2025

2025 was cruel in ways I never imagined were possible. I never imagined this would be mine and Jason’s love story. Heading into January last year, I truly had faith we were going to make it out the other end. Jason’s numbers were plummeting, the scans were showing shrinkage. I thought he’d be here when the clock struck midnight and the calendar turned to 2026. This year brought devastation in ways I can’t explain. A rollercoaster of hope and defeat, devastation, unthinkable and unimaginable circumstances. God failed me in every way possible. I find myself questioning what I even believe anymore. Jason and I clawed to find something in every decent moment we were given. Which is something 2026 won’t ever be able to give. I lost Jason this year, but I had 7 months and 17 days with him. That’s 229 days. Life jerked us around in that time, but we did the best we could. We spent a lot of time at home, in doctor offices and infusions labs, in the car driving to and from. We laughed and cried. Sang in the car, found beautiful songs that expressed our feelings. We were able to see friends, though much less often than we wanted. We spent a lot of time with my parents. We tried to keep up on our Sunday trips to their house for dinner. We managed to get in one trip up the mountains, but unfortunately Jason wasn’t feeling well enough to ski. We also remodel our master bathroom shower together, which Jason pushed through despite cancer. We were the perfect construction team and I will cherish that project, the teamwork, forever. There were moments filled with joy and love. But there were also a lot of bad days. I wish I took more photos of us together, even when the days felt heavy, because now it’s all I have.

There’s a side of it all that can’t be pictured.

The endless trips to the pharmacy, the back and forth with Jason’s care team to get prescriptions right and on time, consuming a lot of Jason’s energy. Navigating insurance, short term disability, paid family medical leave, fighting a denial of long term disability.

In May we ran out of leave options, he was given a month on unpaid leave by his employer but all his benefits moved to COBRA, meaning we took on a full premium to maintain his health insurance, letting it lapse at all would’ve financially broke us.

When Jason couldn’t return to work in June, he was terminated from his job because his employer simply decided they didn’t want to keep him on the books. It was disheartening. It hurt Jason immensely. Another mental hurdle of his life being ruined by cancer.

The feeling of helplessness and defeat as you watch the person you love most feel helpless, scared, angry, because neither of you can control how the cancer responds to the treatment and you have absolutely no choice in the outcome.

The hours and the draining days at the clinic, the crushing, paralyzing anxiety of every blood drawn, every CT, every appointment, where we held our breath in hopes the news wasn’t bad.

My parents were (and are) a God send, helping in anyway possible, doing everything they possibly could to help Jason with paperwork, finding records to fight long term disability and then help him apply for social security, enrolling him in COBRA. My mom would make his favorite soup recipes from scratch, deliver food to our house on the 10 hour trial days. My parents and our neighbor April, would help us with Nora.

The nights we spent apart, including most every night of July, because Jason was in the hospital.

The daily hours spent driving in the car or in traffic to visit him at the hospital.

The tears, the pain, the fear, the shock. The anticipatory grief, the trauma.

I sat in almost every single appointment and infusion.

For the days he spent in the hospital, I was by his side 99.9% of the time.

I drove Jason (or with Jason) to almost every CT scan, blood draw, appointment. All while balancing a full time job, which was our sole source of real stable income.

We were also navigating the dynamics with Jason’s parents. The pain and sadness I felt watching the love of my life be kicked down by the very people who gave him life, the people who are supposed to love him, all while he was battling stage 4 cancer was traumatizing. I can’t imagine having to come to terms with the fact your parents don’t care enough to show up for you, none the less having to come to terms with that while you’re dying of cancer. I watched it all, and it broke me. It still does, every damn day.

I don’t think people have a damn clue what this was like, what cancer is like. What our lives looked like. What was robbed from Jason and me. I know I didn’t. Not until I lived it. And there is knowing it, and then there is really living it. As his spouse, I am the only person in this world who had a front seat experience to what this was like for Jason, almost every second of every day. I lived it, day in and day out, and still, I only had a fraction of the experience of what his body was going through.

I remember attending a work event and trying to explain to a coworker close to my age about the long term disability, she brushed it off like it was nothing and said “well that sucks, but how’s married life”. As if Jason’s cancer and the reality of being sick had no impact on our world or our marriage.

We spent our year trying to survive, trying to save Jason.

I was running on adrenaline for 229 days this year, not even mentioning 2024.

The sleepless nights, the night terrors, waking up in the middle of the night to check if my husband was still alive, even well before he was “really sick”.

Cancer riddles you with fear, especially after you learn treatment that you thought was going to save your husband’s life, stops working. It constantly felt like we were racing against the disease to try to save him. We both were trying to be strong for each other, and for ourselves.

I was running on strength and strength alone. Because the only other option was to give up, I would be damned to give up on Jason.

The cruelest part, no matter how hard we or he wanted to fight, the world said a big fuck you anyways.

I found strength in myself that I didn’t even know was possible. Strength I wish I never had to find. Strength that I wouldn’t wish anyone be forced to find in the way I did, or find at all. Strength that was all fueled by my unwavering, unconditional love for Jason.

I watched the person I love most hurt deeply from constant bad news, bad results, when all he wanted was to fight to live this life that had finally gotten so good for him, all while hurting too.

I watched the person I love most in this world suffer through immense pain.

I watched cancer rapidly consume his body, at a pace that was even shocking to his entire care team. People say the shock of losing someone in an instant is more traumatizing than if you get to say your goodbyes. I can’t compare the two, but I can say this. I was never prepared for what cancer could do to the body in a short period of time. The absolute shock and devastation of watching it consume someone you love is a type of torture that you will never know until you experience it. When the doctors express shock over the drastic change in your husband, you know you are living a special type of hell.

