“We have plenty of time.” He says to me, a smile playing on his lips.
He is always tries to make lighter of the situation. Sometimes it works. Other times it doesn’t. He always says we have plenty of time. I don’t think he realizes that my time is running out.
“Let’s go and enjoy ourselves.” Another famous saying.
He grabs my hand and drags me along with him through the amusement park. I follow him with ease, trying to catch up to his long strides. He looks back at me, blue eyes beaming with delight. Any chance we get, he takes me here. He knows how much I love coming. Even though it’s getting harder and harder. I don’t tell him that. I could never. He is always so excited to get off work early, pick me up, and go on as many rides as possible. He knows the problems that lay beneath the skin, but I could never tell him the extent of the problem. It would break his heart.
I thought this was the man I would grow old with. I thought he was the one I would have children with. Live in a big house out in the countryside. Turns out that isn’t meant to be. I want to tell him how I feel, but I feel that would make everything worse. One, what if he has feelings for me and this would break his heart. Then two, what if he doesn’t feel the same. My heart would only break even more. I am happy with the way things are right now. When my time comes, I can at least say I enjoyed the last bit of life I had left.
The pressure seems to build after each ride I go on. I do my best to hide my discomfort. It only gets harder from there. I have to hold tight to him to keep from tumbling to the ground. He is too busy talking and taking in the surrounding fun to notice. I don’t mind. I keep on a fake face and continue to smile. One hand clutching his arm, the other at my side. The pain subsides after we get off, but increases the moment we move on another ride. Each ride, I pray, isn’t my last. I push myself with every ounce of energy I have left. Hoping it is enough.
But I wake up staring at a white ceiling. It’s cold, even though I can feel the weight of a blanket over me. There is something wrapped around my face. I want to feel what it is, but my arm doesn’t move. It’s stuck up my nose and is uncomfortable. I want to wipe it away. I want to move. I’m not in pain anymore. I hear beeping next to me. I ease my head to the side and look up at the monitor, noticing the IV drip right next to it. I watch the small drops of fluid make its way down the clear tube. It leads all the way to the inside of my elbow. This is why I’m not in pain, I’m on drugs. It is also the reason it’s so hard to move. I have never been a fan of drugs. Something I’d rather not be on. Feeling the pain keeps me alive. It keeps me knowing I’m alive. It makes me believe I still have more time left.
I slowly look around the room. I notice my mother sitting in a chair near the door. Her head down, eyes closed, she’s asleep. It’s good to see her resting for once. Her long blonde hair drapes over her shoulders. I continue my gaze to the other side of the room and there he is. He is sitting in a chair under the window, his gaze to his folded hands, hunched over. Guilt and worry are eating away at his beautiful facial features. He’s mumbling, so quietly I can’t hear him. I try and speak out, but it comes out as a gutted mess. His eyes snap up at me and he is at my side within seconds. Faster than I can comprehend.
“I’m so sorry. I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have known better. I should have paid more attention. This is all my fault. I did this. Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.” He rambles off, not letting me get a word in, not that I could speak anyway.
So I reach my hand out, hoping he will take it. His hand immediately reaches out, but he hesitates before gently placing it in mine. I try to squeeze it, but my hand barely moves. His fingers graze over knuckles. His hands so soft against mine. Mine becoming thin, bone and dry. I’ve become ugly in my weak state. I stopped looking at myself in the mirror months ago. I open my mouth to speak again. But still nothing comes out.
“Please don’t speak. The doctor says you need to rest.” He puts a finger to my lips.
The other side of the room stirs and my mother looks up. She is over to me within seconds as well. I reach out and she grips my hand, holding on tightly. I also notice tears in her eyes as she opens her mouth to try to speak. I hope she doesn’t. She never cries. I know what this means. Even in the past, she has never cried. Past episodes or ER visits. Tears have never leaked from her baby blues. I know this time; it isn’t good. I know this time I might not be leaving this bed. I’m not ready to go. There is still so much I have left to do.
“The doctor says…” I shake my head, and she stops talking. I don’t need to hear it.
I clear my throat. I need to speak. I need to tell him.
“I love you too.” His voice soft and surprises me, but I now feel peace.