They said it’s Cancer.

Stage 4.

Terminal.

Simon assured you the migraines and fatigue he’d been experiencing was just low iron, and he’d just get a blood test to make sure. When the blood work showed his iron levels to be abnormal, they asked to do an MRI.

It was just supposed to be a precaution. A routine process of elimination to help identify the issue. Fortunately, you didn’t have to look for very long. Unfortunately, the images showed a mass in Simons brain.

“We can perform surgery, but we will not be able to remove the whole thing. We can give you an estimation of roughly 12 to 18 months, even with surgery,” they said.

“12 to 18 months of what?”

They hesitated. “Life.”

It’s been 3 months since that conversation. Simon refused the surgery, insisting he wasn’t going to waste the time he had left recovering from a surgery that wasn’t going to change a thing. You begged and begged, but at the end of the day it was his choice.

It took awhile to come to terms with it; in fact, you still fully hadn’t. Simon was forced to retire from the military.

You were both in the kitchen, tension hanging over the both of you as he read an article on a new hiking trail opened up nearby. “Could be fun. Get outside. Fresh air,” he said, looking up to you.

“No. We’re not risking it.”

He slammed the phone back onto the bench. “We? You mean you? I’m sick of sitting around feeling sorry for myself.”

“What if we get out there and something happens on the trail, in the middle of nowhere-“

He snapped, shouting, “I’m sure you’d be perfectly bloody fine with the funeral home ready in your fucking contacts!”