If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it through the surgery. I’m sorry. I know you told me to think positively, to believe I’d survive, but I need to write this just in case.
These last weeks have been the best of my life. Even with the diagnosis. Even with the fear. Getting to love you and be loved by you was worth all the pain that came with it.
I’m not angry about dying young. I’m sad about the life we won’t get to have together, but I’m not angry. Because what we did have was perfect. You made me feel alive right up until the very end. That’s a gift not everyone gets.
Please keep living. Keep finding beauty. Keep being the man who makes perfect pasta and reads Jane Eyre out loud even though it’s not his favorite. Keep being you.
Don’t blame yourself for this. The tumor was always going to win eventually. Surgery was always a gamble. If it didn’t pay off, that’s not on you. That’s just the shitty hand we got dealt.
I love you. I love you so much it feels inadequate to write it down. But I love you. Thank you for marrying me. Thank you for the carnival and the ferris wheel and the beach. Thank you for every moment.
Live. Please. Live enough for both of us.
Forever yours,
Claudette
I sealed it in an envelope, wrote his name on the front and set it on the nightstand.
“What are you doing?”
Michael’s voice made me jump. I turned to find him watching me from the bed.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was. Then I felt your side empty.” He sat up. “What are you doing?”
“Writing you a letter,” I said, and his eyebrows shot up, so I admitted, “In case I don’t wake up.”
“You’re going to wake up, Claudie.”
“Probably. By some extreme miracle. But just in case?—”
“No.” He got out of bed and crossed to me. He took the envelope from my hands. “You don’t get to write me goodbye letters,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”
“Michael—”
“If you’re writing one, I’m writing one back.” He grabbed paper and pen. He started writing before I could argue.
I watched him write. His hand moved across the page, confident and steady. I watched him with misty eyes as he poured something onto paper that I couldn’t read from this angle.
When he finished, he folded it and put it in an envelope, writing my name on it.
“There,” he said. “Now neither of us is reading these because you’re going to survive and we’re going to laugh about this later.”
“But what if I don’t survive?” I whispered, barely getting the words out. My throat felt tight, like the words were cutting theirway through instead of leaving gently. “I know what everyone is doing. You’re all trying to make me braver than I am. You’re giving me hope.” I swallowed. “But we all know there’s a very real chance—a bigger one, actually—that I won’t survive. And it’s a chance we have to consider. And I’m…” My voice broke, the rest of the sentence collapsing under its own weight. “I’m scared, Michael.”
He didn’t rush to answer. He didn’t interrupt or soften it with something easy. Instead, he moved closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him beside me, solid and real.
“I know you are,” he said quietly. “I am too. We all are.” His thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he was anchoring himself as much as me. “But being scared doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you understand what’s at stake.”
I shook my head. “What if hope just makes it hurt more?”
“Then we let it hurt,” he said. “Because pretending it doesn’t exist won’t protect you. And it won’t protect me either.” He looked at me then, really looked—no shields, no distance. “I won’t lie to you and tell you everything will be fine. I can’t promise that.”
My chest tightened.
“But Icanpromise this,” he continued. “No matter how this turns out, you won’t face it alone. Not the fear. Not the waiting. Not the pain. If there’s a chance—any chance at all—you take it. And if the worst happens…” His voice faltered, just slightly. “Then every moment before that still mattered. You still mattered.”
