With My Dying Breath
Chapter 1.
I can't believe you're lying there so still. You hand is in mine but I can barely feel it and I'm pretty sure that you can't either. But the nurse outside the door said that you might be able to and I'm not going to miss a chance to have you know how much I miss you.
If you could open your eyes and talk to me, I would be the happiest man on the earth. But I also want you to close your eyes forever; I hope that when you are sleeping, the pain won't reach you anymore.
I read a book about this girl and her best friend is lying there on the bed, dying. And then when she dies, the only thing the girl can do is laugh. Not because she is happy but because she can't do anything else. It's not funny. No, it's not funny at all but she is in such denial that her body is rejecting everything it sees and hears. I always sympathized with that story and I felt bad for the girl but I never understand how someone could laugh at someone else's pain.
But now I do. How ironic is this Sydney? How ironic is it that you, the woman who has faced all the hazards of life, are dying of something that millions of people die of every year? You save people's lives, you defend your own, and you can use and dismantle any weapon you come in contact with. But that couldn't help you here, could it? It doesn't make sense to me.
How can I outlive you? You have always been the one who saved me. You brought me to life, your mere presence made it worth living. So how can you be dying now just as I've realized how much I need you by my side?
You're only 29 years old, Sydney Bristow. Why are you leaving me? Your hand feels so limp in mind, it doesn't even seem like it belongs to you. Yes, I know it does and it is beautiful. It's amazing, Syd. After all you have gone through, your hands are still as exquisite and beautiful as they were the day I met you. But physicality doesn't matter to me anymore. You will always be beautiful to me.
She's just lying there. Eyes closed. She looks peaceful and I am grateful for that. When she is awake, she still cares more about other people than herself and tries so hard to look happy. But I still see her pain. How can I not know the feelings of the person I love?
And I think that's what hurts me the most. The Sydney I knew is leaving me. And not only physically. Every day, I see her vibrancy and love of life ebbing away. I see pain in her eyes more than I see light. Her voice has even turned duller. But even though she is changing before my eyes, I cannot let go and I find myself loving this new Sydney as well.
It doesn't matter what she's looks like. She still has the same soul I fell in love with years ago. I hate my job. I hate our jobs. They kept us apart; kept us from even telling each other we loved each other. I'm pretty sure she loved me. I know I loved her with all my heart.
The dull pain that always seems to be pounding away in my heart comes alive and is acute as I see her open her eyes. It's a slow movement; everything is difficult for Sydney now. The woman who could kick anybody's ass 2 years ago is now frail and weak. She finally fits into her petite frame. I sit down on the chair that I've been sitting on for the past few years.
But today, there is a new development. Her eyes don't flicker when they meet mine. My heart sinks into an agony that I have never known. I think I would've felt like this had my father died a few years later than he did. When I was fully aware of what exactly had happened. But he had died when he died and left me facing her, full of a misery I didn't know. She didn't recognize me.
Through all the months since she found out her condition, she had never failed to know who I was. No matter what state of deterioration her mind or body was in, she always knew me. Sometimes she would try to speak but I would hush her and then she would try to smile and mouth the words instead. Sometimes we would have entire conversations that way.
She would ask me how life was and I would answer. She never wanted to talk about herself. I suppose it would've sounded weird to anyone listening outside the door. Me talking and then silence and then my voice coming out again. But it was the same as a telephone call, wasn't it? Our relationship had always been a telephone call.
Anyone on my end would hear my responses, guess my feelings and do something or nothing depending on who they were to me. But they never heard the other side. They didn't hear the love Sydney put into every word she said to me like I could. It had happened maybe 6 months before she was diagnosed. The happiest six months of my life.
And like the rising and falling of Fortune's Wheel, those 6 months were followed by 2 years of pain.
In the beginning, it had been all right. She had still been the same person. Even though she got tired far more easily than before, the moments she was with me, she was still exactly the same. Full of spirit, full of wit, never afraid to look into a mirror or smile at me with full-blown dimples.
