What Caregiving for My Wife Taught Me About Love

By Dr. Therese Laux 

Caregiving is not what I thought it would be. I assumed that loving the person you care for would make it easier. In some ways, it does. In others, it makes everything harder. 

When my wife, Laura, was diagnosed with breast cancer, I had no real understanding of what lay ahead. I had known people who had gone through cancer, but I had never lived it beside someone whose pain I would feel as my own. I preferred to think of cancer as something that happened elsewhere, though I never wanted it to happen to anyone and certainly not to us. 

 It somehow found us. 

 Laura’s breast cancer was only the beginning. Two years after surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, she was diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia (APL), a rare and aggressive secondary cancer. She endured that treatment, too. Then, not long after, metastatic breast cancer entered the picture. 

 By then, caregiving was no longer a role I was figuring out. It was simply our life. 

 Laura and I had been together since our undergraduate years. We had moved through the natural stages of a long relationship—the early intensity, the growing pains, the small arguments about everyday things, and eventually, a steady partnership built on respect and a shared commitment to one another. 

 By the time we faced serious illness, we were strong. Or so I believed. 

 Caregiving tested that belief in ways I didn’t expect. The hardest part was not the logistics of appointments, prescriptions, or paperwork. That was easy in comparison to watching someone I loved suffer. There was a particular helplessness in knowing I could not fix it. 

 Beneath it was another pressure I didn’t anticipate: the belief that I shouldn’t struggle at all. I was healthy. How could I possibly complain about anything? I felt overwhelmed, but she was going through treatment. 

 So, I tried to push those feelings aside. They didn’t disappear. They showed up in other ways—impatience, distraction, and small moments I wish I could take back. 

 Once, Laura asked for coffee from a place she loved. It had a long line. I was impatient. I decided to go somewhere else because it was more convenient for me. 

 The other coffee stop did not have the seasonal drink she was craving. I figured coffee was coffee.

 My small decision was a big wrong. It was hard to admit, even in the middle of everything she was going through, I had chosen my convenience over her care. I judged myself harshly for that moment. Still do. It revealed something important. 

 Love doesn’t always show up the way you expect it to. 

 It isn’t always patient, selfless, or generous in every moment. Sometimes, it looks like fatigue. Sometimes, it looks like getting something simple wrong. 

Caregiving doesn’t eliminate those moments. It brings clarity to what matters. 

 Love isn’t defined by how we feel. It’s defined by what we do next. It’s choosing to stay present when it is easier to disengage. It’s noticing the small things and honoring them. 

 In other words, love is not something you rely on. It’s something you practice. 

 I didn’t always get it right. That may be the hardest truth and the most honest. Caregiving didn’t make me a better human automatically. It showed me who I was in real time. 

 But it also gave me something I didn’t expect: more chances than I thought possible to begin again. 

 To speak more gently the next time. To listen more fully. To choose differently. Illness strips life down to what matters, whether you’re ready or not, so pay attention.

 I came to understand that love isn’t proven in big moments. It’s built in small ones and especially in difficult ones. It’s measured in what you do. 

 You don’t have to feel loving to act with love. That feeling comes and goes. The choice is what remains. 

 And in the end, it’s those choices; the ones we see as quiet and ordinary. They are the ones that define how we carry each other when it matters most. 

About the Author 

 Therese Laux is a writer exploring love, loss, caregiving, and the enduring bonds that shape our lives. She is the author of the forthcoming memoir Texts from the Afterlife (Red Wheel/Weiser, 2027). A Nebraska native, Dr. Laux lives and works in Los Angeles County and may be reached at therese@betherailing.com