If all the studies I’ve read are true then you must be hearing me now.
I hate you.
We spent the last few weeks talking…
and now here I am listening to your parents debate whether to pull the plug or not.
“He had fought enough”, your mom said.
“3 years of that much pain is enough”, she continued.
This is probably not the best time to make this about me, and I know you despise how I tend to do that… but 3 years?
How could you have kept this from me?
How could you have wasted so many days listening to me blabber about people you haven’t even met?
How could you have let me bore you with stories about work?
How could you have let me go on and on about my non-existent love life?…
When we should have talked about this.
How could you have not said anything, knowing that every goodbye might have been the last?
I wouldn’t have known what to do,
I wouldn’t have had the solutions
But I would have been there for you.
Really there for you.
I would have held your hand.
I would have carried you if you needed me to.
I would have traded smiles for your tears.
I would have been…
Why didn’t you give me that chance?
We shared the best, the worst and the ugliest; how could you have thought this wasn’t worth sharing?
You were struggling.
You were in pain.
You were fighting for your life.
You were dying goddammit!
“He didn’t want you to worry” your mom comforted me.
“When the time came, he asked me to apologize to his friends for…”
“Dying?” I asked without thinking.
She smiled wryly.
“Dying” she nodded and watched you with her tired bloodshot eyes.
I had to blink back the tears.
If your friendship is any indication,
then I can only imagine how hurt she must be to be losing her son.
Come back, please?
I swear I will not bother you with my usual nonsense.
I will not even complain about your singing, no matter how excruciating I think your voice is.
I will listen to it all day if I have to.
Tease me about my weight, about my inexplicable fondness of skinny jeans.
Irritate me with your unsolicited opinions on my dating habits.
Berate me with silly questions that you so love asking.
Force me to laugh at your old corny jokes.
Just… come back.
Be… you again.
“He was so scared to be seen like this you know? It’s not the way he wanted to be remembered.” Your dad explained, wiping an invisible tear from your cheek.
I just nodded.
My eyes were fixed on your pale face.
On your cheekbones that used to be a lot plumper.
On your dry chapped lips.
Staring at you, all I could think of was your laughter.
It’s distinct sound.
The way it makes your eyes crinkle on the sides.
The way it makes your mouth occupy half of your face.
The way you turn into a 10-year old each time you found something funny.
You were wrong…
I’m staring at you now and I am telling you, you have nothing to fear because no one will remember you as this sick little person.
You will never be reduced to being just your disease.
You were someone’s wonderful son.
You were someone’s great love.
You were someone’s best friend…
You were my brother.
I love you.
I just wish I showed you more often, or when it really mattered.
I should have been there for you.
I’m sorry for assuming we had forever.
“It’s time”, your mom told me.
We stared at each other for a moment and collapsed into each other’s arms.
Your dad pulled us aside to make way for the medical team.
“Remember him” your dad pleaded, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“I will never learn how not to” I assured him.
They say brain waves surge moments before death.
If that is true, then there’s no better time to tell you this…
Will never forget.