More bad news, Bubs is impossible and I'd love some advice from my male readers

So this may be one of those blogs I regret posting—I’m not sure. But I’m here to vent because the person I want to be talking to is currently glued to a baseball game… after finding out his best friend has cancer. I keep telling myself he’s allowed to cope how he needs to—but that isn’t making me any less upset.

Before I get into the specifics, I need to introduce Tyler.

Tyler has been Bubs’ best friend since Bubs moved to town at age seven. Honestly, I can’t remember a time when Tyler wasn’t around. His dad did business with my dad’s company, so he was always one of those people who just existed in my world. Playdates, classes, school events, parties, etc..

I adore Tyler—not only for being such a great friend to my husband, but because he’s always been so good to me too. He’s that kind of older-brother type who teases you mercilessly but also makes you feel completely safe. Think younger Matthew McConaughey: cool, slow Texas charm wrapped up in a very good-looking package.

He used to call me “Linebacker” because of my broad gymnastics shoulders. More times than I can count, I’d be at a school event or wandering around H-E-B and suddenly find myself in a bear hug from behind, hearing “How’s my little Linebacker?!” as I squirmed and yelled for him to let me down.

Tyler is also responsible for the single most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me—and I think it perfectly captures who he is.

Senior year, Bubs had a unique schedule where he didn’t have a sixth period but still had to come back for baseball practice. Which meant that for about half an hour, he’d be in the locker room by himself. So, naturally, I decided to be a “frisky little minx” and surprise him. I made up an excuse to leave class, smoothed my clothes, gave myself a smug little smile in the hallway mirror, and opened the locker room door ready to rock his world.

Only it wasn’t just Bubs. It was the entire team—in various states of undress—because they’d been dismissed early to get ready for an out-of-town game.

Had someone yelled “Get out!” or “What the hell!” that would have been ideal for me because I would have turned around and bolted. But instead, Tyler—completely naked and closest to the door—looked at me calmly and said, “Oh hey, Danielle,” like we were chatting at church. His delivery was so casual that everyone lost it, and instead of running, I actually stammered back, “Uh… hey, Tyler.” Everyone looked at me and started snickering. I'd walked myself into a perfect Tyler trap. I scanned the room and saw Bubs sitting on a bench at the opposite end of the room with his head in his hands and 19 other guy's eyes glued on me for what I'd say or do next. 

To make matters worse, when I tried to leave, the inside door jammed, and Tyler—still unfazed—said, “Honey, you have to lift it a little… there you go.” The laughter followed me all the way down the hall. Later that day, at the game, every player greeted me with either “Oh hey, Danielle,” or “Did you have an interesting afternoon?”

That’s Tyler. The most easygoing, confident, impossible-to-fluster person I’ve ever met.

And now, Tyler has testicular cancer. The prognosis is good, and he and his wife have two amazing kids, so everyone’s trying to stay optimistic. But it’s cancer—and it’s someone I love—on top of my dad having two heart attacks in short succession.

I knew something was wrong when Bubs came home early today, talking on the phone—which he never does. I could hear him saying things like, “How’s Kristin taking it?” and “At least they caught it early, right? You’ll be fine, man.” I sat there at the end of the bed like the nosey little thing I am begging to be let into the conversation. 

He hung up, walked into the room, and said, “Hey! I’m thinking about making buffalo chicken dip while we watch the game tonight.”

I just stared at him. “Whoa, slow down—who was that?”

He said he wanted to get dinner plans figured out before talking about it but it was Tyler. I said, “Well, I assumed it was Tyler, and we’re not watching the game—we’re getting you on a plane to Texas. He needs you.”

But that’s not how Bubs works.

When I was struggling during my pregnancy earlier this year, his parents were on the road overnight to come help. I’ve been back to Texas twice now to take care of my dad. But when his best friend calls to say he has cancer, Bubs’ first thought is, “Do we have enough cream cheese, or do I need to go to the store?”

Of course, that led to a fight. In proof that therapy is, in fact, working, this didn’t turn into an all-night fight. He promised we’d talk about it later, but for now, he is correct: the World Series is once a year, and the Dodgers being in it is once every few lifetimes—he deserves to watch the game in peace. My mind is still racing.

As I sit here at my MacBook watching him pace around the room, baseball cap turned backward, half-talking to the TV, I can’t help but think—after more than twenty years of knowing him—I may never really understand him.

Maybe that’s what long love looks like—learning that someone can be both infuriatingly calm and deeply loyal at the same time. Maybe he just needs a little space before he can feel everything all at once. I don’t know.

I know a lot of my readers are men, and I’m genuinely curious—does his reaction seem reasonable to you? Is that what you’d say to your own wife or partner? Or is Bubs more of an emotional brick wall than most other guys?