There are days I don’t leave my bed.
Not because I’m lazy.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I can’t.
For the last two days, all I’ve done is puke.
I’ve thrown up until my ribs ached, my throat burned, and my body felt wrung out like an old rag.
There’s no dignity in it. No pause button. No “sick day aesthetic.”
It’s not poetic.
It’s miserable.
I try to sip water and end up curled over a bucket.
I nibble a cracker and it feels like a betrayal.
Even medicine — the thing that’s supposed to help — just burns on the way down and comes right back up.
And through all of it, my husband is there.
He doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t get frustrated.
He quietly shows up with a glass of water I don’t want to drink but need to.
He sits on the edge of the bed and reminds me gently: “Just a few sips.”
He brings me English muffins with peanut butter, knowing it’s the only thing I’ve even halfway tolerated lately.
He doesn’t ask for thanks.
He doesn’t need me to be “strong.”
He just wants me alive.
These are the moments people don’t see.
This is the part of cancer that’s not shared on cute hospital reels or printed on T-shirts.
It’s not about courage.
It’s about survival.
About doing what you can to make it through the hour.
Then the next.
Then the next.
I know people want updates.
They want to hear that I’m “fighting through it,” that I’m “staying strong.”
But what do I say?
“Hey, I’ve spent 48 hours hugging a bucket and bargaining with my stomach while my husband hand-fed me peanut butter and begged me to sip water”?
It’s not a pretty post.
It’s not shareable.
But it’s real.
Mojo hasn’t left my side.
He’s been curled up next to me the entire time.
He watches with those huge, concerned eyes — as if he understands what my body is doing even when I can’t explain it.
He rests his chin on my arm when the shakes come.
He doesn’t ask for anything.
He just stays.
Because that’s what love looks like.
A partner who carries your puke bucket.
A dog who guards your breath.
A body that betrays you — and a tiny team who refuses to.
These are the days no one sees.
No makeup. No strength. No “you got this” quotes.
Just a girl, a bed, a bucket, a muffin, and the kind of love that doesn’t run away when things get gross.
And that’s how I know I’m still here.
Still sick. Still held. Still trying.
— Izzy (& Mojo & the man who brings peanut butter) 🐾
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