“I didn’t want to put this burden on her.”
Matt met Lauren on St. Patrick’s Day in 2016. They were only a couple of months into dating when his entire life shifted. A backache turned into vomiting blood. A hospital visit turned into a diagnosis. Stage 3C testicular cancer.
He didn’t want her to stay.
He didn’t want her to see him like that, to carry the weight of what was ahead. But she did. And what followed was a relationship that defied expectations: one rooted in presence, not perfection.
Support means showing up, especially when things are messy, uncertain, or hard to talk about.
From fit and healthy to facing the unthinkable
At 24, Matt was a personal trainer in the best shape of his life. His dog had just finished chemo for his own cancer diagnosis. Matt was starting a new relationship. Life was busy, but good.
When his back pain got worse, he brushed it off. Even when he couldn’t stop throwing up blood. Even when he collapsed in Lauren’s bathroom.
By the time he was admitted, he had lost two-thirds of the blood circulating in his body.
Doctors found an 11-centimeter tumor in his small intestine and transferred him immediately to Cleveland Clinic. A few days later, he was diagnosed with stage 3C testicular cancer.
Lauren wasn’t there when he got the news. His parents were.
He looked at their tear-streaked faces and thought, How am I going to be strong for them? For her?
“The only thing I was nervous about was, is Lauren still going to be with me after this?”
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What presence looked like for Matt
When Lauren arrived at the hospital, she didn’t give him a speech. She didn’t need to.
They just cried. Together. That’s it.
And then she stayed.
For his first week of chemo in the hospital. For the many days and nights he could barely speak. Through kidney and liver failure. Through five surgeries. Through two comas. For 53 straight days, she showed up, again and again, in the quiet, consistent ways that matter most.
“The day I woke up from my coma, Lauren was holding my hand.”
What the experience after the hospital looked like
Matt left the hospital weighing 110 pounds. He couldn’t eat real food. He couldn’t walk on his own. The physical trauma of treatment, surgeries, and complications had changed everything.
Including his identity.
“You go from being super fit with red hair, to bald and barely able to move.”
The loss of physical identity is something young adults don’t talk about enough. When your body is your livelihood and your image is a big part of your confidence, it’s jarring to see it disappear.
But Matt shifted his mindset:
“Most of the time, when I lose a part of my identity, I gain a stronger version of myself. It’s a fresh start. You either let it break you, or you let it build something new.”
He gave himself permission to rebuild slowly. One small win a day. One bicep curl. One step. One extra bite. “Win the day,” he said. That’s all he focused on.
But it wasn’t always forward momentum.
After weeks of making excuses and avoiding movement, Lauren pulled him aside and had a hard conversation.
“If you don’t start taking care of yourself, you might not be here in a month.”
She didn’t shame him. She reminded him of what was at stake. And he cried. And then he got up. The next day, he picked up a dumbbell. The next day, he walked a few extra feet..
Redefining relationships after illness
Being in a new relationship while navigating a life-threatening illness is…complicated.
There’s no manual for how to keep the spark alive when one person is hooked up to machines and the other is sleeping in waiting room chairs.
“I don’t think we were really boyfriend and girlfriend for the first two years. It took time to heal mentally, physically, emotionally, and even then, it took time to learn how to be intimate and connected again.”
Their experience of dating looked like:
- Watching sunsets because they wanted to, not because they had the energy
- Savoring time together with no expectations
- Choosing each other again and again, even when it wasn’t romantic or fun
Now Matt and Lauren are happily married. And Lauren is still his person. And even though their experience looked different than most people their age, it gave them a foundation most couples never get to build.
“Not everybody stays. And that doesn’t mean they’re bad people. But Lauren stayed. She didn’t ask for this, but she chose to stay.”
Advice for partners and caregivers
Matt has seen both sides: people who grow stronger after cancer, and people who grow apart.
But the biggest factor in whether relationships survive?
Acceptance of change.
“A lot of partners fell in love with the person before the diagnosis. But cancer can shift your values, your direction, your outlook. Sometimes, people no longer match. And that’s okay.”
His advice to caregivers:
- Know that it’s hard. You’re not weak for struggling.
- Ask for help. You don’t have to be the perfect supporter.
- Your presence, even when it’s quiet or exhausted or unsure, matters.
Lauren didn’t always know what to say. But she never stopped showing up.
And that’s what changed everything.
What real support looks like
We asked Matt, “What does great support mean to you?”
“It’s everything. You cannot get through the hardest times of your life alone. I wouldn’t be here without my friends, my family, or Lauren. Period.”
And his message for other young adult men?
“It’s okay to ask for help. To be vulnerable. To share what you’re going through. That doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human.”
Final Thought
If someone is showing up for you consistently, even when it’s hard: tell them. Today.
And if you are that person, thank you.
You don’t have to have the perfect words. You don’t have to make it better.
You just have to b-present.
To learn more about being there for the one you love, download the Supporter Roadmap – a practical guide for partners navigating the caregiving role.