Let me introduce you to the most reliable, intuitive, and ride-or-die nurse I’ve ever had: Mojo. He’s short, snorty, unapologetically gassy, and the love of my life.
Mojo doesn’t know what stage cancer I’m in. He doesn’t understand chemo or blood counts. But he knows when I’m not okay.
He knows when I’m about to get sick—before I do. He’ll wake from a dead sleep and follow me room to room, never leaving my side, even when I’m quiet. Especially when I’m quiet.
He doesn’t need me to explain the symptoms. He doesn’t ask how I’m feeling in a tone that expects me to say “better.” He just lays there, close enough to touch, close enough to breathe with. And somehow, that helps more than most medications ever could.
Mojo has become a barometer for my health. If I’m feeling okay, he’ll nap in the next room. But if I’m spiraling—nauseous, weak, in pain—he becomes a shadow. Gentle, heavy, and stubborn in the best way. He refuses to leave until I’m okay enough to move again.
I don’t think he knows what cancer is. But I think he knows it’s hurting me.
And while people pull away, go silent, forget to check in, or get weird around my diagnosis—Mojo never does.
No expectations. No discomfort. No platitudes. Just love, presence, and that soft, rhythmic snore that lets me know I’m not alone.
He may not wear scrubs or know CPR, but Mojo is the best damn nurse I could ask for. And I’m convinced he’s saved me more times than I’ll ever fully realize.
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