I walk across the backyard in my flip-flops, feeling the prickly grass and the dampness of lingering dew on the edges of my feet. My mom has just picked up the kids for the day, and I have ten minutes before I have to leave for work—just enough time to check on my little flower garden. The zinnias, grown from seeds I bought at Home Depot, are starting to put on a lively summer show. Each morning I check for new blooms. I always find one. I’m always delighted. 

The little pink ones appeared first, with their intricate rows of tiny petals. They were soon followed by oranges, yellows, and whites. Some of the blooms are small and simple, while others are large with rows and rows of petals. Buds appear at the crests of new stems, and I’m excited to see which colors and varieties of flowers will open next. Each flower is lovely on its own—even the small ones make me smile. Together, and along with the daisies, pansies, gazanias, cosmos, and marigolds, they make a garden full of color. I can see it from my kitchen window.

Four years ago was the summer of 2020—the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. My son was born in August and my husband received his cancer diagnosis weeks later. That summer, the garden was full of untamed and unrelenting weeds.

When we found out about the cancer and the surgery needed to remove it, I called my mom and tried not to cry. She told us she was sorry we were going through this and that of course she could keep the baby during the surgery. She baked us a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

I asked friends and family for prayers. “We’re praying for you both,” they said. And one replied, “I had testicular cancer, too. I’m here if he wants to talk about it.”

At my six-week postpartum checkup, I told the nurse it wasn’t so bad leaving the baby with Grandma this time since I had to do it once before. She sat on her stool, holding the blood pressure cuff, and listened with genuine concern when I told her about the surgery and what it was for.

My doctor heard my worries about having another baby someday. If my husband had to go through chemotherapy or radiation treatments, it would probably affect his fertility. I knew this, and my doctor knew this. But then he told me that fertility usually returned to normal after a few years.

We never had to do additional treatments, but I still remember the relief and hope I felt when I heard my doctor’s words. I remember the reassurance in the nurse’s eyes, letting me know she saw my struggle and worry, that she knew it was real, and wanted to encourage me.

At my son’s two-month checkup I told the nurse about the cancer so it could be added to the family health history. My son’s pediatrician saw the note and talked about how that type of cancer was very responsive to treatment and almost always had a good prognosis. His words were more than his medical opinion. They were his way of saying he cared about me and my family.

That summer, we walked a challenging path full of unknowns and what-ifs, but we were never alone. Our families, our friends, and many others were there with us. Over and over, we heard, “I care about you, and I’m here with you,” though never in those words.

In the evening, I stand at the kitchen window and look out across the backyard, towards the flower garden. Dusk has fallen faster than usual; a small rainstorm is passing through. Raindrops fall, lightly but steadily. It’s hard to see the garden, but I can still make out blooming zinnias, pink and orange and white, swaying and bobbing in the wind like bright spots against the darkness.

When my husband and I left his doctor’s office this afternoon, referrals in hand, I realized the word “neurologist” felt just as heavy as “oncologist.” We don’t know yet where this new journey will take us. As hard as it may be, we have no choice. All we can do is remember that we’ve been here before, and we always had everything we needed, right when we needed it. We can remember how we were never alone, and remember that at the end of it all, we were okay.

We can trust that it will be the same this time around. We can remember that we saw flowers blooming along the path, even through the rain. We can pick some zinnias for the journey.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Manna.”