Before cancer, Michael (Babe Turo) planned on taking us on a special trip. We didn’t have much, but we had enough—and in that “enough,” we had peace.

When the pain first started, he was told it was his diverticulitis and brushed it off. He said it was something he ate. He’d been tired, losing a bit of weight, but we joked that maybe it was finally the diet he’d never stick to. The day the doctor said, “pancreatic cancer, advanced stage IV,” it felt like the air disappeared from the room. I remember watching his face, expecting panic, but what I saw first was worry—for us. He reached for my hand before I could reach for his. He turned to me and said, “We’ll fight this. We’re not giving up.” I believed him, because that’s who he is.

The fight, though, is not just against the cancer.

There are the treatments—long days at the hospitals, there are scans, follow-up appointments, second opinions, and visits to specialists hours away from home. Overcoming the challenges he has with each treatments. He tried to stay himself through it all, making the nurses laugh, telling the kids his “super medicine” was helping him fight the bad cells.

But behind the brave face, there is the quiet weight of money.

At first, we thought we could manage it. We had some savings. We told ourselves this was temporary—that we just had to get through a few months. Then the first big bill came. Then the second. Then the third. Each bill brought a new number that made my chest tighten. I found myself standing in the kitchen at night, choosing which bill could wait. We’ve cut everything we can.

Traveling to treatments and specialists means transportation costs, sometimes a cheap motel when he’s too exhausted to make the drive back the same day. Each trip feels like a choice between the hope of better outcomes and the hard reality of our bank account. We’ve delayed home repairs that can’t really be delayed. There’s a leak in the ceiling we patch, while praying that the real leak—the slow, constant drain of treatment costs—doesn’t break us completely.

And yet, there is so much strength in this house.

There is strength in the way he jokes with the kids when he’s so tired he can barely stand, there is strength in the way he squeezes my hand before every scan, as if he’s reassuring me instead of the other way around. There is strength in the evenings when we sit at the dining table, his head on my shoulder, talking about ordinary things—because ordinary life itself has become something sacred.

We claim God’s promises and hold on to Jeremiah 17:14. We celebrate small victories: a day with less pain, a moment when he can walk 1-2 miles. Each one feels like borrowed time, a little gift we’re desperate to hold onto.

But loving someone with cancer means you learn to live in two realities at once.

In one reality, we are hopeful, determined, refusing to let this disease define the joy we still have left. In the other, we are up late at night, staring at numbers on a screen, knowing that without help, the cost of continuing this fight may become more than we can bear alone.

We are not asking for a miracle. We’re asking for a chance. A chance to keep choosing the best treatments recommended that work for him, treatments to boost his immune system. If you are reading this, and you feel even a flicker of connection to our story, please know that your support—does more than pay a bill. It gives him the dignity of continuing this fight with every option still on the table.

Your support would give us something priceless: a little more breathing room, a little more time, and a lot more hope.