Chapter 94 Pain can be endured
You are a brief consciousness in a vast timeline.....
You will never experience the countless years before you were born.
You will never experience the countless years after you die.
Because consciousness is temporary, every experience is unrepeatable. Your awareness is a one-time event in the history of the universe. And realizing this can create two opposite reactions.
For some people, it feels terrifying. If life is so brief, if the universe is so vast and indifferent, it can seem like nothing ultimately matters.
But for others, if life is brief and fragile, then every moment becomes more valuable, not less. Your life is not significant because it lasts forever. It's significant because it happens at all. And you can survive almost anything.... except a life unlived.
I woke up with pain already waiting for me. It wasn’t a sharp, sudden strike....it was a patient pain, one that felt like it was testing my boundaries in slow, calculated increments. It lurked in the joints and settled into the long bones of my legs, a heavy thrumming that promised to take over the moment I acknowledged it. The kind of physical weight that made the prospect of existing outside of my sheets feel like an impossible task.
My mind was already retreating, whispering for me to stay under the covers, to let the world dissolve into the shadows of the bedroom until the hurt decided to recede.
Sleep felt like the only sanctuary I had left.
But when I shifted, I saw Michael. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his laptop open on his lap, staring at a blank page with the same quiet, stalled intensity as last time.
I knew with a piercing certainty that if I chose to hide under the blankets, he would most likely stay right there in the dim light, letting his own world go stagnant just to keep me company in the dark.
I couldn’t let him do that. Not today.
"Are you curious?" I asked, my voice raspy from sleep.
Michael turned, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "About what?"
"The next thing on my list," I said.
He looked at me suspiciously, his eyes searching mine for a catch. "What is it?"
"I want to take the ferry across the Sound," I told him, picturing the gray water and the salt air. "To Bainbridge Island. We can just walk around."
The reaction was almost comical. Michael immediately shut his laptop, sliding it onto the nightstand as if it were an afterthought he’d been dying to get rid of. "What time should we leave?" he asked instantly. Then, the excitement in his eyes flickered, replaced by that familiar, protective shadow. He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder. "Are you feeling up to it? Honestly?"
Was I feeling up to it? No. Not really. The pain is a constant companion now. But I’ve learned something in these last few weeks, something that the hospital walls couldn't teach me.
Pain hurts, but pain can be endured. What is much harder to endure is the slow, suffocating realization that you never really lived while you had the chance.
So, here we are. Standing by the door, keys in hand, about to step out into a world that doesn't care about my blood counts or my prognosis. The weather is gloomy, the sky a bruised purple that threatens rain, and this entire trip is an unplanned impulse.
Every part of my body is pleading for the couch.
But I look at Michael, who is checking the weather on his phone, and I feel a different kind of ache, one that has nothing to do with cancer. It’s the weight of being seen, of being loved in the middle of a wreckage. I’m not "up to it," not by any medical definition, but as we step out into the cool air, I realize I’d rather hurt while watching the tide pull away from the city than feel nothing at all in a darkened room.
The ferry vibrates beneath my shoes. We’re standing by the railing, the wind off the Sound sharp enough to sting. Michael reaches into the overstuffed backpack he’s been hauling around like a lifeline. It’s both a mobile pharmacy and pantry. My meds, about five bottles of water, snacks I’m too nauseous to eat, and God knows what else he thought I might need for a forty-minute crossing. He pulls out a thick, charcoal-gray scarf and turns to me.
I eye the fabric with a flare of internal resistance. I’ve always had this particular sensory hang-up....anything tight or heavy around my neck feels less like warmth and more like a cage. I’m seconds away from telling him I’m fine, that I don't need it, but I catch the focused, quiet intensity in his expression as he shakes out the folds.
I stay silent. The cold is biting, yes, but more than that, I find I’ve lost the desire to be stubbornly independent. I secretly crave the fuss. I want to be the center of his gravity.
I stand still as he loops the wool around me, his knuckles grazing my jaw, and when he asks if we should find a seat inside, I just shake my head. I want the salt air, I want to feel the world moving, even if my body is trying to stand still.
Michael settles in next to me, his shoulder pressed against mine, and we watch the city skyline begin to shrink into the mist.
"Are you having a hard time with it?" I ask after a long stretch of silence. "The writing?"
Michael sighs, the sound lost almost immediately to the wind. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in a way that betrays his frustration.
"It’s pretty ironic, isn't it?" he says, a small shadow of a smile touching his lips. "I’ve spent the better part of a decade acting as a mid-wife to other people’s stories. I can spot a structural flaw from a mile away and fix a broken metaphor in my sleep. But now that I’m trying to find the words for my own, it’s like the language has gone extinct. I keep staring at a blank page as if I’ve forgotten how to speak."
He looks out at the horizon, his profile sharp against the gray sky. "It’s different when it’s yours. When the stakes aren't just a publishing contract, but...everything else."
I shift slightly, leaning my weight against the railing to ease the pressure on my hips. "What exactly are you trying to write? Give me a hint. I happen to know a thing or two about good literature."
He turns his head, his eyes searching mine, and for a moment, the roar of the ferry fades into the background. Then he shifts his weight, his knuckles white where they grip the cold railing. He looks like he’s standing on a ledge, deciding whether to jump or retreat.
"I have this one idea," he starts, the words coming out clipped, tentative. "But I’m worried it’s too...." He trails off, shrugging his shoulders as if the thought is a coat that doesn't quite fit. "It’s.... I don't know, maybe a bit indulgent."
I lean my shoulder against his, the thick wool of the scarf he’d wrapped around me tickling my chin. "Tell me. I’m genuinely curious now. You can't just dangle a hook like that and walk away."