Page 139 of What Should Have Been Ours

The hospice nurses come every day now.

I hate them.

Not because they’re unkind—they’re gentle, patient, doing everything they can to keep him comfortable—but because they shouldn’t have to be here. Their presence is a confirmation that we’re running out of time. That no matter how much I want to fight it, we’re reaching the part of the story I don’t want to read.

Wes isn’t handling things any better than I am. Every time a nurse is here, he’s snappier, more aggressive about making sure Cam isn’t in any pain, isn’t too hot, isn’t too cold, isn’t needing anything. He barks orders like he’s the one in charge.

I know it’s not really anger—it’s helplessness. He doesn’t know how to save Cam. And for someone like Wes, someone who fixes things, who has spent his life being the doctor, being the one people turn to—this is breaking him.

It’s breaking all of us.

But I don’t want Cam to see that. So I smile. I hold his hand. I crawl into bed with him when his body is too weak to make it to the couch. I pretend I’m fine, because if I don’t, he’ll worry about me, and I don’t want him focusing on anything but what he needs right now.

But when he falls asleep, when his body goes slack, and his breathing evens out, that’s when I come apart. I cry so hard I shake, so hard my chest aches, so hard I feel like I might break into a thousand pieces and never be able to put myself back together.

Some nights, the grief is so overwhelming it makes me physically sick, and I run to the bathroom, heaving into the toilet, clutching the counter to keep myself from collapsing.

I wish I had known all the lasts and cherished them more.

I wish I had known the last time he’d have enough energy to pick me up and carry me to bed, because I would have never let him set me down.

I wish I had known the last time we made love, because I would have held on longer, memorized the feel of him, the way he whispered my name, the way he traced my skin like he was trying to carve us into history.

I wish I had known the last time he’d be able to eat an actual meal, because I would have cooked for him, something big and warm and full of love.

I wish I had known the last time he’d wake up without pain, because I wouldn’t have let the moment slip away so easily.

I just wish I had known.

Thankfully, when the apartment is empty, and it’s just the two of us, we still try to soak up every ounce of love we can from each other.

He still reaches for me, still pulls me close, still whispers “I love you, Gabrielle” with the same conviction as the first time he ever said it. And I whisper it back like a promise. Like maybe if I say it enough, God will hear my plea and take pity on me, giving us more time.

Deep down, I know nothing can change this, though.

And the unrelenting, overwhelming, cruel thought of a world without him in it—makes it hard to breathe. Makes me want to die with him.

64

Cameron

I know this is it.

I’ve felt it coming for a while now, creeping up on me, stealing pieces of me little by little. But today…today feels drastically different. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my body won’t listen to me, in the way even breathing feels like a mountain I can’t climb anymore.

I can’t tell Gabrielle, but I don’t need to. She already knows. I see it in her eyes when she looks at me, in the way she holds me a little tighter, in the way she brushes her fingers over my skin like she’s trying to memorize every inch of me before I slip away.

I hate that I’m leaving her.

I hate that I won’t be here to kiss her goodnight anymore.

I hate that I couldn’t give her the future she deserved.

I hate that all I’ll be able to do is wait for her on the other side.

But I don’t have the strength to fight anymore.

The loss of control is becoming too much.