And just like that you died. But before that there was the ambulance. It was parked on the sidewalk in front of our building, doors open and you sitting upright on a stretcher, looking too alive for someone who only had a few hours left. The bedlam inside your brain must have decided to rest before the final racket of unrestrained proliferation. The blob of defiant cells had changed you in some ways, even made you unrecognizable to those who knew you best. Unrecognizable to me, but I don’t think you ever realized that. That hideous cellular glob growing inside your head had stolen parts of you, you see, parts that were very dear to me.
On that night, though, you were you again, not someone who’d been vanishing in chunks and turning into a stranger. In a drab medical gown, your eyes alight for the first time in months, you said matter-of-factly, “I’m not coming back”. I didn’t contradict you, there was nothing to offer in return. Did I ride with you in the ambulance? I don’t know, but I don’t think they let me.
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