January 30, 2019

Shard No More: A Husband’s View from the Overlake Westin

There are moments when adulting looks like choosing a hospital instead of hopping a flight to Maui. Today was one of those moments.

Guest Post by Steve Guggenmos

I’ve never been a co-author before—unless you count that one time I wrote “I love you” in a Valentine’s card and signed it “Yours, Steve.” But today, I get to share from the co-pilot seat in the breast cancer jetstream.

We’re writing to you from the luxury suites of Overlake Medical Center—view: Whole Foods and 3 Pigs BBQ. Not quite the beach, but definitely not I-405, so we’re calling it a win.

Today was long, but somehow everything clicked. Check-in at 9:45 am. Cancer removal with Dr. Harrington started right on time at 1:05 pm. Then the incredible Dr. Hutter came in at 5:15 pm for reconstruction. Tracy rolled into recovery around 6:30 pm, though we had a little wait getting into our room. Apparently, the last guest asked for late checkout. (No judgment, that pain med drip is probably delightful.)

Tracy is now comfortably snoozing. I might even join her once I finish my writing gig here. Irish and Amy, our night nurses, have been nothing short of phenomenal. We get a visit from them every two hours—just enough to keep us humble and hydrated.

On the drive to the hospital this morning, we almost turned left toward SeaTac instead of right toward surgery. Maui was calling. But we knew this had to be the day Tracy became shard-free. No more glass-piercing pain through the boob. No more wondering. Just healing, love, and the long road home.

I want to thank all the people who stood by us today—Tracy’s amazing family: her mom and dad, the boys (Garrett and Grady), her Uncle Bill who flew in from Kansas, and her brother Brian. And my people, too: Jeff Wilson (who married us!) and Mike Lautenslager who hung out, shared a 3 Pigs lunch, and made the day a little lighter.

We’re staying just one night, then heading back to our own bed—which I hope comes with fewer interruptions and significantly more queen-size mattress.

Thank you to everyone who texted, messaged, and sent prayers. We feel them all. The love is real. And now… the healing begins.

Some days look like BBQ and bedside alarms. But they’re sacred all the same. Sometimes the most profound healing starts in small hospital rooms with soft sheets, good nurses, and the quiet hum of survival.

Letter to Self (From Steve to Steve)

Hey man—look at you, loving fiercely and showing up. You didn’t take the flight to Maui. You walked into the OR waiting room with humor and hope in your back pocket. You held space. And now, you’re here. This is what love looks like. You’re doing just fine.