To gain some perspective, I remind myself: at any given moment, someone is dying, somewhere. But this really doesn’t help.
I looked at her while the words “six months left” echoed in my head. Later, I realized that my grief wasn’t simply losing her – I was losing my best future, too. No wedding, no kids, no growing old and fat together in the suburbs. All those dreams were smoke now.
Two weeks after the diagnosis she broke up with me. “It’s only fair. You should move on now – we’ve only been together for a couple of months, anyway. I’d feel like I was leading you on if I stayed with you when we both know it’s going to end.” No rational argument, no pleading, no tears would change her mind. She stopped returning my calls, even before she was too sick to do so. She had her brother come talk to me, tell me to let her go. Tears in his eyes, he declined to give her a message for me. I refused to shake his hand when he left.
“It’s only fair.” Yet all I wanted was to spend every moment with her, whether that lasted six months or sixty years. It’s been eight years since then, but I still haven’t gotten over her. She was the one for me, but I didn’t get to keep her.
She’s been cancer free for six years now, and got married last year. I just heard that she had her first child last week.
To gain some perspective, I remind myself: at any given moment, someone is being born, somewhere. But this really doesn’t help.