Neat and Tidy Plans

I’m an Enneagram 1. I like plans. I like order. I like knowing what’s coming next.

When Brian deployed, I had a picture in my mind of what this year would look like. It wasn’t the year I wanted for our family, but I had made peace with it.

I would spend my days with Brooks. We’d take long walks through the neighborhood, spend afternoons at the pool, meet friends for lunch, and soak up every moment of his first year. I’d have extra time with my parents while Brian was away. We’d settle into a rhythm. We’d miss Brian terribly, but we’d get through it.

I didn’t expect to lean on our community very much. Maybe for the occasional house project or if something broke. But otherwise, I thought we had this.

I had a neat and tidy plan.

And then one appointment changed everything.

A colorectal cancer diagnosis at 42, just eight months after having my son, was never supposed to be part of my story.

In a single conversation, my carefully organized plans disappeared.

Now my days are filled with scans, appointments, phone calls, pathology reports, and words I never wanted to learn. Instead of wondering where Brooks and I should go this afternoon, I’m wondering what stage this is. What treatment will look like. Whether I’ll need surgery. Whether I’ll lose the chance to have another baby with Brian.

That last one hurts in a way I can’t even describe.

After years of infertility, IVF, heartbreak, and finally welcoming Brooks into the world, we always dreamed our family might not be finished. Now I don’t know if that dream survives this diagnosis.

I don’t know what the next few months look like.

I don’t know how treatment will affect me.

I don’t know how to explain to my son someday that his first year of life became the hardest year of mine.

And for someone who finds comfort in planning, the unknown feels almost unbearable.

People keep asking what we need.

The honest answer is… I don’t know.

I know our friends and family will show up. They already have. I know they’ll bring meals, watch Brooks, mow the lawn, pray, send texts, and sit with us in the waiting. I know we’ll need them in ways I can’t even imagine yet.

But today, I don’t even know what to ask for.

I’m scared.

I’m angry.

I’m numb.

And if I’m honest, hope feels hard to find right now.

The emotions don’t take turns. They all seem to exist at the same time.

Some moments I feel defeated before the fight has even begun. I wonder how I’m supposed to do this. How I’m supposed to be a mom while going through treatment. How I’m supposed to navigate this without Brian beside me.

And then I look at Brooks.

His laugh. His smile. The way he reaches for me without hesitation. He doesn’t know what’s happening, and I pray he never remembers this season. I look at him and something shifts inside me.

I have to fight for him.

Then I think about Brian, halfway around the world. More than anything, I wish I could crawl into his arms for just a few minutes and let him tell me everything is going to be okay. We were supposed to get through this deployment together—not spend it wondering how to fight cancer from opposite sides of the globe.

I have to fight for him, too.

Then I think about my parents. Our families. The friends who have already surrounded us with prayers, meals, childcare, texts, and quiet acts of love before we’ve even had the chance to ask. The community I thought I’d rarely need has become one I’ll have to lean on more than I ever imagined.

I have to fight for them.

And somewhere in all of this, I’m realizing I have to fight for me, too.

Not because I’m fearless. Not because I wake up every day believing everything will be okay. But because I don’t believe this is where my story ends.

I still have memories to make with my son.

More sunsets to watch with Brian.

More laughter to share with family and friends.

More life to live.

Maybe that’s why I’m starting this blog.

Not because I have wisdom to share or because I know how this story ends. I don’t.

I’m writing because I need somewhere to put all of this.

The fear.

The grief.

The questions.

The moments that somehow still make me smile.

The victories, however small they may be.

Life isn’t neat and tidy.

Sometimes the year you planned disappears overnight, and you’re handed one you never would have chosen.

This isn’t the story I wanted to tell.

But it is the one I’m living.

So, for today, I’ll keep fighting.

For Brooks.

For Brian.

For my family.

For my friends.

And for myself.

One appointment.

One treatment.

One prayer.

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