Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me…

You’re back to wondering if you’re cursed.

Now your world is spiraling out of control, hidden from the outside by the heavy, foreboding cloud of silence in the waiting room. You almost wish the doc would invite you in, anything to keep those thoughts, those memories from ruminating.

You’ve willed them from your mind time and time again, but intrusive thoughts never listen. The faces of loved ones flicker through your head. Twisting tubes that everyone tried to pretend were well-hidden by strategic clothing. The cheeks that lost their puff, the build that thinned—or bulged, depending on the diagnosis. Hair, once rich and luscious, reduced to clinging, like scarce tufts of beach grass across LA’s dunes. Your mind races to piece together that picture on your boyfriend, and your stomach lurches. That familiar warmth wells up in your eyes. Your brain is your own worst enemy.

Because Mark wasn’t the first person you knew with a diagnosis like this, nor was he the first who meant a lot to you. He was fine, he insisted, even when he grumbled about being forced to postpone his retirement. Even when he got those headaches, god, especially those goddamn headaches. You would pray to any deity to take this away.

And yet, you couldn’t. So here you are, in that oncologist’s waiting room that feels simultaneously too industrial and too stuffy, doing the next best thing, which feels painfully far from any semblance of actual help. Insisting on driving him to appointments. Keeping the place stocked with coffee and painkillers. Singing to him.

I once was lost, but now I’m found…

Even when you wish so desperately that you could run—(but where?)—you stayed.