What I Found While Packing Changed Everything

My husband and I were in the middle of packing for a move when the pain started on my right side. It was sharp at first, then dull, then sharp again—enough to make me pause, but not enough to stop everything. Dan brushed it off gently, the way he always did.

“You probably pulled a muscle,” he said. “You’ve been lifting boxes all day.”

I usually trusted his instincts. He’s calm, practical, steady. But the pain didn’t fade. It lingered for days, nagging at me until it felt louder than everything else going on. Eventually, I went to urgent care on my own, mostly to prove it was nothing.

They weren’t sure either. Appendicitis, maybe. A muscle strain. They ordered a CT scan “just in case.”

That’s when everything changed.

The nurse didn’t say the word tumor. She just said they needed more tests. I remember staring at the wall, counting tiny cracks in the paint, holding my breath like if I stayed perfectly still, nothing bad could reach me. Dan squeezed my hand, the way he always did when words failed him.

We were supposed to move into our dream house that weekend. A small place near a lake, with enough yard for a vegetable garden. I’d already chosen paint colors. Yellow for the kitchen. Soft blue for the bedroom. That pain in my side suddenly felt like a threat to everything we were about to begin.

The next few days blurred together—appointments, lab work, phone calls. My phone rang constantly. Every time it did, my heart jumped.

When the call finally came, I was sitting on the kitchen floor with a box of tea towels in my lap. Early-stage cancer. Treatable, they said. Still cancer. I cried until my chest hurt. Dan didn’t try to stop me. He just sat beside me and held me while the future rearranged itself.

The move was postponed. Boxes stayed half-packed. The house looked frozen mid-thought. Everything paused except my body, which was suddenly on a collision course with something terrifying.

Treatment started the following week. Chemo wasn’t as horrific as I’d imagined, but it wasn’t gentle either. Food lost its appeal. My hair came out in clumps. One evening, Dan shaved his head too.

“We’re doing this together,” he said.

That man had never looked good bald. But he did it anyway.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I wandered into the guest room, now a graveyard of boxes. I opened one labeled “misc stuff” just to distract myself.

Inside were letters. Old ones. The handwriting wasn’t familiar, but the return address stopped me cold. A small town in Minnesota.

My hometown.

The first letter was dated 1987. Before I was born. It began, “Dear Anne.”

My mother’s name. Continue reading…