Collecting Golden Moments Amidst Metastatic Breast Cancer

I walk into the first day of school with my daughter. Her hand is grasped tightly in mine, her footsteps a bit more timid than I'm used to. This is a moment that used to fill me with fear, uncertainty, and sometimes dread—that first day of school, that first transition away from me toward a life where I am not her everything. It was a day I once imagined that I would have to face alone. But I don't have to do it alone. Not this year. I get to do it with my partner.

Their hand is clasped in our daughter's other hand, tears brimming in their eyes, the joy that they made it to see this milestone written all over their face. To some, they probably look like any other excited parent, but to me, I see over three years of beating a disease that has threatened this moment over and over again.

Three years of fighting so incredibly hard to be here for this moment. The smile on their face is echoed by mine. Our eyes meet over the top of our daughter's head, acknowledging without words how big this moment feels. A golden moment.

Finding light in the routine

Together in the car after dropping her off, we drive toward the cancer clinic, shedding a few tears about how big our child is becoming and how fast the days have flown. It feels like just yesterday she needed us for everything, but this morning she brushed her own teeth, got herself dressed, and put her own shoes on. She wished my partner “good luck” for their first day of a new round of radiation—a day of firsts all around.

Another day of fighting to see another day of firsts, a day of seconds, or even thirds. The first day of school next year, our daughter's sixteenth birthday, maybe even her first day of college. I catch myself dreaming bigger these days, getting greedy with hope. I collect and hoard these golden moments, each one shining along our cancer journey. These are the moments I get to see the joy on my spouse's face.

Strength for the hardest days

I take moments on particularly hard days—days where it feels cancer might overtake us—to look over these golden memories. I hold each one like a treasured marble, rolling it around and letting it remind me of how far we have come. The barefoot day on our front lawn; standing hand in hand in a field in front of a mountain; the smiling selfie of a beloved oncologist sandwiched between us days before a cross-country move; standing in our new apartment across the country surrounded by boxes. These are moments I wasn't sure I would have. Golden moments I'm collecting.

Living in two worlds

To someone not living with a loved one with metastatic cancer, they might not understand the way I walk through this world. They might not see the way I have one foot in the now and one foot in the future, honoring my journey as it is now and as it might one day be.

I watched my world come apart many years ago when my spouse was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. That was when we found out that the cancer had spread below the radar, had broken the bone in their arm, and had cost them most of their range of motion.

For weeks, they struggled to keep tears from their eyes every time they looked at our daughter. They were terrified they would be taken before our daughter had concrete memories of them; they were scared they would lose these firsts.

For a long time, I was scared to hope, fearful that it would somehow hurt more to hope. Now, if anything, the hope keeps me moving from golden moment to golden moment.