It's kind of funny, how we always imagine these kinds of things
happening to other
people. And even when it's someone you know and love, you seem to
put it aside, like
it isn't real.
For something so deadly, it started so calmly. You just simply
got sick, a light summer
cold. But when the weeks passed, you didn't get better. So, I
took you to the hospital,
and they made me wait in that cold sterile room with all the
grieving friends and family
or the sick and hurt inside. I never admitted you were one of
those sick. You told me
to go home, because they wanted to keep you over night.
I woke up that night in a cold sweat and wondered what you were
thinking. On a whim,
I dialed the number you'd given me.
"Ryan, you shouldn't have called." Your voice was soft,
but I knew I hadn't woken you.
"I'm worried about you."
"Don't be, I'll be all right." There was a pain to the
words.
"So, how was your afternoon?" I couldn't help by try to
make small talk. Convincing
myself that instead of miles away in the posh Burbank hospital,
you were just visiting
your son up North.
Your laugh turned into a hacking cough. When you regained your
speech, you sounded
more worried than before. "They're running some tests. But I
still think it's just a cold. I
mean, you know how rarely I get sick..." I did know. You
hadn't been sick in four years,
and even that was food poisoning.
"Yeah." I don't want to push any buttons, so I drop the
subject. "Drew called a couple
hours ago."
"Oh, what's he up to?"
"He said we're going to do another 'Drew Live' and guess who
gets to be in it?" I go into
that cute sing-songy voice that you seem to like.
"Jesus, are they ever going to be done beating Eugene to
death?" you managed to quell
your laugh and avoid another coughing fit.
"Come on, you know you like it."
"Yeah, right. Let's just say Drew likes the idea a little
too much. And I'm *not* kissing
him this year." I can practicly see your smile lighting up
in your eyes even with the dark
circles and sickly pallor.
We must have chatted like that for hours, it didn't matter...the
bill would be paid. The
tests kept biting at the back of my mind, but I refused to even
think of anything negative.
It was just a cold.
The doctor asked us both to be there for the results. I didn't
like the edge to his voice,
and knew something had to be wrong, but I wasn't prepared for the
blow I was dealt.
"I'm sorry," the doctor's hands shook and I knew deep
down in my soul what he was
about to say. It was something I had been afraid of for so long,
and knew my past
would catch up with me.
I always thought I'd be the one to get sick. We both had it, that
was clear, but somehow
you were hit first...and I knew it was my fault.
We cried for days, weeks, months. Nobody knew, we couldn't bear
to say it to each
other, let alone any of them. It was our little secret.
We watched each other get thin, and lose too much sleep as the
years wore on. We
tried every medication on the market and for a while nothing
happened. But almost two
years to the day, I was back by your hospital bed.
You were weak, my love, so weak. And I cried by your side as you
lay there,
unconscious. It was pneumonia again, and I knew that you couldn't
fight it. Watching
you fade away into nothing, I didn't want to bear it any more. I
wanted you out of your
pain, and myself out of mine.
That afternoon, just as the others were informed of your sad
passing, I drank a cocktail
of valium and vodka.
And when I awoke, I was where I belonged, in your soft caring
arms. I love you, even
at the end of our road, eternity lives on.