Haunted Summer
Six months ago, my girlfriend and I were on a beautiful Hawaiian vacation. It was one of the happiest weeks of my life. We landed in Kona and shared a sunset dinner by the water. We watched Kīlauea erupt together, lava shooting hundreds of feet into the sky and soot falling from the air like snow. We laughed. We snorkeled. I remember feeling Amy rest her head on my shoulder as we watched the sky burn itself out over the island. It was one of those moments where time seems to slow. Where all you want is for the weight of another person, the sound of their breathing, to stay exactly the same forever. I held that feeling more tightly than I realized at the time.
Windy sunset from Mauna Kea
It was beautiful. It was also haunted. Haunted, because while we were laughing and taking pictures, I was carrying a thought I didn’t want to say: something is wrong.
For weeks before our vacation, I could feel that my girlfriend had a brain tumor. Not in a mystical way. But in the mundane way that comes from living with someone and noticing the small, unexplainable things. Amy was in constant fatigue. Her period inexplicably disappeared for 6 months. Her bone density was poor. All of this despite averaging 10 hours of sleep per night and consistent physical activity.
We met with some doctors. They initially fixated on the fatigue, citing that it could be any of allergies, stress, vision problems, or burnout. One even suggested that some people just need 10-11 hours of sleep to feel normal. But no one told us exactly what was wrong.
Day by day, Amy experienced more moments of fatigue and sadness. It didn’t just inflict fear in me. It made me feel time. I felt scarcity. I felt pangs of anger every time I wasn’t fully present in the moment with her while dark thoughts pulled me away. Every day we waited to see the next doctor, I tried to salvage moments of joy amidst my running imagination.
When we got back from vacation, Amy turned 25. We had a lovely 12 course dinner. Her roommates and I threw her a surprise party at home. People showed up with less than 24 hours notice on a Monday night. She looked tired but happy, held by all this love.
And I remember thinking; quietly, privately:
I have no idea what her 26th birthday will look like.
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