I'd only blacked out for a second after the crash. I woke up and my vision was blurry but I could see the flashing red and blue lights that seemed to surround us.

Once I was conscious enough of what was happening, I blamed my brain for it. Rather, I blamed the tumor burrowed snugly inside my brain, just deep enough that they can't remove it at its size. I realized we'd crashed because I didn't process the red light, because the tumor wouldn't let my brain remember something so first grade as "red light means stop." That's what I figured happened, but it was difficult to really piece it all together when there were lights and noises everywhere, and a chronic cancer headache to boot.

It took a guilty fifteen seconds of consciousness before I worried about how Phil was doing. It was only his wheezing from the seat next to mine that I remembered. There was an attractive blond man squatting next to him outside the door, and for a moment I considered telling him to fuck off my baby before I realized he was in navy blue, and holding an oxygen mask up to Phil's face, encouraging him to breathe. But that was my job, to remind him to breathe, so I felt a need to ask. "Is he hurt?"

The paramedic smiled at me, as if grateful I was awake. "No, the car hit mostly the back part of the vehicle. You two may be a bit sore for a while, but we looked you over and you're okay."

I groaned, doubting it was trusting his word as a sort of trained professional. "What's wrong with him?" I didn't like talking about Phil as if he wasn't right there, but by the sound of his labored breathing I probably wasn't going to be getting a response out of him. Besides, there was a sort of trained professional present and vigil.

"He's having a panic attack. Traffic is redirected so it's best we don't move him until it subsides."

And I remembered, and sprang into action. I undid by seatbelt with sore hands and with sore arms moved myself sorely just a bit closer to his side, just close enough to provide some comfort. He told me he felt a bit better when he knew I was there, even if he'd often black out in times like this. I reached for the bottle of water in the cup holder but it had spilt all over the floor. I briefly, halfheartedly and silently chided him for not putting the cap on. I turned to the man who was delegated to make Phil breathe. "He has Xanax on him. Prescription, of course." I could prove it if I needed to –we were not getting arrested for drug charges, this weekend was already too exciting.

"It's better right now to just get him to breathe," he said, as if he really had any new light to spread on how to help someone through a panic attack. I'm sure he'd seen a lot of things in his career, and I wasn't doubting his experience, but I knew Phil's individual case because I'd been helping him for weeks now. I didn't like this notion that making him breathe would help, because I knew that without proper comfort he could be like this for hours. And that was a more painful thought than I'd like to think about.

You'd think I'd be used to hospitals by now. No.

I've always hated the sterility of hospitals, but it was only in the last few months –filled with constant, unwanted and unpleasant trips— that my tolerance for them was really at an all-time fucking low.

I especially hated how here, for the first five hours, Phil and I were separated. Whenever I asked –not once, not twice, but five times to three different nurses— they said they didn't know anything about his situation, which only made me more on edge. When finally a doctor came in, and he claimed to be working with Phil, as well (what a happy coincidence) he said he was "sleeping it off," and I could see him soon. I knew what he meant, so I felt relieved enough to not ask any more questions for a while.

We were only at the hospital to quickly get checked out after the crash –and so Phil could rest once he was calm enough to do so. But when I was asked by a friendly-looking nurse what had happened to cause the crash, the detail about my tumor slipped out, and suddenly I was going to be here a lot longer than expected.

It all blurred together just like every other appointment in the last couple of months. I almost fell asleep during the scan, figuring I didn't need to be awake for them to take pictures of my brain. They asked me lots of questions and I answered them as well as I could, curiously peeking to see if what they were writing down was any indication of what I was telling them.

But I was awarded for my time and patience. When I was brought back to my room, Phil was there, sitting in the chair next to my cot and giving me a tired smile when I came in. I bent over and hugged him tight, and he buried his face into my shoulder, and I never wanted to let go but the nurse made me get back in bed.

We sat there and talked, but Phil was strangely quiet. He kept looking at his phone with misty eyes, but every time I asked him about it he forced a smile and told me not to worry. I told him not to bullshit me, but he held fast, so I eventually let it go.

Fortunately, we weren't asked to be apart for the rest of our time there, and we were discharged at about ten that night. Aunt Holly came to pick us up and even in the back seat of her car we weren't going to waste time on inches in between. Phil fell asleep against me, and I twirled my fingers through his hair.

"Get a room, boys," my aunt laughed.

"We have one at your place."

It was agreed between the two of us that we'd be going home first thing in the morning –Aunt Holly would drive us up since I couldn't drive anymore. Between my tumor headaches and Phil's anxiety, this weekend had already proven a bit too much. I wasn't looking forward to going back; I knew I'd be going right back to the hospital, and maybe not making it out of there this time. The thought of dying in the hospital was nauseating; I was too young for that.

I didn't tell Phil yet that almost as soon as we got home, I would be going back into the hospital. And shortly after that –two days or so— I would have surgery to remove the tumor. That sounds like a nice thought, so why didn't I tell him? Well, being told I had a a fifty-fifty shot of surviving it sort of kept my lips shut. But I was told that it was the best shot, because the tumor had shrunk down enough –the scan proved— to remove surgically. In a few days' time I could be either cancer-free, or six feet under –and it was an equal chance of each. The thought of going into surgery and not surviving it, after lasting months with a damn lump in my brain, was frustrating and terrifying and kept me awake.

Fortunately, it didn't keep my Phil awake, too. I looked down at him, sleeping so peacefully now, tucked against me, and knew I had to make it because I had something worth waking up to.