now beginning to fully process the depth of it all.
It changes the way you think, the way you live, the way you love, the way you pray, the way you spend your time, and ultimately the way you understand what truly matters.
It also taught me something else.
Love is often far more ordinary than we imagine.
Sometimes love looks like helping someone button a shirt or putting on shoes every day.
Learning how to safely help them step into the shower and then washing them or slowly walk up or down the steps.
Keeping track of medications and treatment and therapy appointments.
Sleeping lightly because you’re listening for them during the night.
Holding their hand through another MRI and as they sleep wondering if this would be the last time.
Laughing over takeout after a long day of appointments and falling asleep during a favorite movie you never finish.
Sitting quietly beside them when there are no words left.
Those hidden acts of love became some of the holiest moments of my life.
If you are standing where we once stood—driving home from an MRI, waiting for pathology results, sitting in an oncology office, holding your spouse’s hand through surgery, rehabilitation, hospice, or wondering how you’ll make it through another day—I hope you’ll hear this from someone who has walked that road.
You do not have to be fearless.
You do not have to be perfect.
You only have to take the next faithful step. One day, one moment, one breath at a time.
Love the person in front of you well.
Receive the help that is offered, but don’t feel responsible for carrying everyone else’s expectations. Your energy belongs with the person you love.
Protect your peace.
Hold tightly to the people God has given you, to help support you on the path.
Keep making memories and the pictures. You will never regret the photographs. They will help you remember the beautiful you lived.
Cling to Christ with everything you have.
Pray. Hope. Trust.
One day, perhaps years from now, you’ll look back at one of those ordinary photographs and realize something you could not possibly see while you were living it.
God never left. You will continue to discover How close He was.
He was present in every appointment, every tear, every difficult conversation, every ordinary meal, every sunset, every whispered prayer, every sleepless night, and every act of love.
He did not remove the cross.
But He never stopped carrying you through it.
Maybe it shouldn’t surprise me that these words from 1 Corinthians were part of our wedding day:
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”—1 Corinthians 13:7
I don’t think we fully understand, when we hear that Scripture proclaimed or speak our vows—in sickness and in health—all the ways we may one day be called to live those words.
We certainly didn’t.
We couldn’t have known what our own “in sickness” would look like, or all that love would one day ask of us. We couldn’t have imagined the ways we would be called to bear, believe, hope, and endure together.
But perhaps that is the grace of a vocation. We aren’t given the whole road on the day we say yes. We are simply asked to keep saying yes to one another, and to God, as we walk the road before us.
One faithful step at a time.
As I look at this photograph today, I realize there are still countless stories hidden inside it.
Stories about caregiving, marriage, family, and friendship.
Stories about suffering, resilience, hope and unconditional love.
Perhaps, in God’s time, I’ll tell them one by one.
But for today, I simply wanted to tell the woman standing in that garden beside her husband something she could not yet know.
Keep loving him.
Keep hoping.
Keep taking the pictures.
You won’t do everything perfectly.
You won’t always know what to say.
You won’t always feel strong.
But you will love him well.
And one day, when you look back at this photograph, you won’t measure or remember those years by how well you navigated every decision or whether you handled every moment exactly right.
You’ll remember that when you were handed the most devastating diagnosis and an incredibly heavy cross, you loved him with everything you had.
And through every step of that journey, the God who asked you to carry this cross was carrying you too.
