It started unexpectedly on, of all days, a Thanksgiving. Bird, potatoes, and gravy enough for a family, but today just for two. But today, in the end, just for one.
Not far off the ocean crashed against the many great stones lining the beachfront. It spread a crisp, fishy taint on the wind to all nearby. Breathing was easier here than in the City. Getting cold was easier, too.
A feast plated and served. The sickness that had begun on the drive up wasn’t going to pass, it seemed. She waved away the food. An apology, a gesture, a flight back to the toilet.
I ate.
Three months later she was talking about death. She knew she was going to die.
First, it was two weeks and she’d feel better. Then, it was 12 weeks before the sickness would ease up. After 12 weeks, it became 18.
Hope ended at the conclusion of week 18. The drugs didn’t help. They were supposed to ease the pain and nausea. Instead, they broke her mind.
She knew she was going to die, because she was going to kill herself.
Everyone said it would pass, it would get better. No one saw the state of emergency we lived in every day, the bruises from IV drips to keep her alive, the wailing into the night. No one will ever know.