How Tanner and I do it differently
When Tanner was diagnosed with cancer at 25, everything we thought our life would be was ripped away in an instant. We had just celebrated our second wedding anniversary. We wereyoung, in love, and dreaming about the life we would build together. And then suddenly, we were in a hospital room with a doctor telling us that Tanner had Stage IV colon cancer. Just like that, the future became uncertain. And it has stayed uncertain ever since.
For five years now, we’ve lived on a rollercoaster—one where we never got the chance to buckle in properly. Every time we’ve thought we reached some level of stability, cancer has thrown us a curveball. Treatment works, then it stops working. Tumors shrink, then they grow again. We’ve gone from the brink of death to miraculous recoveries more times than I can count. And through it all, Tanner and I have coped in completely different ways.
Tanner is hope. He is light. He is the person who will hear a 5% survival rate and say, “Well,somebody’s got to be in that 5%.” From the very beginning, he has chosen optimism—not in a naive, blind-faith kind of way, but in a way that keeps him moving forward. He truly believes that every day is a gift, and he holds onto the idea that tomorrow could always bring something better. He laughs, he dreams, he plans. He refuses to let cancer define his life. And honestly, that optimism has been a lifeline, not just for him but for me, too.
Research backs up what I see in Tanner every day. Studies have shown that cancer patients who maintain hope and optimism tend to have better emotional well-being, experience less anxiety and depression, and even have better treatment outcomes. Hope is powerful.It gives Tanner something to hold onto, something to fight for. And I admire him for that more than I can ever put into words.
But I am different. Where Tanner is hope, I am reality. And that has been my survival mechanism. I have lived in this cancer world long enough to know that hope does not always mean survival. That even the strongest fighters, the ones with the best mindsets, the most aggressive treatments, and the most prayers sent their way, sometimes still don’t make it. That cancer is unpredictable and cruel and does not care about how badly you want to live.
So I don’t think about “beating” cancer. I don’t pretend like there is some finish line we are running toward where everything will be okay. Instead, I have learned to sit with the knowledge that, barring some medical miracle, cancer is going to take Tanner’s life. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next. But at some point, this disease will take him from me. And the only way I have learned to cope with that is to accept it, to stop trying to predict when it will happen, and to just love him with everything I have for however long I get to have him.
This isn’t giving up. This isn’t me being negative. This is my own version of survival. I have spent years waiting for the next bad scan, the next tumor growth, the next crisis. But if I live my life in a constant state of fear and anticipation, then cancer takes even more from me than it already has. So I don’t let it. Instead, I choose to live in this in-between place—where I acknowledge what is coming but refuse to let it steal the joy of what is here now.
Some people might think that living with this knowledge would make life unbearable, but in some ways, it has actually made life more beautiful. There is a clarity that comes with knowing that time is finite. It makes the little things feel bigger. I notice the way Tanner laughs at his own jokes, how he reaches for my hand when we sit next to each other, how he sings in the car even when he doesn’t know the words. I memorize those moments because I know that someday, they will be the things I hold onto when he is gone. And as heartbreaking as that is, it is also what makes me grateful for every single day that he is still here.
Tanner and I have learned that coping doesn’t look the same for everyone. He needs to believe that he is going to live a long life, and I need to prepare for the possibility that he won’t. And that’s okay. We have learned to hold space for both perspectives, to respect the way each of us processes this experience. There is no “right” way to cope with something like this. There is just finding what keeps you going, what keeps you grounded, what helps you wake up and keep putting one foot in front of the other.
If you are walking a similar path—if you are watching someone you love fight a battle with an uncertain ending—know that whatever you are feeling is valid. If you need hope, cling to it. If you need realism, let yourself sit in it. If you need both, find the balance that makes sense for you. There is no map for this. No perfect way to navigate something so heartbreaking. But you are not alone in it.
For now, Tanner and I keep going. We keep laughing, we keep crying, we keep loving each other through every twist and turn. And we will continue to do that for as long as we are given. Because at the end of the day, no matter how much or how littletime we have, all that really matters is that we love each other.