After you collapsed, I called the ambulance, and they brought you to the hospital.
In the middle nowhere, the hospital is small in comparison to the ones back home in Australia. At times like this, I miss home.
I miss familiarity.
I'm sitting in a small chair, gripping onto your hand like you're my life support.
I have no idea why you collapsed. I have no idea what is happening.
And right now, that's scarier than anything else in the world.
The doctor walks in, waking you up.
Your eyes flicker open tiredly, and I want to yell at him for ending your peaceful sleep. I feel a gentle squeeze on my hand, and it calms me down faster than I thought possible.
"The test results are back." The doctor says.
I watch as your eyes light up, filled with hope. Little by little, I feel inklings of promise flutter into my soul. Maybe you collapsed because you were just tired. There shouldn't be anything wrong with you.
There can't be.
You glance at me and nod. And a simple gesture like that makes me think that everything will be okay.
Until I hear the doctor say those three words.
They're not the same three words we always exchange when you wrap your arms around me. They're not the same three words I whisper to you before I close my eyes every night. They're not the same three words that send my heart into a frenzy every time you utter them to me in the morning. And they're definitely not the same three words I wanted to say to you the first time I laid my eyes on you.
These three words are different.
Instead of planting a big smile on my face, they drain out every last drop of hope and happiness I have left in my heart.
Terminal heart cancer.
One by one, the stars in your eyes go out. Until there's nothing left in your emerald gems but emptiness, tears, and panic.
You turn to look at me, and it's the first time I've seen so much fear in those eyes I first fell in love with.
The doctor begins to explain why you never felt any of the symptoms until it was too late, but I can't hear anything.
Why heart cancer? Is it because I didn't give you enough of mine?
Maybe it's because of me that you're dying. Maybe I'm not enough to save you. Maybe I never was.
You send me a reassuring smile, but for the first time, it's not enough to pull me back.
I ask the doctor if when we can go home. Because that's all I really want.
Home.
The doctor says we go home next week, but we need to go straight to the hospital to get started on treatment as soon as possible.
But what's the point of treatment? There is none.
But if it means I get to spend as much time as I can with you, it needs to be done.
He says you have six months.
I was expecting years, not months.
He says that we should go home and do as much as we can before it's time for you to go. As long as it doesn't hurt you.
But I know what he's really saying.
He's telling me to start saying goodbye to you.
Six months is not enough to time to say goodbye.
There will never be enough time to say goodbye.
