I first started talking to Laurin on March 24, 2015, after finding her on the dating site Plenty of Fish. Her profile picture caught my eye—she was wearing pink boxing gloves and was bald from her first bout with cancer. I scrolled past her at first, unsure, but kept returning to her profile. There was something about her courage and openness that amazed me, and eventually, I decided to send her a message. We chatted back and forth throughout the day, and that evening, we moved our conversation to the phone. Three hours later, we were still talking. I’m not someone who enjoys long phone calls, but with her, it felt effortless. The conversation just flowed, as if we had known each other for years.
The next day, we met at a downtown Starbucks after work. I had dinner plans with friends coming in from out of town later, so it was a convenient spot, and she lived just a few minutes away. That day, I buzzed my head so my hair would be shorter than hers. We walked to a nearby bench and talked for an hour and a half. I shared that I was recently legally separated and waiting for my divorce to finalize. She told me about her cancer journey and how she was recovering. We decided we could either face our struggles alone—or tackle them together. From that day on, we jokingly called that spot our “sh*t bench.” There was an instant connection, a sense that our values and life goals were aligned. When I walked her back to her car, I chose not to go for a kiss, thinking it was polite. Later, I learned she misread it as disinterest.
Laurin was moving in with her sister two days later, preparing for upcoming radiation at Duke. She mentioned she wouldn’t be able to see me for a few days. On moving day, her sister’s SUV fell through, and Laurin faced multiple trips in her small car. I offered my large truck, and after some debate, she agreed. Together, we managed to move almost everything in one trip. When I arrived at her house, she pushed me against the wall for our first kiss to thank me. Her family’s initial reaction was less than warm, seeing a random guy show up uninvited, but we got everything inside and went out to dinner afterward. Soon, I brought Laurin to my home, and from that point, we were inseparable.
A few weeks later, she underwent a double mastectomy and had to stay in Raleigh for six weeks of radiation. Every weekend, either she came to me or I went to her. I kept her dog during this period because her sister’s backyard didn’t have proper shade, and honestly, I enjoyed having a dog around. I teased her endlessly that her dog got to move in first. A few months later, Laurin officially moved in with me—and received the wonderful news that she was free and clear of cancer.
Life slowly returned to a sense of normalcy. Laurin went back to school for an accounting degree, while I focused on running my martial arts school. We both valued adventure and making memories—her perspective shaped by her cancer journey, mine from my military background. That August, she surprised me on my birthday with a dream experience: a full day interacting with tigers and other exotic animals in Myrtle Beach. It was costly for her, and she didn’t have much money at the time, which made it all the more meaningful.
Over the next several years, we shared countless adventures: wine country tours, hot air balloon rides, indoor skydiving, all-inclusive resorts in Cancun, and even a seven-day cruise. I knew I wanted Laurin to be my wife but hadn’t figured out the proposal. The perfect opportunity came after she got a new job offer. Her current boss was discouraging and hostile. I showed up at her office, helped pack her things, and called HR to ensure she wouldn’t return to that toxic environment. We set off on a two-week road trip, with the engagement ring I had purchased two months prior safely tucked away. In Niagara Falls, during an unforgettable dinner, I knelt in front of her and asked, “Can we keep the party going?” She squealed with joy and couldn’t form words for nearly ten minutes. Phones turned off, we spent the rest of the evening and following morning immersed in each other’s company.
Months later, Laurin began experiencing back pain, likely a side effect of her cancer treatment. Initially thought to be a slipped disk, visits to the ER and a chiropractor offered no relief. An orthopedist ordered scans, and the next evening we received a call that changed everything: the cancer had metastasized to her bones, lungs, and liver. I felt helpless; I’m used to having control, and this situation left me powerless. Still, I was unwavering in my commitment to her. Laurin, having lost both parents to stage 4 cancer, looked at me tearfully and asked, “Are we still going to get married?” Not out of doubt in our love, but concern for the financial and emotional toll of treatment. I reassured her, “Of course we are. We’ll figure this out together.”
We had already chosen our wedding date: the third anniversary of our first meeting. Despite doctors recommending moving the date up, we chose to stay with it. Between treatments, we traveled as much as possible—Thanksgiving in Arizona, visiting the Grand Canyon, the slot canyons in Page, and Sedona. In December, she underwent surgery for fluid buildup in her lungs, staying hospitalized for a week. During that week, she joked about her “fun car,” and by day’s end, I had found her dream convertible, an Infiniti, which reignited her joy and independence. Weeks later, we embarked on a pre-honeymoon to Key West, unsure what the coming months would bring.
By our wedding, the clinical trial she was on was yielding positive results, and though she lost her hair again three weeks prior, I reminded her, “I fell in love with you bald; it makes no difference.” Walking down the aisle, she was breathtaking. We kept our eyes locked, smiled, laughed, and fully savored the moment. Our first dance to Ed Sheeran’s Perfect captured everything we felt: love, resilience, and joy.
After the wedding, the clinical trial continued, but new tumors appeared, ending the trial. We pursued other treatments, but before her 30th birthday, we decided to pause all interventions and focus on the time we had left. Planning a two-week road trip, Laurin drove to visit her aunt in Florida while I attended a conference in Oklahoma. When I returned late Saturday, a call the next morning told me she wasn’t feeling well. By the time we met in Savannah to bring her home, a hospice nurse assessed her, and within hours, her condition worsened dramatically. Despite our expectation of months, she was gone in mere hours. I held her hand, whispered my love and gratitude, and stayed by her side until the nurse confirmed she had passed.
Looking back, there is so much I wish I could have said, but words felt inadequate. Laurin disliked the notion of “battling cancer”; instead, she described her journey as one of remarkable fortitude. Even in pain, with relentless procedures and setbacks, she faced each day with courage and a smile. She was the first person I loved more than myself, and I would have done anything for her. Our moments together, the adventures, and her unwavering love left an indelible mark on my heart.
Nearly a year later, I continue to honor her memory, taking trips we had planned, supporting organizations that aided us, and maintaining her blog, now with nearly 5,000 subscribers. Her story, our story, lives on.
‘Til we meet again, my love.
