At 28, Brendan Lortie was building a life defined by upward motion, where career growth and long-term plans stretched comfortably into the distance. The financial advisor, from Millis, Massachusetts, was accustomed to forecasting futures both for himself and for his clients.

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When his partner, Jenna Putala, was diagnosed with an ulta-rare subtype of sarcoma, Brenden's world shifted. He no longer planned decades into the future but, rather, around infusion days and oncology appointments. The stability on which he had built his long-term plans became conditional.

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The disease´s force pulls loved ones into proximity and demands recalibration of the life both he and Jenna once knew. While Brendan's position is steadfast, it is demanding. His role calls on him to absorb the shock of ever-changing test results, offer stability, and provide hope when the gravity of illness becomes too heavy for one to hold on their own.

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Brendan´s experience underscores an often neglected truth: cancer's pull affects much more than just the life of the person diagnosed, it reshapes the identity, routines, and future of the person, or people, in closest orbit to them. In sharing his story, Brendan demonstrates that caregiving is its own emotional universe - one that demands resilience, intentional self-preservation, and the strength to remain steady in orbit when everything else feels unmoored.

 

The Architecture of Time

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For Brendan, caregiving first altered the architecture of time. Jenna’s illness rearranged the rhythm of their lives. Days no longer unfold in broad strokes, but in treatment intervals: infusions, oncology appointments, scan results, and recovery periods. Even during the most “stable” stretches, the calendar feels provisional, always subject to sudden revision. 

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Brendan keeps a running calculation in his mind: which day brings treatment, which day may bring fatigue, which commitments can hold and which must bend. He avoids scheduling work on infusion days, understanding that those hours can carry more than just bloodwork and chemotherapy. They often bring fear, exhaustion, or unexpected setbacks. You can prepare for them, he has learned, but you can never fully predict them. Cancer creates an atmosphere in which beneath any appearance of steadiness lies a structure that remains delicate.

 

The Ring Theory

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A key framework Brendan shares is the “Ring Theory,” which helped him understand where caregivers can safely put their emotions. He learned of the concept through a fellow caregiver and has since implemented it in his own life.

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In the ring model, the patient sits at the center. Closest around them are primary caregivers and immediate family. Beyond that are friends, extended family, colleagues, and community. The core rule is simple: support should flow inward toward the center, and venting should flow outward.

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For Brendan, this idea matters because caregivers carry enormous emotion, including fear, frustration, exhaustion, and grief, and the instinct may be to release it wherever it feels closest. The Ring Theory helped him recognize that the patient cannot be the person who absorbs everything. Instead, caregivers need their own outlets, such as friends, family, therapists, and support communities outside the inner ring.

 

Support Beyond the Center

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When asked how he copes with the burnout that shadows caregiving, Brendan admits that there is no formula for endurance. He instead named multiple practices that help him stay steady in the midst of the uncertainty.

Foremost among them is leaning on his family and friends. “Leaning on your people is really… huge,” he says. Caregiving at a young age can quietly narrow one’s world, drawing it inward around appointments and uncertainty. Allowing trusted people into that reality becomes essential.

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Mortality and serious illness can become “the elephant in the room,” especially among younger peers. Brendan describes how people often do not know what to say or avoid saying anything at all. Others move quickly to “bright side” the situation, minimizing the gravity of what the caregiver and patient are living through.

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He also describes an internal struggle many caregivers feel: guilt about “bringing the mood down” or “putting this on others.” Over time, he reframed that guilt by imagining the situation reversed. If a friend came to him with the same news, he would want them to share, vent, and rely on him. That realization helped him allow himself to be supported.

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His father, long a central figure in his life, has become his strongest anchor. After Brendan’s mother suffered a stroke the year before Jenna’s diagnosis, his father stepped into the role of primary caregiver himself. That experience, Brendan believes, gave his father a firsthand understanding of the emotional terrain Brendan now walks. Though there is no true preparation for life-altering news, that shared experience has allowed Brendan’s family, particularly his father, to offer steady, informed support throughout this journey.

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He also relies heavily on professional support. Social workers, therapists, and caregiver-focused resources create space for the fear, grief, and exhaustion that chronic illness brings. “The best way I’ve coped is leaning on professional resources… and letting the emotions happen,” Brendan explains. Support groups, podcasts, and shared stories from other caregivers help counter isolation. While loved ones can offer empathy, those who are living the experience provide a different kind of understanding. For Brendan, the psychosocial support available through Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, where Jenna receives treatment, has been especially meaningful.

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Beyond the support he draws from others, Brendan is intentional about caring for himself. Movement, mindfulness, and routine form a kind of daily maintenance. Exercise acts as a reset; brief moments of stillness help him return to the present when his thoughts drift toward uncertain futures. None of these practices erase the weight of caregiving. But together, they make endurance possible.