I frantically rushed to enroll my 37 year old husband in hospice, just 24 hours before he passed, trying to give him the chance to die in peace. I waited until Jason decided he was “ready” to make the decision on home hospice, because his choice mattered in all of this, always, no matter what.

I talked the love of my life out of a panic attack the morning before he passed after he looked me in the eyes and told me he was going to die that day.

I had to be the one to tell him that there was nothing else anyone could do to save him. This broke me, in ways I can’t even express. I wanted nothing more than for him to keep fighting, for someone to do something to save him.

I had to be his advocate, holding my end of a promise to him to not let him die in a hospital. I promised him this in October of 2024, after he made it very clear, that wasn't what he wanted. He nodded his head in agreement and said “I don’t want to die in pain”. I told him, “I don’t want that either”. He asked me to pray. I held his hands and for the first time, I stopped asking God for a miracle. Instead, I asked for a peaceful end of life for Jason. The tears streaming down my cheeks. It felt so cruel, like surrendering. I would have done anything to save him.

Immediately after, I got on the phone with hospice to get direction on how to up Jason’s pain meds, safely, to put him in a place of comfort. He could hear me on the phone. I came out with more medicine. He looked at me, with pride, “thank you for calling the doctor”. Even though he felt like shit, his body was failing him, his eyes said it all. I know in my heart he could see how much I was trying for him and how loved he felt by me. He knew I was finding a way to be the strongest person for him when inside I was dying in my own way because I watching my entire life crumble in front of me. I won’t ever forget the nurse on the other end, I told her he was so anxious and she said “of course he is, he is 37 years old, he isn’t ready to die. And you my dear, you are not ready for that either.”

The last real coherent words Jason spoke were “I need Lauren”. They say people wait for their loved ones to leave the room to wait to pass. But not Jason, he wanted me by his side until the very end. He called for me and if that’s not true love, I don’t know what is. I told an old friend this, and she said “of course he did, he wanted to do everything with you”. And damn right, of course he did. I was his world as he is mine. But God, I can’t even express how loved, valued, seen it makes me feel that he used all his strength to call for me, to make sure I was by his side. I am so glad he did, even though watching the love of my life take his last breaths will forever be the worst moments of my life.

I replay that day over and over in my mind. I had stepped outside. His brother came to get me after Jason asked for me. I came inside and Jason tried to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand. I asked again, but still, nothing. So instead, I said, I love you. He smiled and he mouthed it back and I kissed him. I sat down by his side, holding his hand, whispering in his ear as he fell asleep. For months on end, I would always watch his belly when he was sleeping, to watch his breathing. Within minutes I could hear he stoped breathing, my eyes went directly to his stomach, it didn’t lift. The very moment I lived in utter fear of for the last 18 months was happening. I squeezed his hand, everyone came by his side. I told him it was ok for him to let go, I would find a way to be ok without him. I told him Mitch was waiting for him, with skis at the gates of heaven, for their long awaited powder run. Those are probably the hardest words I’ve ever spoke and the biggest lie I’ve ever told. I’m not ok, but he needed to know I’d be ok, in order to let go. He fought for me. He fought like hell. He did the hardest thing in the world, to let go of the fight and walk into the unknown to leave behind everything he loved and knew so deeply. He was so brave. He was and is my hero. I wish I knew what he was trying to tell me when I came back into the house that day. All I know is that I’m so glad when I couldn’t understand I made sure to tell him I love you, because I know for certain he heard it one last time.

All I want is Jason.

Every moment since losing Jason, has been worse in an entirely different way. Maybe that’s selfish, because I was not the one suffering in pain for months on end. But everything was better when Jason was here, even while cancer was derailing our lives.

Cancer is so evil and it is so ugly. More cruel than I ever could’ve imagined. It robbed us of so much. Cancer takes and took most everything. But cancer can’t take love, and we loved big. I mean really big. Truly, bigger than most. I watched nurses, doctors, other members of his care team, express awe of the loved we shared. I was told by many, our love is what carried him through for so long, and why he fought so hard. We told each other we loved each other so many times a day, not realizing what the world was about to take from us. All those appointments, hard days at home, where we just sat on our couch or in bed, were seconds spent together, even in the worst of circumstances. To love and be loved by Jason is out of this world, better than I could’ve ever imagined I’d find in a person, let alone a husband. We never waited to tell each other how much we cared or loved, either. I have no regrets, or the “I wish I said more”. We actively chose to never leave an “I Love You” unsaid. I re-read our old text messages and I see two people who knew they found their person, who loved deeply. The amount of times I told him, “I don’t want this life without you”, but now I am here, doing just that, and it hurts.

In a letter Jason left me on his phone he wrote “Lauren your strength is unmatched.” He saw it in me, far before I saw it in myself. Jason gave me the ability to be that strong. I didn’t know I was capable of this kind of strength, and it’s all strength fueled by love. A depth of love I didn’t know I was capable of giving or feeling, until I knew Jason. Writing this all out now, sobbing on my couch, I find myself thinking, for the first time since Jason died, “Lauren, you are really fucking strong”.

I miss Jason with every ounce of my being, every second of every single day. I’m homesick for my person and the life we planned, a place I can’t return to. I would give anything to hold his hand, and give him that midnight kiss to walk into 2026. I have no hopes for the year ahead, I’m not ready to make the transition into a year where Jason will have never lived. I’m done asking the world, God, for anything. I had the best thing in my entire life, the person, the life I prayed for, and it was ripped from me, from him, far too soon. It’s senseless, and I will never understand why this is was our story.