It had been at the start of the second year that she started changing. It coincided with her looks I guess. Sydney had never been a vain woman and always seemed unaware of her beauty; I think it was more that she was afraid that she wouldn't recognize herself when she looked in a mirror. I don't blame her. So many things in her life have been so uncertain. The only thing she found constant throughout her whole life was herself. And when she didn't see herself in the mirror anymore, she panicked.
She wanted the mirrors covered up. And then restricted visitors to her family, Will, Francie, and me. She didn't want to talk about herself anymore. It had become a painful subject. And sometimes, she even lacked the strength to mouth entire words. And sometimes, right when I was about to leave, she should mouth three more. But they were always partially shaped and unclear on purpose, as if she wasn't sure whether or not she wanted me to see them.
I love her. I do. I just hate the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when she tells me she's too tired to talk to me anymore and sends me away. And the only feeling I hate more than that is the feeling I just got now.
Sydney doesn't recognize me. Her eyes are traveling slowly across my face, her eyes look confused as if she's trying to remember who I am. Her forehead scrunches up in concentration and she doesn't say anything because she does understand that I am a good friend and she doesn't want to hurt me. She doesn't know that I know.
Tears well up in her eyes because she truly can't place me. She looks down at our intertwined hands and looks hesitant, wondering whether she should keep her hand in mine. To me, she is my love. But to her, I am a stranger. She lets me hold her hand and for that I am infinitely grateful. But she turns her head away, either to try to remember me or to pretend she does know me.
On the table at the other side of her bed are pictures. They are pictures of all of those that she loves. And then I see that she is trying to find a picture of me; trying to tell herself that she should know me and if only she can see us together, she will know who I am. I release her hand and walk over to the other side where the pictures are.
Her eyes follow me quizzically and I pull a picture up from behind all the others. It is simple, she and I are standing side by side at the pier. It was taken about a month after she was diagnosed. When she decided to take pictures of everyone she cared for. But we look happy and it doesn't matter that in the picture we are not touching. You can see the chemistry just by looking at us. I'm not sure how other people can see it. After all, it's just a picture. But even nurses who don't know our history sometimes ask me if we're married.
I take it as a compliment and tell them that I would be the luckiest man in the world to be married to her. But I'm not. And then I look at their faces, full of uncertainty at what they asked and heartbreak for my words, and ask them why they thought that.
And they never mention my daily visits. They always suppose that because of the picture. Maybe it's because we are leaning slightly toward each other and the wind is blowing her hair towards me ever so slightly. Maybe it's our smiles or the fact that our hands on the rail are so close to touching that they might as well be. I look at the picture and then show it to her.
I want to ask her if she remembers me now but I don't because I know she doesn't want me to know that she doesn't recognize me. But after seeing the picture, her eyes fill up with fear, confusion, sadness, and maybe a little hope and she gives up and decides to confess what I already know.
Are we married? She mouths. Are you my husband?
Tears come unexpectedly to my eyes. I knew that those questions were coming but I still hadn't been prepared for my response. I shake my head.
She seems a little relieved; maybe she scared of the thought that she's forgotten someone that she loved. Or maybe she's just happy that she didn't have a husband to forget. But she also seems sorry. She has seen the tears in my eyes and how she knows that I love her and that she doesn't remember if she loves me.
I can't stay here anymore. Much as I am happy that she is awake, I cannot control my own emotions anymore. I know that her pain is coming and that I should be there to support her but my legs can barely support me. I look at her and she nods, understanding the sorrow in my eyes.
I walk out of the door and start crying before it closes. And then sounds come out of me. They're not feminine sobs or high-pitched cries but they are the noises of the misery in my heart that need to come out. People are looking at me but I am not concerned anymore. I think she can hear me inside her room. But I cannot stop myself.
More tears than I knew I had come coursing down my cheeks as I breath deeply. I finally manage to stop these unfamiliar sounds from my throat and just lean against the wall. And I stare out at the emptiness that is about to become my life once she leaves me.
