Adversity doesn't grant a free pass from further calamity just because someone is already in the thick of a storm. My dance card was full—or so I thought. I was soon to learn that being in a crisis didn't mean I was exempt from life’s "add-ons." Scripture promises that God will not test us beyond what we can handle, which often made me wonder: was He overestimating my strength, or did He believe I could manage this mountain of responsibility, or that pushing my limits was the only way to bring out Matt’s best? Even a happy event like preparing for Megan and Ben’s wedding became a meaningful, heavy lift on my time. Yet, because I was so committed to supporting Matt’s cause, I wasn’t ready to let up on his behalf—or Megan’s.

Where should I start?

In March 2019, we traveled to Albany Medical Center for Matt’s first neurosurgical consultation since leaving Pennsylvania. It was a moment of profound relief to hear the surgeon say that Matt was doing exceptionally well, considering the extent of his brain bleed. Positive results from a recent angiogram and MRI confirmed there was no residual ischemic damage or any other aneurysms.

At least one deep concern from the past year drifted away on a fresh breeze that beautiful spring day—the day we received the good news. This "all-clear," one less worry on our plate, while invigorating, didn’t halt the bureaucratic landslide and efforts to figure out the long-term logistics of his new life. As his designated resident expert, I became his benefits specialist and legal clerk on pressing matters. I found myself buried under mounds of Social Security Disability (SSD) paperwork, coordinating with attorneys to ensure Matt’s mental and functional abilities were recorded with absolute precision. It required hours of researching potential scenarios and their ramifications, which strained my capacity to keep up with the competing priorities I was juggling.

By July, Matt was awarded SSD benefits. While he received the same total monthly disbursement, funded through Long-Term Disability (LTD) and SSD, the victory was in the details: SSD benefits were non-taxable and included an annual cost-of-living increase. It was a significant win for his financial future; unfortunately, this same process would need to be updated every few years.

For two years, a considerable pile of Matt’s belongings had been tucked away in that basement. Our plans to retrieve them were stalled when COVID-19 uncertainty shuttered the world, but the buyers graciously allowed his possessions to remain. Finally, in September, a window of opportunity opened. The three of us traveled back one last time to say farewell to Matt’s pride and joy—no longer his home or his future—to retrieve his furniture and a pyramid of boxes.

The new owners’ kindness and thoughtfulness overwhelmed us—before we showed up, they had already moved everything into the garage.

Since our house couldn’t hold all of Matt’s worldly possessions, we packed the Penske truck accordingly. The boxes designated for storage went in first, followed by items for our home. The new owners even came to our rescue, seeing we were running out of steam. The move was an "old-fashioned" workout, but seeing Matt pitch in right alongside us—hoisting boxes and organizing the storage unit—was a real-life manifestation of his recovery. Once home, Matt beamed when his bedroom set was arranged in his room at our house, marking the end of one chapter as we persistently strove to define the next one.

Okay. That’s Matt’s side of the equation. Next up . . .

Who me? Surprised, I point to my chest and look over my shoulder. There must be a mistake; the bearer of bad news can't possibly mean me! But, yes, two words would shake our world, once again. Breast cancer. Quickly, my story became intertwined and tangled with Matt’s.

The definitive diagnosis arrived just before Megan’s wedding. My secret and heightened vulnerability were sandwiched between an exuberant family vacation in the Thousand Islands and the radiant celebration to come. Not wanting to dim the shining spirit of either event, Mike and I chose to hold the news close for the time being. For the moment, with no way to share this unexpected burden, it cycled through my thoughts and prayers.

Once again, the family rallied together. We had our concerns and questions about how this might impact our current situation. As with Matt, we chose not to wallow in the apparent unfairness of it all. Truthfully, the alternatives—dejection or surrender—were not acceptable. We would get through this together and keep Matt’s recovery on full throttle. There was no time to slow down. The battle plan began with the fact that my breast self-examination had detected the lump nine months ahead of my next mammography, minimizing its spread and the potential need for more aggressive treatment. I’m sure you already have a good sense of what followed: consults, options, and prognosis. Family huddles, hopes for best-case scenarios, and finally, the decisions. Lumpectomy, radiation therapy, and multiple follow-up appointments.

As if to stamp the year with an exclamation point, there was a little extra drama. On the night of my surgery, a massive windstorm severed the top of an enormous pine tree, which crashed within feet of our house. The next day, as I recovered, I quietly watched through the front window as a neighbor wielded the chainsaw and Mike stacked logs and piled debris.

The cleanup paralleled my own.

Although people wanted to coddle and slow me down, within a few days, I hit the ground running. Wisely, they knew not to rebuke me; I was being true to myself. I would survive without putting Matt’s programs on hold.

But there is more.

I had just completed six weeks of daily radiation therapy when the next shoe dropped. My cousin, Kathy, was killed instantly when a tornado struck her home in Nacogdoches, Texas. Her house and all the family treasures were obliterated, scattered haphazardly over a mile-long swath of destruction. When I saw the devastation, I realized nothing remained but our memories. Along with my brother, Jim, I joined Kathy’s family to celebrate her life. Because of her first husband’s service in the Navy, Kathy was honored with a military ceremony—a recognition of the sacrifices she had made on his behalf. It was another sobering encounter with death. This time, there was no heroic chance to turn the tide; this time, death had its way.

And not to miss out on the party, Mike jumped into the melee. In June 2020, nine months after my own diagnosis, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer and underwent surgery—along with the grueling demands that come with that journey.

Matt’s experience, combined with our own health battles, has made me realize I have never truly understood what others—facing their own Goliaths—have gone through, beyond their initial, all-consuming needs. I imagine they’ve had their own share of unexpected burdens and unknown minefields to navigate in the search for greener pastures. I have also learned that if we are willing and open, in the midst of life's storms, we are given an opportunity to discover truths about ourselves—and a surprising strength and courage we didn't know we had.

© 2026, Sarah Watkins