You Should Know

“What are you making?” I asked you.

“You’ll see,” you replied vaguely, and I pretended to whine and be impatient.

I tried distracting you, like I always did.

I kissed the back of your neck.

Slid my hands under your shirt to rub your back and feel your skin.

You pretended to ignore me, but I always saw the smiles and felt the shivers.

And your cooking always came out perfect, no matter what I did or how distracting I was.

I loved watching you cook.

I could watch you for hours without getting bored.

You should have had your own show.

Remember that time you tried to teach me to make a vegetarian casserole, and I set the fire alarms off?

You remember.

We had Chinese takeout for dinner that night on the couches in the living room, since the kitchen still smelled like burnt vegetables and smoke.

I told my therapist about this, what I’m doing for you.

He thinks it’s good for closure.

I think he’s full of shit.

In case you can’t tell, the therapy’s not by choice.

They think I need help dealing with death.

I think they don’t know what they’re talking about.

My therapist- his name’s not important- he likes to tell me things I already know.

Presenting the five stages:

Denial.

Check.

Anger.

Over it.

Bargaining.

Done.

Depression.

Been there.

Acceptance.

Working on it.

Thanks for nothing, doctor.

He asked to see what I’m writing, but I didn’t let him.

No one will read this except for you.

Victoria won’t read it, either.

I told her it was okay if she did, but she said it’s for you, not her.

No one will read this except for you.

I hope you’ll understand someday.

You should know that I’m dying.

It’s a fatal disease.

Nothing anyone can do about it.

It’s called- well, maybe it’s better that you don’t know.

You might find out someday, after I’m gone.

What you should know is that I don’t have much time, but I have just enough.

I don’t take medicine anymore.

It won’t help in the end, and I don’t want to prolong everything.

I don’t want to hang around if I have nothing to wait for.

The doctors say they’ll make me as comfortable as possible, which means only painkillers.

I know they’re lying about the ‘comfortable’ part, because there’s no way they’ll be able to bring you back to me.

I miss you.

I thought you should know.