So is the person who stayed. The one who carried the load, held the fear, and reminded you that you weren’t alone.
Cancer is not meant to be faced in isolation. The weight of appointments, decisions, side effects, and uncertainty can feel unbearable without someone to steady you. Community becomes the soft place to land — the hands that drive you to treatment, the texts that arrive at just the right moment, the meals left on the porch, the laughter that breaks through the heaviness. Being alone in cancer would make the mountain steeper, the nights longer, the fear louder. Love doesn’t erase the diagnosis, but it makes survival possible.
Randy
From the day we heard “you have cancer” we have fought this head on, together. Joe never misses appointments and some days I feel this may be harder on him than on me. My rock, my love… he wears his “her fight is my fight” shirt proudly and is the captain of my fight team! I love you, Joe!
Joanne
I was diagnosed with a gynecological cancer in 2017. Suddenly, everything became uncertain. At a time when many people decided to exit my life for whatever reason, one person decided to stay, give me stability and hold me up. That person is my husband Mark. It must be difficult for him, feeling helpless, watching me suffer and struggle with this disease. He works a full time job, takes care of me and often, all of the household duties when I am too sick to help. Mark still manages to take care of his other family members and still makes the time to volunteer his services when someone is in need. Without people like Mark, the world would crumble. I don’t know if he understands just how important he is to me and the other people he has helped along the way. I realize that not everyone has a “Mark” and I am extremely grateful to have a partner, friend, cheerleader and caregiver who loves me so. Thank you Mark!
Sometimes that love looks like a spouse sleeping upright in a hospital chair, learning medication schedules and insurance language they never wanted to know. It looks like a best friend who shows up with coffee and honesty — who lets you rage, cry, or sit in silence without trying to fix it. It looks like parents who would trade places with you in an instant, who hold vigil in waiting rooms and pray between every breath. It looks like children — even young ones — offering gentle hugs, handwritten notes, or quiet bravery far beyond their years.
Christy
Hank was my designated driver to my gyn-onc appointments – he offered. The joke was that he was ‘driving Miss Daisy’, and he even showed up on one trip with a chauffer’s hat! It was so comforting to have someone with me that wasn’t family or a spouse. He allowed me space to just be. Sometimes there were tears but mostly laughter…and chocolate!
Debra
Love isn’t necessarily a dozen roses or boxes of chocolates on Valentine’s Day. It’s not diamonds or gold for anniversaries. Far more meaningful to me are the many days and nights spent in hospital rooms with me as I have recovered from surgeries. It is supporting me through every single doctor’s appointment. It is getting up in the middle of the night to clean up after ‘medical mishaps’ and never complaining. On very cold or rainy days it is warming the car up and moving it as close to the door as possible. Every single day I give thanks to God for this precious man who has been right beside me every step of the way through this journey, making the bad times more bearable and rejoicing with me through the good times, making them even more special. David, you are my hero and I love you more!
Support is not a small thing. It is oxygen. It is courage borrowed when your own runs thin. It is the quiet, faithful presence of those who choose to stay — not just when it’s easy, but when it’s messy and uncertain and exhausting.
Tiera
I Can, I Will, I Must
A Tribute to My Father, Elder Ned Germany Jr.
September 2020. The world was shut down. Hospitals were quiet in a way that felt unsettling. And I was preparing to begin the fight for my life. I was scared. I felt alone.
And in the middle of a pandemic, isolation felt heavier than ever. My first treatment was getting ready to start, and echoing in my spirit were the words my father always said:
“I can. I will. I must.”
My dad, Ned Germany, was battling cancer himself MDS. And yet, if you ever saw him, you wouldn’t see defeat.
You wouldn’t see bitterness. You would see a man anchored in faith. A man who believed God was still God, even in the infusion chair. A man who held on so securely to his faith that I never questioned whether God was present. My father’s belief didn’t waver with his diagnosis. It deepened.
And that did something to me. My father and I were a lot alike strong-willed, determined, stubborn if we’re being honest. In my teenage years and even into adulthood, our disagreements could feel like World War III. We loved hard. We clashed hard. But one day, I went with him to treatment.
They sat him in this particular chair. I hadn’t been diagnosed with cervical cancer yet. I was simply there as a daughter. But in that chair, something shifted between us. All the tension, the stubbornness, the pride — it melted. We laughed. We joked. At that moment, he wasn’t Superman. He wasn’t the disciplinarian. He wasn’t the strong, unshakeable figure of my childhood.
He was just my dad. A dad who was fighting. A dad who was choosing faith. A dad who believed he could, he would, and he must. Then, unexpectedly, it was my turn. When I walked into my first day of treatment, they said, “Here, Mrs. Wade, this is where you’ll be sitting.” It was the same chair.
The same space I once sat beside him. And in that moment, fear tried to creep in. I was facing 36 rounds of radiation. Six rounds of chemo. Brachytherapy. The exhaustion. The physical toll. The emotional unraveling. The uncertainty of outcomes. The loneliness of pandemic protocols that meant often walking in without the comfort of those you love.
But I remembered him. I remembered how he sat. I remembered how he smiled. I remembered how he believed. And I knew — if my father could sit in that chair with faith, then so could I.
I can. I will. I must. That mantra carried me through every radiation appointment. Every chemo infusion. Every brachytherapy session. Every tear cried in private. Every prayer whispered under my breath. Every moment I questioned my strength.
Five years later, I am celebrating survivorship. But this time, I am doing it without him. My father transitioned on October 28, 2025, and my world has never been the same. Grief has a way of reshaping everything. But even in his absence, his words remain louder than ever.
The advocacy. The leadership. The mentorship. The panels. The platforms. The voices I amplify. The lives I fight for. All of it is rooted in what he instilled in me. He didn’t just give me encouragement. He gave me a standard. He gave me a posture. He gave me faith in motion. Because of him, I don’t just survive, I serve. I don’t just speak, I advocate. I don’t just exist, I lead.
Dad, here I am. I am standing. I am speaking. I am advocating. I am educating. I am carrying your legacy forward. Because I can. Because I will. Because I must.
I love you, Dad. Your Pooh Bear
To the ones who showed up, who kept showing up, who loved us through it all and refused to let us disappear into the darkness: we carry you in our gratitude and in our hearts. Our stories are woven with yours, stitched together by love. And because of you — because of your steady, faithful love — we were never truly alone.
