53. Fifty-three
Fifty-three
Eyes open, the room is bright. Almost blindingly so.
I glance at the clock— it’s after ten?
The bedroom door swings open, and Bo stands with a cup of coffee and a grin, dimples carved into his cheeks.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says with a chuckle. “Christmas wore you out more than the kids.”
I smile, rubbing my head and the slight headache that’s lingered nearly a week.
“It’s so late,” I say, sitting up. “I don’t know what’s going on with me, I’m so tired.”
He sits on the bed as he hands me a mug of coffee, kissing the side of my head. “Of course you’re tired. John was an asshole and got the kids a keyboard for Christmas—we’ll never sleep again.”
I laugh softly, mentally trying to force myself to believe him, as I bring the mug to my lips .
As the days pass and nothing changes, I keep telling myself the same things. Lies on repeat.
I tell myself it’s the stress of the holidays.
The stress of the last months.
The sound of the keyboard.
Just a cold.
But I know better. I know my body better.
Something is wrong.
When the first day of January comes, not only does the dull headache continue, but there’s also a nausea that prevents me from keeping anything substantial down.
After I wake up three mornings in a row with a bloody nose, I can’t ignore it anymore.
All the hours at the gym, organic ingredients, and preventative surgeries haven’t saved me. As ready as I thought I’d be for it, I’m not.
“Bo, I’m sick,” I tell him as we lie in his bed one morning. “I’m going to the doctor tomorrow.”
He interlaces his fingers in mine, brown eyes seeing all of me. “I’m going with you.”
Both relief and devastation sweep through me with his words. Because I need him with me as much as I hate the thought of him seeing.
The falling apart.
The decline that’s coming.
But I don’t argue.
Hand in hand, we sit in the exam room, waiting for the worst .
After blood is drawn, urine samples taken, and all vital signs checked, the doctor comes in.
“Birdie, it’s good to see you,” she says, smiling.
As much as I want to say, “You too,” I stay quiet.
It does nothing to prepare me for what she says next—nothing can.
She shows me my chart, pointing to indicators and numbers, and the world stops spinning.
I hear, “It’s early,” and, “You’re young and healthy.”
But it’s a scream that comes out of my mouth anyway and a sob-filled, “No!” that bounces off the sterile walls.
Because how? How the hell did this happen?
I sag in my seat, the gravity of the moment pulling me to the floor. Bo grips onto me and holds me both upright and together. Arms wrapped around me, he hushes me through my sobs.
“Birdie, I’ll be right here with you the whole time,” he whispers into my hair as he rubs my back. “We got this.”
And as devastatingly hopeless as that feels, I know he will. Because he always is. Because Bo is a goodness I didn’t know to look for, and I know will stay, for better or worse.
He’ll love me, and I’ll let him.