Chapter 8 - The Hardest Fight of All
Grace came home from the hospital five days after the surgery, weak and sore, her lower abdomen wrapped in bandages, a small drain tube sticking out of her side that Nathan had to empty twice a day. The first two weeks at home were a blur of pain meds, sponge baths, and slow walks up and down the hallway to build up her strength. Nathan waited on her hand and foot: made her soup, helped her get dressed, changed her bandages, gave her meds on schedule, never complaining, never making her feel like a burden.
But the real fight started three weeks after the surgery, when her first round of adjuvant chemo began.
They arrived at the oncology infusion center early on a Tuesday morning, Grace wearing a soft baseball cap to cover her hair, which had already started thinning from the neoadjuvant chemo she’d had before surgery. The nurse hooked her up to the IV, explaining the side effects: nausea, fatigue, hair loss, mouth sores, low blood counts, neuropathy in her hands and feet. Nathan took notes, his face serious, as Grace stared at the bag of clear liquid hanging from the pole, her face pale.
The first 24 hours after chemo weren’t bad. She was tired, a little nauseous, but able to eat a little toast and watch TV. But by day three, the side effects hit hard. She spent 12 hours straight hunched over the toilet, retching so hard her surgical incision throbbed, too weak to even lift her head. Nathan sat on the bathroom floor next to her, holding her hair back, wiping her face with a cool cloth, whispering words of encouragement, his heart breaking every time she cried out in pain.
Two weeks after the first chemo, Grace woke up in the middle of the night, running her hands through her hair, and pulled out a handful of thick, brown strands. She stared at them for a long time, then got out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and locked the door. Nathan woke up when he heard her sobbing, and jumped out of bed, knocking on the door. “Grace? Baby, let me in. Please.”
She didn’t answer. He picked the lock with a bobby pin—an old trick he’d learned in high school—and pushed the door open. She was sitting on the floor in front of the mirror, hair clumps all around her, her face streaked with tears. “It’s falling out,” she whispered, pulling out another handful. “All of it. I’m gonna be bald, Nathan. I’m gonna look sick. Everyone’s gonna know.”
He sat down next to her on the floor, wrapping his arms around her, and kissed the top of her head. “Hey. Look at me.” He pulled out the electric clippers he’d bought the week prior, the ones he used to cut his own hair, and plugged them in. “We’re gonna do this together. Okay?”
He turned the clippers on, and before she could object, ran them over his own dark hair, shaving it all off, leaving a smooth, buzzed scalp. He grinned at her in the mirror, rubbing his hand over his head. “Now we match. See? I’m bald too. We’re the Brooks Bald Brigade. Sounds like a bad biker gang, right?”
Grace stared at him, her mouth open, then laughed—a real, loud laugh, the first one she’d had since before the surgery—through her tears. “You’re an idiot. You loved your hair.”
“Eh,” he said, shrugging, running the clippers over a stray patch he’d missed. “It grows back. And besides… you’re way hotter than me, so if you’re bald, I gotta be bald too. Can’t have you outshining me.” He picked up a clump of her hair, tossing it in the trash, and held the clippers out to her. “Your turn, Brooks. Let’s do this.”
She let him shave her head, sitting still on the bathroom floor, her eyes closed, as the clippers buzzed over her scalp. When he was done, he wrapped a towel around her shoulders, wiping the tiny hairs off her neck, and handed her a mirror. She stared at her reflection for a long time, her hand running over her smooth scalp, then looked up at him, smiling. “I look like you. But prettier.”
“Way prettier,” he said, leaning down and kissing her. “Always.”
But the chemo didn’t just take her hair. It took her energy, her appetite, her patience. Some days, she was the old Grace: laughing, making jokes, helping Nathan cook dinner, walking around the block with him. Other days, she was angry—angry at her body, angry at the cancer, angry at the world—and she took it out on Nathan. She snapped at him for moving her pillow wrong, for making her tea too sweet, for breathing too loud. She told him she was a burden, that he should have divorced her when he had the chance, that he was wasting his life taking care of a sick woman. Nathan tried to be patient. He tried to remind himself that the chemo was making her irritable, that she didn’t mean the things she said. But he was only human.
One night, six weeks into chemo, after a particularly bad fight where Grace had screamed at him to get out of her sight, that she hated him, that she wished he’d never found out about the cancer, Nathan walked out to the garage, sat down on the cold concrete floor, and broke down. He was exhausted. He’d been working four hours a day remotely on the company, caring for Grace 20 hours a day, running to the pharmacy, cooking, cleaning, dealing with insurance companies, and he hadn’t slept more than four hours a night in months. He was scared. Scared the cancer would come back, scared the chemo wouldn’t work, scared he’d lose her anyway, no matter how hard he tried. He felt like he was drowning, and no one could see it.
He heard the garage door open, and looked up to see Margaret standing there, holding a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies, her face soft. She sat down next to him on the floor, not saying anything, just handing him a cookie. He took it, staring at it, and whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this, Margaret. I’m so tired. And she hates me right now. She tells me every day.”
Margaret put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. “She doesn’t hate you, baby. She hates the cancer. She hates that she can’t take care of you, that she’s the one being taken care of. Grace has always been the strong one. Always been the one holding everyone else up. Now that she’s the one who needs help? She doesn’t know how to handle it. She’s scared, Nate. Scared she’s gonna die and leave you alone. Scared you’ll get tired of taking care of her and leave.” She paused, taking a bite of her own cookie. “But you can’t carry all of this alone, either. You’ve been trying to be strong for her, for everyone, and you’re breaking. You have to tell her how you feel. Not in a fight. Not when she’s angry. When it’s quiet. When you’re both calm. She loves you more than anything. The last thing she wants is to hurt you.”
Nathan nodded, wiping his eyes, and took a bite of the cookie. It was still warm, just how he liked it. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I just… I don’t want to add to her burden. She’s already going through so much.”
“Burden sharing is what marriage is,” Margaret said, smiling softly. “You share the good, you share the bad. You don’t get to pick and choose. Now go inside. Apologize for walking out. Tell her how you feel. And for the love of god, take a nap tomorrow. I’ll come over and sit with Grace. You sleep until noon. No arguments.”
He did as she said, walking back into the house, finding Grace sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her face wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, before he could even speak. “I’m so sorry, Nathan. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m just so scared, and I take it out on you, and I hate myself for it. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m being a terrible wife.”
He sat down next to her, pulling her into his arms, and kissed the top of her bald head. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have walked out. I’m just tired, baby. So tired. And scared. I’m scared I’m not doing enough, scared I’m gonna mess up, scared I’m gonna lose you. I don’t tell you that because I don’t want to add to your stress, but… I need you to know. I’m not perfect. I’m gonna mess up sometimes. But I’m here. I’m always here.”
Grace looked up at him, her eyes wet, and nodded. “We’re both a mess, huh?”
May you like
He laughed, wiping her tears with his thumb. “Yeah. But we’re our mess. And that’s all that matters.”
A week later, they started going to couples therapy, a woman named Dr. Hale who specialized in chronic illness and cancer. She taught them how to talk to each other without fighting, how to ask for what they needed, how to share the burden instead of carrying it alone. It helped. Slowly, the bad days got fewer, the good days got more frequent. Grace started letting Nathan help her without feeling guilty, started telling him when she was scared or tired or angry instead of lashing out. Nathan started taking Margaret’s advice, taking one day a week off to sleep, to go to the gym, to get coffee with Rico, to recharge. It was still hard. The chemo was still brutal. But they were doing it together. And that made all the difference.
