I am standing in a sea of boxes, tagged and ready to go to our new place. A nice house on a nice street with not too many stairs for when things get worse. Easily made wheelchair accessible. I don't even want to imagine.
Movers arrive to transport our belongings to a new world.
An electric shock moves through my arm and I drop a vase. Antique. Allison's. I burst into tears in frustration and embarrassment. She tries to comfort me but I flee into our new bathroom to escape in my mortification.
I come back later to find my mess cleaned up and wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"I know."
It is the right reply. No placement of blame while acknowledging my feelings. An excellent response from a well-trained physician. I sigh and go back to helping.
The cats are hiding in the bedroom, fearful of their new home. I both love and hate it. It is ours, but it shows in its design the course my illness will take. It is the house I will die in.
There are good years left for us. I repeat this like a mantra, over and over.
We order dinner and unwrap the couch while we wait for it to arrive. We've opened all the boxes and put them in their proper rooms. Large pieces of furniture are in place. I rinse two plates of wrapping dust and put them on the table. We find some wine and pour it into the only glasses we can find.
I curl into Allison on the couch. My depression is overwhelming. I am afraid. Wetness seeps through my hair and I look up to find her crying silently. She is frightened, too. We cling to one another until the food arrives.
We don't clean up after we eat. We don't continue unpacking. We don't even speak. We lie on our couch entwined in one another, fearing the future.
I wonder where my hope has gone.