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The Weight of What's to Come

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Brendan returns often to a truth many caregivers recognize but struggle to articulate: “Time doesn’t make it easier. You just build tolerance.”

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Some weeks feel steady, while others unravel quickly. The changes can be abrupt, especially when a hospitalization interrupts routine or when something suddenly goes off plan. These moments, he says, reveal one of caregiving’s hardest realities: there is no real preparation for crisis. Experience may build familiarity, but it does not blunt the emotional impact of the uncertainty of illness. 

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He also speaks openly about anticipatory grief that exists before loss arrives. In long-term illness, it becomes an undercurrent to daily life. For caregivers, this grief is especially complex. They live with the constant pressure to be strong, present, and reassuring, all while carrying fear about what may come.

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While some respond to anticipatory grief with denial, Brendan resists that instinct. He advocates instead for letting emotions surface, for using professional support, and for practicing presence, even when it feels difficult. “I live in pretty constant fear of… terrible grief,” he admits. There is no amount of advance mourning that can fully insulate someone from loss. One can cry now and still cry later. Grief does not diminish simply because it has been anticipated.

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At its core, grief reflects attachment. We grieve because we have loved. It is the body and mind adjusting, or preparing to adjust, to the absence of someone who has shaped our daily lives. In that way, anticipatory grief is not weakness; it is evidence of connection.

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And yet, Brendan emphasizes that communication matters. Honest conversations between caregiver and patient do not eliminate pain, but they can change how it is carried. In the face of uncertainty, openness becomes a way to share the weight of what may come rather than bear it alone.

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Intimacy in Uncertainty

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Illness, no matter how strong the bond between two people, inevitably reshapes a relationship. Brendan speaks openly about the difficulty of separating “partner” from “caregiver” and how easily a relationship can begin to revolve around hospitals, appointments, symptoms, and medical needs.

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In the early phases especially, caregiving can overtake a couple’s identity. There was a period, Brendan recalls, when the hospital felt like the center of everything. In that shift, he also recognized a subtle but important truth: caregiving can unintentionally overshadow the fact that illness is happening to the patient emotionally and psychologically, not only physically.

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At the same time, he acknowledges that illness has deepened their communication. A serious diagnosis accelerates conversations many couples do not face until much later in life. In a short span of time, Brendan and Jenna have navigated discussions about vulnerability, fear, mortality, and the shape of an uncertain future. The process has been difficult, but it has also forged a stronger bond — one rooted in honesty and in the willingness to confront what others often avoid.

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One of the simplest and most powerful ways they protect that bond is by planning small trips and shared experiences. “We try to throw something on the calendar once every month or couple months… even if it’s small,” Brendan says.

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These plans are not escapism, rather they are intentional pockets of rest. Ongoing treatment can wear a person down, and without something to anticipate, life can begin to feel endless. For Brendan, placing an experience on the calendar is a reminder that life is still unfolding in the present. It protects their identity as a couple, not solely as patient and caregiver.

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Where Trust is Earned ​

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Brendan draws a sharp contrast between what specialized sarcoma care can look like at major centers and what care looks like in places without the same resources. In rare or complex cancers, that difference can feel enormous. From his perspective, geography can shape outcomes, not only through treatment options but through the quality of coordination, responsiveness, and expertise.

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He also highlights what makes Jenna’s care team at Dana Farber so exceptional. They maintain a level of communication that is clear, human, and consistent. He describes feeling able to trust the medical team enough to step away from constant online searching and “doctor Googling.” This is a kind of trust that takes time and is built when clinicians take time to get to know their patients and caregivers, treating them as people, rather than tasks.

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From a caregiver point of view, he suggests that more dedicated resources for caregivers, including the time, space, and programs designed to support them, would be a meaningful improvement in the would be a meaningful improvement in the healthcare system, especially for younger caregivers who may feel invisible.

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At 28, Brendan did not expect to become fluent in infusion cycles and anticipatory grief; however, his partner Jenna's chronic cancer diagnosis has reshaped life at its center, reorganizing the entire constellation around it. Caregiving is not a singular act of devotion, he teaches us. It requires daily devotion not only to the one that is ill, but to yourself. Through support systems, professional resources, communication, and intentional moments of joy, Brendan has found ways to endure. When asked what he would say if given a platform before the world, he responded: “Be kind to each other. Somebody’s always going through something.” His message to the world reflects what caregiving has taught him. 

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Behind every diagnosis is an orbit of people quietly adjusting their lives to a new reality. Behind many steady exteriors are private calculations, fears, and acts of resilience. Brendan’s experience reminds us that, in a world where everyone is carrying something, empathy is not optional. It is essential.