I hope to never leave him with any reminder of my existence, and if there is an afterlife, I hope to find God already waiting for me with an explanation as to why. Why I was born poor, and a girl. Why I had to leave everything behind. Why I had to teach myself to never write in ink. Why I had to constantly set myself on fire to keep anyone from getting close.
It was on this day that I knew that my husband could live without me, that he’d be able to move on, to heal, and maybe even fall in love again. The past few months have been hell, I have been watching him, coming into my room to check on me, and for the first few days, it felt like he was the one who was dying. I didn’t like how he looked at me, where there used to be love, there was now pity, and a deep sorrow. It was as if he was teaching himself to say goodbye, he was allowing himself to let go. We both knew that I was dying, I had given up hope as soon as the doctor came back with my results. The months following that were torture. Sometimes I’d get up in the middle of the night feeling so sick that I’d be convinced that today is the day. I had so many close encounters with death, I even jokingly told my husband that it felt like a rehearsal. As the months went by, I got so sick that I had to be hospitalized, and it broke my heart to know that the only way I’m leaving that place is in a coffin. My husband visited me every day. Continue reading “Portrait: When love is synonymous with goodbye”