Chapter 1.
I can't believe you're lying there so still. You hand is in mine but I can barely feel it and I'm pretty sure that you can't either. But the nurse outside the door said that you might be able to and I'm not going to miss a chance to have you know how much I miss you.
If you could open your eyes and talk to me, I would be the happiest man on the earth. But I also want you to close your eyes forever; I hope that when you are sleeping, the pain won't reach you anymore.
I read a book about this girl and her best friend is lying there on the bed, dying. And then when she dies, the only thing the girl can do is laugh. Not because she is happy but because she can't do anything else. It's not funny. No, it's not funny at all but she is in such denial that her body is rejecting everything it sees and hears. I always sympathized with that story and I felt bad for the girl but I never understand how someone could laugh at someone else's pain.
But now I do. How ironic is this Sydney? How ironic is it that you, the woman who has faced all the hazards of life, are dying of something that millions of people die of every year? You save people's lives, you defend your own, and you can use and dismantle any weapon you come in contact with. But that couldn't help you here, could it? It doesn't make sense to me.
How can I outlive you? You have always been the one who saved me. You brought me to life, your mere presence made it worth living. So how can you be dying now just as I've realized how much I need you by my side?
You're only 29 years old, Sydney Bristow. Why are you leaving me? Your hand feels so limp in mind, it doesn't even seem like it belongs to you. Yes, I know it does and it is beautiful. It's amazing, Syd. After all you have gone through, your hands are still as exquisite and beautiful as they were the day I met you. But physicality doesn't matter to me anymore. You will always be beautiful to me.
She's just lying there. Eyes closed. She looks peaceful and I am grateful for that. When she is awake, she still cares more about other people than herself and tries so hard to look happy. But I still see her pain. How can I not know the feelings of the person I love?
And I think that's what hurts me the most. The Sydney I knew is leaving me. And not only physically. Every day, I see her vibrancy and love of life ebbing away. I see pain in her eyes more than I see light. Her voice has even turned duller. But even though she is changing before my eyes, I cannot let go and I find myself loving this new Sydney as well.
It doesn't matter what she's looks like. She still has the same soul I fell in love with years ago. I hate my job. I hate our jobs. They kept us apart; kept us from even telling each other we loved each other. I'm pretty sure she loved me. I know I loved her with all my heart.
The dull pain that always seems to be pounding away in my heart comes alive and is acute as I see her open her eyes. It's a slow movement; everything is difficult for Sydney now. The woman who could kick anybody's ass 2 years ago is now frail and weak. She finally fits into her petite frame. I sit down on the chair that I've been sitting on for the past few years.
But today, there is a new development. Her eyes don't flicker when they meet mine. My heart sinks into an agony that I have never known. I think I would've felt like this had my father died a few years later than he did. When I was fully aware of what exactly had happened. But he had died when he died and left me facing her, full of a misery I didn't know. She didn't recognize me.
Through all the months since she found out her condition, she had never failed to know who I was. No matter what state of deterioration her mind or body was in, she always knew me. Sometimes she would try to speak but I would hush her and then she would try to smile and mouth the words instead. Sometimes we would have entire conversations that way.
She would ask me how life was and I would answer. She never wanted to talk about herself. I suppose it would've sounded weird to anyone listening outside the door. Me talking and then silence and then my voice coming out again. But it was the same as a telephone call, wasn't it? Our relationship had always been a telephone call.
Anyone on my end would hear my responses, guess my feelings and do something or nothing depending on who they were to me. But they never heard the other side. They didn't hear the love Sydney put into every word she said to me like I could. It had happened maybe 6 months before she was diagnosed. The happiest six months of my life.
And like the rising and falling of Fortune's Wheel, those 6 months were followed by 2 years of pain.
In the beginning, it had been all right. She had still been the same person. Even though she got tired far more easily than before, the moments she was with me, she was still exactly the same. Full of spirit, full of wit, never afraid to look into a mirror or smile at me with full-blown dimples.
