It began with relentless itching—angry red patches spreading across his skin like a warning signal. I brushed it off at first, thinking it might be an allergy from a new soap or maybe something he’d eaten. We tried over-the-counter remedies: antihistamines, creams, cold compresses. Nothing helped. The irritation only worsened, stealing his sleep and our peace of mind.

Worried, I finally brought him to the doctor, expecting reassurance—maybe a prescription, maybe advice to wait it out. But as the doctor examined him, I saw his demeanor shift from relaxed to concerned. He quietly called for tests and spoke in low tones with the nurses, and a knot of fear began to tighten in my gut.

A few anxious days later, the results came in. It wasn’t an allergy—it was cancer. The word felt like a thunderclap, shaking the ground beneath us. Suddenly, our days filled with appointments, hospital corridors, treatment plans, and questions we didn’t know how to ask.

That once-dismissed itch had become a cruel harbinger, the earliest sign of something far more sinister spreading inside him. Chemotherapy followed—grueling, exhausting. I watched him grow weaker, yet never once did he complain. Through the haze of medicine and fear, I kept returning to the beginning, wondering if we’d acted sooner, could things have been different?

Now, I see every new symptom through a different lens. Each itch or pain triggers a flicker of dread. The diagnosis changed how we see everything. But even in the shadow of cancer, we’ve found strength—fierce, unyielding determination to fight and to cherish every fragile moment we still have.

Cancer invaded our lives without warning, but we refuse to let it define our story.