Chemo was hard for Elliott.

Both mentally and physically. He was either tired, sick, or irritable. He didn’t smile as often or enjoy doing the things he used to enjoy. Even butterflies lost their splendor to him.

     Food had lost its taste; he had told me once it tasted like licking rocks. Burning meat usually resulted in vomit and strong smells lead to migraines.

   After time, his muscles grew weaker and lost their tone, making movement hard and exhausting, until even getting up was a chore.

… it was hard to watch him wither away. To watch him go before my very eyes. There were times where I didn’t think I could keep myself together.

     “I’m dying Queen.” He had whispered to me once. We had been laying in his bed one late afternoon; the blinds shut tight, and blanket tacked up over them to keep out any light. 

    Deep down, I understood that what he was saying was the truth. But who wants to believe that the person they love is going to die?

     “You should still keep fighting.” I had tried to encourage. To stay positive.

    “Fighting what? Time? God? What am I fighting?”

    “But- “

   “There is no but Queenie, it’s unavoidable.”

    Tears had started to run down face as I buried my face into his pillow. I had felt the bed shift as he turned to face me. His eyes had been red too, red and tired, black circles straining under his eyes. I wondered then how much of the sleep he got was restful.

He dragged me over to him and had held me close. Rubbing my hair as I had apologized.

    “I know you’re going to - but that doesn’t mean - I don’t want you to go!”

    “I don’t want to go either, but I don’t have a choice.”

    We had laid there, clinging to each other well into the night. Every so often I would feel his lips brush against my cheek, his lips moving softly as if whispering a prayer against my flesh would make everything go away. But those prayers seemed to fall on deaf ears.