Fast forward three months, and there we were, winning a cheap, stuffed turkey. I still have it. It's kind of like my personal security blanket. I know it's just a stuffed animal, but it is so much more than that to me.
Anyway, she told me she loved me. I looked at her and spluttered out something far less than the appropriate response. The buzzer went off, and we were plus one stuffed turkey. We never needed anything more than that.
We moved in together, or rather, she moved in with me. I was happy. She was happy. Everything was perfect. I got my Master's degree and transferred to another school for my doctorate. She came with me. After I graduated, she threw the biggest party I have ever been to. She was my everything.
We were 30. Molly had just dropped me off at home and ran to the grocery store for a bottle of wine and some fruit. I changed into comfy clothes, poured a glass from the previous night's bottle, and settled on the couch with a blanket and a book. It was late fall, and the air was crisp. I turned on the fireplace to warm the living room a bit.
When the phone rang, I had already finished my glass of wine and was looking forward to another one.
Molly had slipped in the grocery store and hit her head. Another account said her face went blank as she was selecting vegetables and then dropped to the ground. All accounts confirmed that she had a seizure.
I arrived at the hospital as fast as my Uber could get me there. She had already been taken into the Emergency Room and was off getting an MRI or a CT scan or something. I stood at the front desk, fighting back the tears and trying my best to remain calm. Words were coming at me faster than my mind could keep up. After several hours of waiting in the lobby, I was finally allowed to go back with her.
She was alert, and her mood was light. She didn't seem phased at all. I, on the contrary, was ready to throttle the next person who asked me if I needed anything. Molly took my hand in hers and laughed.
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"Surprise!" She looked at me with a smile that was barely covering a hidden sadness and sorrow that looked to be more than anyone should have handled on their own.
Molly and I sat there in the emergency room for another four hours while she told me all about her diagnosis at 22. She knew her time was limited, so she decided to live the most positive, beautiful, giving, caring life she could. I was predictably angry. Why hadn't she told me? I was in shock and completely wrecked.
How could I have missed the warning signs? She had been mispronouncing words for a few weeks, had problems remembering where she had set things, and felt like she had some brain fog. She didn't confide most of this to me at the time, but I should have noticed. Maybe if I had, things would be different.
Hindsight can be one of the most underrated versions of evil ever created. I don't know how many times I asked myself, "What If?"
She wanted me to be strong for her. Her strength was unending. I had no choice but to step up to the challenge.
We talked for hours. I was upset, angry, hurt, scared. Molly was sympathetic, which angered and upset me more. I needed time to think and clear the anger from my mind. While I was deciding my next steps, an orderly came in to take her to her room. I must have walked around the hospital 20 times before I made my way up to her.
She was sleeping when I entered. The night nurses had asked me to be quiet but wanted me to see her. Molly told them to let me in no matter the time.
I entered the room, which was decorated as any hospital room is, with medical machines, tubes, wires, and all sorts of medical instruments beeping and whirring. She was asleep. Her head was partially covered in a web of sensors that were connected to wires and were scanning her brain for something. I say something, but I really mean cancer — fucking tumors. She had known since she was 22 that she was going to die soon.
Every day she lived was a gift. She tried so hard to block out any negatives and live life as fully as she could. She would hide everything for as long as possible before letting her art become her relief. Releasing her pain and anguish into her art led to a kind of cathartic realization that everything comes to an end, so why should she leave herself unfulfilled?