Do You Remember

The first two years we spent living by ourselves in our own little apartment were amazing. I honestly can’t imagine feeling happier in my life, except maybe when you first kissed me… or maybe when we first made love… or when you said you’d marry me…

Okay so maybe there were other times in my life when I was as happy, or happier than I was during those two years. But that isn’t the point.

I was exceptionally, incredibly, amazingly, extraordinarily, remarkably – you’re probably rolling your eyes right now at my synonymous ways, as usual – HAPPY. That’s what I was getting at. Life was like a dream.

But then we were shaken awake.

For as long as either of us could remember, your back was always giving you problems. You have never been able to sit, stand or lie in one position for very long, but we never really thought too much about it. You hardly ever complained, except when the pain was really bad and I’d give you a massage and some painkillers and then you’d be okay after that. I guess we just thought that you had something like that ‘Restless Leg Syndrome’ or whatever it’s called, where there are times when the legs just constantly have to move about otherwise it really hurts.

That’s what we thought, until about a year after we moved in together and I noticed more and more often that you were in much more pain than you’d ever let on before. I’d see you cringe when you were getting comfortable in bed, when I’d thrust just a little bit harder than usual, when you were shrugging out of your work shirt and jacket.

You’re a good actor when you need to be, Addison, but you’re not that good. I noticed.
I remember the day when you had beaten me home from work, and I found you lying on your side on the floor of our bedroom, crying in pain. That was the day I took you to the doctors. I should have done it a long time before that and I’d offered to, but you were always so brave, so sure you could handle the pain that we just never went. You have no idea how guilty I feel about that now Ad. I should have forced you to go years before. You’ve said a thousand times not to blame myself, but it’s hard not to. But I’m going to put the blame and the guilt aside for now, for you.

When your name was called about half an hour after I booked you in, I got up and carried you inside to the doctor’s room and placed you on the bed. You had stopped crying by then, and had put on your brave face once more.

The doctor was a friendly guy, about 50 years old and fat and moustache-y, but he was very thorough. First, he asked you some questions about what was wrong and that, and then he got you to take off your shirt and had a feel of your back. He was silent as he did that, and while he was writing on all these different bits of paper.

Then he sat back in his chair and looked between the two of us.
“Okay, so I’m going to get you to book in for a Magnetic Resonance Imaging scan and –”
“Say what?” I interrupted. You just gave me a withering look and whispered “MRI, dipshit”.
Dr Moustache went on, “Then depending on the results, I have a referral for a biopsy to be taken. There is a possibility that you may have a tumour, but the MRI will tell us for sure. Tumours of the spine are quite rare for young men such as yourself so try not to be too worried, okay?”

You and I both nodded silently, but I could tell we were both terrified anyway.

We went and got the MRI booked for as soon as it was possible, which, as it turned out was the same day, four hours after the original doctors’ appointment.

Then we had to wait a week for the results.