Chapter 1: A Life-Changing Diagnosis

It's hard to believe this story is true. If I had presented it as a screenplay, I would have been met with disbelief. In December, my fiancé, at the age of 38, received a diagnosis of acute leukemia. (I documented our experience on Medium.) Just as we celebrated our engagement after enduring three years of the pandemic, life seemed to be on the upswing. We exchanged rings and playfully debated how to share our engagement news. This delay is why you didn’t receive a card or see a post online. Then, cancer entered our lives.

Initially, his condition was a chronic type of leukemia, a variant I hadn’t realized existed. Thankfully, there was a treatment that could manage it, preventing it from overwhelming his system. But just after Thanksgiving, that treatment failed spectacularly. We observed a reversal in his health numbers, a change that sent him into panic. I, however, remained optimistic, convinced it was merely a temporary setback in a long-term battle. This naivety would soon be shattered by harsh reality, like a car crushed by a garbage truck.

As someone who meticulously tracks details, he could recite his lab results verbatim, aware that this significant spike—alarming and unwelcome—was no simple fluctuation. While he understood the gravity of the situation, I was still wrapped in my hopeful bubble. The modern healthcare system's reliance on technology meant we saw the test results before the doctor could break the news, an utterly bewildering way to handle life-altering information.

When we met with the oncologist the next morning, we were already aware of the bad news. "You're resistant to the medication," she stated. He replied, echoing the clinical jargon he had absorbed during this ordeal. "I saw it on the labs," he confirmed, a mix of fear and determination in his voice.

"It happens," she continued, but those words felt like a heavy weight pressing down on us. "We had six medication options available, and now only two." My heart plummeted. The reality of dwindling options meant our worst fears were becoming more tangible.

Just twenty minutes later, those fears solidified. The bloodwork results returned—ping!—and the oncologist met his gaze, her expression somber. "I’m so sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Everything we discussed is irrelevant now. It’s acute leukemia. You’ll need immediate hospitalization, chemotherapy, and a bone marrow transplant."

From that day forward, life revolved around countless tests, procedures, and treatments designed to combat this aggressive form of leukemia. This chemotherapy was brutal, aimed at dismantling the cancer and rebuilding his body from the ground up. He endured days of treatment that required him to shower alone, connected to a monitoring device, unable to be touched for a week.

Recently, he underwent a bone marrow transplant. His sister traveled from Montenegro to support him, a visit we had envisioned filled with laughter and joy—exploring the city, not spending eight hours in a clinic. Now, we await the outcome, hoping his body will begin producing new white blood cells within 7 to 16 days.

In the midst of this chaos, my fiancé came home after a month-long hospital stay. For the first time, the machines and tubes were absent, and we found a semblance of normalcy as he binge-watched eight seasons of Charmed while I tried to manage the paperwork of our disrupted life.

Two weeks into this new routine, I experienced a sudden and intense pain that sent me rushing to the bathroom. It was not his pain but mine—a surprising twist in our saga. After a frantic call to a doctor friend, I was advised to visit the emergency room. However, the episode subsided, leading me to believe it was a minor issue.

The following day, I finally called our doctor, who insisted I schedule a colonoscopy. Despite my protests, my fiancé insisted. "You’re rescheduling," he commanded. His insistence was a sign of his recovery.

After the procedure, the doctor’s expression said it all. "You have a sizable tumor in your colon, the size of a peach. We need to remove it. It looks malignant."

What? I was blindsided. Just days later, I learned it was colon cancer. A week after that, I underwent surgery to remove a foot of my colon, and it was staged as stage three. Although the surgeon believed they had removed all of it, the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes. I now face six months of chemotherapy, frequent visits to the oncology clinic, and a new normal filled with calls, texts, and endless medical bills.

Despite the chaos, I've learned to focus on taking things one step at a time. We are both utterly drained, yet I will share more about how this experience has affected our relationship and future plans. Writing helps me process our journey, almost as if it belongs to someone else, providing a brief escape from the heaviness of our reality.

For now, we find comfort in a phone call I received this morning. I’m recuperating from surgery at home while he recovers from his transplant in the hospital. My phone buzzed a little after nine.

"I have white blood cells," he said, his voice filled with hope.

"You do?"

"They registered on my bloodwork this morning. They’re here, baby. They’re here."

"They're here." I fought back tears, afraid that if I let them flow, I might never stop.

This experience has been a rollercoaster of horror and magic. Today was a moment of magic, lifting our spirits for the challenges that lie ahead.

Julio Vincent Gambuto is the author of Please Unsubscribe, Thanks! — available in the U.S. and U.K. in various formats. A New York Times bestselling author, he engages readers with his unique perspective on life’s challenges. To learn more, visit [www.juliovincent.com](http://www.juliovincent.com).

Chapter 2: Coping with Dual Diagnoses

Here, we can explore how we manage our lives amid two cancer journeys, detailing the emotional toll and the strength we draw from each other.

Section 2.1: The Emotional Toll

Navigating this tumultuous experience has tested our emotional resilience.

Subsection 2.1.1: Finding Strength in Each Other