Those who know me well know that when it comes to the written word, rarely am I "at a loss for words." However, the past few weeks I have been exactly there, stuck as my mind feebly tries to hold on to anything, struggling even to make sense of which way is up.

I know that my wife Lindsay is a very private person—perhaps even more private than I am. She does not want people worrying about her and never wants to “put people out.” She has always been one of those people who never complains and rarely has something bad to say about anyone or anything. She compliments me well because I tend to take issue and complaint with most everything. And where she would rather "not bother" I tend to speak up and be the voice for her if she’s not feeling comfortable with that role. (This is especially true if having to deal with returning a product to the store or calling a company for a quote.) I guess that’s what some would call "balance."

Three weeks ago, Lindsay had a cold and was complaining of a persistent cough. Normally she is a very tough cookie, so I rolled my eyes at her but knew deep down that if she was still complaining about it that it must be a tough cold. (For those not in the know, I am sick once or twice a year—thanks to the reality of working in a school environment—and she has maybe been sick 3-4 times total in the near-decade we’ve been together.) Lindsay called me and said she was going to the doctor to be safe (which I again rolled my eyes at and was thankful she couldn’t see through the phone). The doctor referred her from there for a chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia. The next day Lindsay got a call from our doctor. What she said next has changed our lives forever.

For those not familiar with my wife, she is a 31-year-old non-smoker and semi occasional drinker who likes running, watching TV (Friends!) and snuggling with the pets. She enjoys balanced meals and doesn’t seem to carry too much stress on her shoulders. From those we share mutual acquaintances with, the two words most often used to describe Lindsay are "so nice."

Lindsay called me several weeks ago after leaving the doctor’s office. I was at work and she was driving home. I could tell she was upset.

"How did the x-ray results go?" I asked.

"Well, I don’t have pneumonia. But I do have some spots on my lung," she replied.

Did I hear her right? I repeated, "Spots on your lung?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

"I don’t know. I have to have a CT Scan." I could feel her stress and tension through the phone.

"I am on my way home," I replied.

Many years ago when Lindsay was 7 her mom died from breast cancer. There has perhaps always been an unspoken understanding between us that the likelihood of her also developing breast cancer at some point in her life was possible. For me it was a rather small chance; a fragment of an acknowledgment resting somewhere between "40 years from now" and "never." After this phone call, the fragment amplified as my mind raced from possible explanation to explanation. Spots on the lung... what could that mean? Polluted with "what ifs," I couldn’t get home fast enough.

Over the next few weeks we went through a lot: from a CT scan and the doctor suggesting it might be tuberculous, to the first biopsy and the surgeon confirming it’s not tuberculosis, to a second, more invasive biopsy and a PET scan, to the long-awaited official call from our doctor telling us that Lindsay has lung cancer.

Again I was at work when she got that call. Again, I couldn’t drive home fast enough.

Lindsay’s response as I told her I was racing home was for me to take my time because she was finishing up in the grocery store and wanted to wash her car first. While she was checking the firmness of the Christmas oranges, I was driving like a maniac and weeping like a willow. Once again, balance.

I am currently sitting in the cafeteria of the Royal Alex as Lindsay is going through her third biopsy. This one is called a mediastinoscopy and will give us more information and help guide the doctors in providing Lindsay with "molecular mapping" for treatment next steps.

It’s Lindsay's calm, assured reaction to the diagnosis (choosing fruit over fear) and the advice of a friend who is one year in remission that I need to have floating around in my mind constantly: everyone and every journey is unique and absolutely not a carbon copy of others.

We don’t know where this journey is taking us. We don’t know for how long it will be nor what the highs or the lows will be. But we do understand that it is just beginning and that we are going to need each other and the strength and support of those around us.

Life is funny, isn’t it? One year ago Lindsay and I were arguing over the dings, dents, and scratches inflicted on our only 4-month old car one slippery morning close to our home after Lindsay slid at low speed into a neighbour’s car. Fast forward to the same time a year later and those concerns seem absolutely irrelevant and insignificant. I am ashamed that we waisted one moment on that trivial nonsense.

Lindsay is feeling hopeful. We’ve heard from several people now who are in remission and living happy and full lives after a lung cancer diagnosis. Great advances have come in the form of treatment in the past 5 years or so. Coupled with the warm well wishes from the people all around us, I know we stand a fighting chance.