Love, Glioblastoma, and Valentine’s Day Through a Gay Man’s Eyes

There is something deeply personal about Valentine’s Day when you are a gay man who has lived long enough to see how far love has come, and fragile enough to know how quickly life can change.

When I think about Valentine’s Day now, I do not just think about flowers and dinner reservations. I think about defiance. I think about courage. I think about a man who risked his life to perform marriages for people who were forbidden to wed.

The story most often told about Saint Valentine is that he secretly performed marriages for soldiers who were not allowed to marry under Roman law. Love was restricted. Commitment was controlled. Marriage was denied. Yet he chose to honor love anyway. Another version says that before his execution, he wrote a letter signed “from your Valentine.”

That part has always stayed with me.

He signed his name in love, even while facing death.

As a gay man, that hits differently.

When Love Was Not Allowed

There was a time, not very long ago, when men like me were not allowed to marry. When love between two men was dismissed, denied, and legislated against. When relationships like mine were tolerated at best and condemned at worst.

The irony is powerful. A holiday built on the legend of a man who secretly married couples forbidden to wed eventually became a celebration that many gay couples were excluded from legally.

When I think about Saint Valentine secretly performing marriages, I cannot help but see the parallel. There were couples who had to hide their love. There were partners who had to commit privately, without protection or recognition.

Love has always found a way, even when systems tried to suppress it.

As a gay man, I understand that history in a personal way.

Then Add Glioblastoma to the Story

And then life layered something else onto our relationship.

Glioblastoma.

When I was diagnosed with Glioblastoma, everything sharpened. Love was no longer theoretical. It was immediate. It was urgent. It was sacred.

As a gay man who has already witnessed how love can be challenged socially, facing Glioblastoma added another layer of vulnerability.

There is something about sitting in a neurosurgeon’s office with your husband and hearing the word aggressive. There is something about hearing survival statistics and realizing that your marriage is now walking alongside a diagnosis that does not negotiate.

For generations, gay couples fought for the right to say “in sickness and in health.”

Now I was living the “in sickness” part.

That vow feels heavier when illness is real.

Valentine’s Day Feels Deeper Now

Valentine’s Day used to be simple. A dinner. A card. Maybe a joke about overpriced chocolate.

Now it feels like a quiet celebration of survival.

Not just my survival with Glioblastoma, but the survival of our relationship in a world that has not always embraced us.

When Saint Valentine secretly married soldiers who were forbidden to wed, he was defying authority for the sake of love. When he signed a letter “from your Valentine” before his execution, he was choosing tenderness in the face of death.

There is something incredibly powerful about that.

As a gay man living with Glioblastoma, I feel that symbolism in my bones.

Love that persists even when threatened.
Love that exists even when restricted.
Love that signs its name boldly, even when the outcome is uncertain.

What Love Looks Like for Us

Love in our house does not look like perfection. It looks like real life.

It looks like MRI appointments.
It looks like arguing in the car about directions.
It looks like laughing five minutes later.
It looks like shaving my head again when my hair thins.
It looks like him standing beside me without trying to fix what cannot be fixed.

There is a quiet strength in that kind of love.

As gay men, many of us grew up wondering if we would ever get to experience ordinary married life. Would we have anniversaries? Would we fight about laundry? Would we complain about who forgot to unload the dishwasher?

Those mundane things are privileges.

Glioblastoma has made even the ordinary feel extraordinary.

The Defiance of Loving Anyway

There is something rebellious about loving deeply when life feels uncertain.

There is something powerful about celebrating Valentine’s Day when you know that tomorrow is not promised.

For years, gay couples celebrated love without legal recognition. They held ceremonies without protection. They called each other husband before the law allowed it.

There is resilience in that.

Now, facing Glioblastoma, I see that resilience in a different way. Love continues even when cancer enters the room. Love continues when the word terminal is whispered. Love continues when fear tries to take up space in the marriage.

Saint Valentine did not stop marrying couples because it was illegal. He did not stop writing love because death was approaching.

That is the kind of love I want to embody.

Love Is Not Guaranteed, and That Is What Makes It Sacred

Valentine’s Day, at its core, is about choosing someone.

As a gay man, I know what it feels like to have that choice questioned by society. As a man living with Glioblastoma, I know what it feels like to have time questioned by biology.

Both experiences make love feel intentional.

I do not take my husband for granted.
I do not take our marriage for granted.
I do not take February 14 for granted.

Every year we reach another Valentine’s Day, it feels like a quiet victory.

Another year married.
Another year standing side by side.
Another year refusing to let fear dictate the narrative.

For Anyone Who Feels This

Maybe you are a gay man reading this, remembering when marriage equality was not a reality. Maybe you are caring for a partner with cancer. Maybe you are simply trying to hold onto love in a world that feels unstable.

Here is what I believe.

Love has always required courage.

It required courage for Saint Valentine to secretly marry soldiers who were forbidden to wed.
It required courage for him to sign “from your Valentine” before execution.
It required courage for gay couples to love openly when society resisted.
It requires courage to love someone through Glioblastoma.

And yet, here we are.

Still loving.
Still choosing.
Still signing our names boldly.

My Valentine’s Reflection This Year

This Valentine’s Day, I am not thinking about grand gestures. I am thinking about presence.

I am thinking about how far gay men have come.
I am thinking about how far I have come since my Glioblastoma diagnosis.
I am thinking about the quiet miracle of sitting across from my husband at dinner and simply being alive together.

Love is not fragile because it faces obstacles.
Love becomes stronger because it survives them.

Saint Valentine honored love in defiance of restriction.
Gay couples honored love in defiance of discrimination.
We honor love in defiance of Glioblastoma.

That is what February 14 means to me now.

Not candy.
Not cards.
Not cliché.

Courage.
Commitment.
Defiance.
Devotion.

And signing my name to it every single year.

From your Valentine.