It had been at the start of the second year that she started changing. It coincided with her looks I guess. Sydney had never been a vain woman and always seemed unaware of her beauty; I think it was more that she was afraid that she wouldn't recognize herself when she looked in a mirror. I don't blame her. So many things in her life have been so uncertain. The only thing she found constant throughout her whole life was herself. And when she didn't see herself in the mirror anymore, she panicked.
She wanted the mirrors covered up. And then restricted visitors to her family, Will, Francie, and me. She didn't want to talk about herself anymore. It had become a painful subject. And sometimes, she even lacked the strength to mouth entire words. And sometimes, right when I was about to leave, she should mouth three more. But they were always partially shaped and unclear on purpose, as if she wasn't sure whether or not she wanted me to see them.
I love her. I do. I just hate the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when she tells me she's too tired to talk to me anymore and sends me away. And the only feeling I hate more than that is the feeling I just got now.
Sydney doesn't recognize me. Her eyes are traveling slowly across my face, her eyes look confused as if she's trying to remember who I am. Her forehead scrunches up in concentration and she doesn't say anything because she does understand that I am a good friend and she doesn't want to hurt me. She doesn't know that I know.
Tears well up in her eyes because she truly can't place me. She looks down at our intertwined hands and looks hesitant, wondering whether she should keep her hand in mine. To me, she is my love. But to her, I am a stranger. She lets me hold her hand and for that I am infinitely grateful. But she turns her head away, either to try to remember me or to pretend she does know me.
On the table at the other side of her bed are pictures. They are pictures of all of those that she loves. And then I see that she is trying to find a picture of me; trying to tell herself that she should know me and if only she can see us together, she will know who I am. I release her hand and walk over to the other side where the pictures are.
Her eyes follow me quizzically and I pull a picture up from behind all the others. It is simple, she and I are standing side by side at the pier. It was taken about a month after she was diagnosed. When she decided to take pictures of everyone she cared for. But we look happy and it doesn't matter that in the picture we are not touching. You can see the chemistry just by looking at us. I'm not sure how other people can see it. After all, it's just a picture. But even nurses who don't know our history sometimes ask me if we're married.
I take it as a compliment and tell them that I would be the luckiest man in the world to be married to her. But I'm not. And then I look at their faces, full of uncertainty at what they asked and heartbreak for my words, and ask them why they thought that.
And they never mention my daily visits. They always suppose that because of the picture. Maybe it's because we are leaning slightly toward each other and the wind is blowing her hair towards me ever so slightly. Maybe it's our smiles or the fact that our hands on the rail are so close to touching that they might as well be. I look at the picture and then show it to her.
I want to ask her if she remembers me now but I don't because I know she doesn't want me to know that she doesn't recognize me. But after seeing the picture, her eyes fill up with fear, confusion, sadness, and maybe a little hope and she gives up and decides to confess what I already know.
Are we married? She mouths. Are you my husband?
Tears come unexpectedly to my eyes. I knew that those questions were coming but I still hadn't been prepared for my response. I shake my head.
She seems a little relieved; maybe she scared of the thought that she's forgotten someone that she loved. Or maybe she's just happy that she didn't have a husband to forget. But she also seems sorry. She has seen the tears in my eyes and how she knows that I love her and that she doesn't remember if she loves me.
I can't stay here anymore. Much as I am happy that she is awake, I cannot control my own emotions anymore. I know that her pain is coming and that I should be there to support her but my legs can barely support me. I look at her and she nods, understanding the sorrow in my eyes.
I walk out of the door and start crying before it closes. And then sounds come out of me. They're not feminine sobs or high-pitched cries but they are the noises of the misery in my heart that need to come out. People are looking at me but I am not concerned anymore. I think she can hear me inside her room. But I cannot stop myself.
More tears than I knew I had come coursing down my cheeks as I breath deeply. I finally manage to stop these unfamiliar sounds from my throat and just lean against the wall. And I stare out at the emptiness that is about to become my life once she leaves me.