A Constellation of Tears

4th of October, 2012

When you first got the diagnose, I refused to believe it. You had always been the only constant in my life; no matter how many twists and turns our lives took, you stayed by my side without hesitation. Through the hard times when I completely fell apart, you were there to pick up the broken pieces every single time, and somehow you managed to fit the jigsaw back together. It didn't matter that your fingers were cut and bloodied and scarred from the harsh words I threw at you when the anger I had so carefully contained bubbled over.

This time, it seemed it was you who was broken. Well on you way, at least.

Your seams were slowly unraveling.

22nd of December, 2012

You were surprisingly active, those days before christmas. Despite the fatigue and nausea that were plaguing you from the treatment, you refused to sit in the sofa, watching us decorate the house without you. You couldn't stay on your feet for long periods of time, but when you weren't helping out you were bossing us others around like a true dictator from the corner of the sofa. Just like you, wasn't it?

I had learned, at this point, to always leave that spot in the corner for you. There you had support from two sides and a small blanker fort could be arranged for you, just so you could cope with the shivers wrecking your body from the fever crashing over you like tidal waves.

That Christmas was like no other, knowing that it might be your last. We had hope, of course, but we knew from what the doctors had told us, that these were the moments we needed to cherish. They might just be the last memories ever made, with you still by my side.

3rd of March, 2013

Things weren't looking too good. You'd been on your way to recovering, they said. You had been getting better, the rose tint to your cheeks was coming back and your hand in mine had felt a little more firm, a little less like made of glass, for a few days. But of course, there were setbacks. This was one of them — a bad one, this time.

A setback you would have to fight hard to overcome, they said.

But you were a fighter, weren't you?

1st of April, 2013

After the worst month in your life, your fighting spirit was slowly leaving your eyes, and it was killing me.

(How ironic, when it was your life that was threatened; your body betraying itself.)

17th of July, 2013

I wasn't quite sure when you started keeping a diary, but all you ever did the month of June was write in it. We would sit in the sterile shoe box of a room that was yours, temporarily. (Temporarily, because I knew you'd get over this and I knew this wouldn't the last of our time together.) There was no talking, because what was there to say?

No words seemed suitable, nothing I could ever say would accurately portray the raging storm of emotions threatening to rip my ribcage open.

So I stayed silent, and you wrote.

29th of September, 2013