September 30, 2021
Dearly Beloved,
I can't sleep. I can't shift my body to rest comfortably. The little lights that flicker are friendly strangers, faintly illuminating my bland surroundings. These lights emit bizarre, foreign sounds. They rhythmically mock the beating of my heart. I can just form the vessels and wiring that crawl across my body. If I can't see them, then I can feel them digging and piercing the surface of my skin. This false tranquility is shattered by my amplified senses, save for my eyesight. My fingertips feel every groove, bump, and subtle thread of these coarse sheets; my nose breathes in fresh clean oxygen, free from the stains of Nitrogen, Hydrogen, Carbon Dioxide, and other pollutants; my ears hear everything: the robotic sounds, the scuffles my body makes, the obscure boom of my heart; my mouth tastes the stale, sanitized hospital air; and my eyes, in this shadowy darkness, forcefully morph these protruding tentacles and the name on my wrist. Sunderland? That can't be right. So what is my name? Why am I here? How did I end up here? Why couldn't this be prevented? Why does the hospital make everything so frightening and serious? It's only been several nights, but I'm terrified. I've never felt so isolated, vulnerable. I've cried so much these past few days. I want it to stop. I wish you were here with me, at this moment. Perhaps you can help me piece together...
"Do you know the best part about museums? They record time. They are the doors to the past, portraits to the present, and windows to the future. Did you know that?" I still remember those words you said all those years ago. You were 20 at the time, and I was almost 22. That was our first date, do you remember? There were many things that I remembered about that day. I remember that the sky was gloomy, cloudy and grey, but we cherished it dearly. I remember just how bright your green eyes became as the tram lethargically edged toward our destination. I remember how my heart would skip a beat whenever our knuckles gently nudged together. I remember the unbound fascination you expressed with each exhibition we thoroughly examined, whether they were ancient or modern. Unfortunately, there are also things that I can't recall. I can't remember the exhibitions we admired with open minds. I can't remember how our date began or how it came to an end. I can't remember those snippets of awkward conversation we had to endure and the moments of comfortable silence we wished would last much longer. Perhaps, at best, some of these murky moments should be forgotten, but they are my memories with you and I cherish them nonetheless. You were right all along: the museum can be a door to the past. I just didn't think it'd be ours.
These early memories of us wouldn't have surfaced if we hadn't revisited that same museum recently. Only we weren't college students, but married with children. Yet, entering those thick glass double-doors had metamorphosed us into our youthful college selves once more. Your green eyes shone brightest with anticipation as the tram lethargically edged forward to our destination. As we ventured throughout the museum, our hearts raced as our knuckles bumped, and as our hands eventually found themselves clasped together. You still spoke with much command and fervor, allowing us to enter through doors to the past and peer through the windows of a future unknown. Even with our children here with us, we still managed to share a comfortable silence together.
I never realized how much Julia and I have in common, just as much as you and Lucas do as well. Just like me, Julia was fascinated with the natural sciences and history, especially with dinosaurs. Her tiny hazel eyes were filled a bewildered reverence for the titans. She told me she wanted to be a dinosaur hunter when she grows up. Her favorite dinosaur is the Brontosaurus, because it didn't eat people and she would climb its neck to reach the cookie jar whenever we wouldn't be around. She told me they would be best friends forever.
As she led me through the exhibition, I began to notice how tiny her hands are. She still couldn't wrap her fingers around one of mine, and it made me smile so much. Occasionally looking back to check up on you and the kids, I noticed something bizarre about you and Lucas: you both had that same bored expression on your faces. Little would I know Julia and I would do the same as little Lucas and yourself would race across several exhibitions, attempting to see as much as possible, be it art, sculpture, and relics of the past. Up until our trip, I never thought I'd be able to connect with Julia, but I can see that I'm wrong. I now know what to do for our play dates from now on.
It's amazing, isn't it? How much a simple trip to the museum can reveal so much about our family? And this one day was exactly one week before my hospitalization and exactly two months after being diagnosed with Leukemia. That day now feels so distant, like a lucid dream manifested in reality. Languished in obscurity. Drowned in anxiety. This recent memory has become a quantum of solace, amidst foreign territory. As the tiny lights create menacing shadows, my thoughts turn to you and the family. I don't know what will happen; all I know is that I'm not alone: we're all in this together. And you will be here, supporting me.
These early memories of us wouldn't have surfaced if we hadn't revisited that same museum recently. Only we weren't college students, but married with children. Yet, entering those thick glass double-doors had metamorphosed us into our youthful college selves once more. Your green eyes shone brightest with anticipation as the tram lethargically edged forward to our destination. As we ventured throughout the museum, our hearts raced as our knuckles bumped, and as our hands eventually found themselves clasped together. You still spoke with much command and fervor, allowing us to enter through doors to the past and peer through the windows of a future unknown. Even with our children here with us, we still managed to share a comfortable silence together.
I never realized how much Julia and I have in common, just as much as you and Lucas do as well. Just like me, Julia was fascinated with the natural sciences and history, especially with dinosaurs. Her tiny hazel eyes were filled a bewildered reverence for the titans. She told me she wanted to be a dinosaur hunter when she grows up. Her favorite dinosaur is the Brontosaurus, because it didn't eat people and she would climb its neck to reach the cookie jar whenever we wouldn't be around. She told me they would be best friends forever.
As she led me through the exhibition, I began to notice how tiny her hands are. She still couldn't wrap her fingers around one of mine, and it made me smile so much. Occasionally looking back to check up on you and the kids, I noticed something bizarre about you and Lucas: you both had that same bored expression on your faces. Little would I know Julia and I would do the same as little Lucas and yourself would race across several exhibitions, attempting to see as much as possible, be it art, sculpture, and relics of the past. Up until our trip, I never thought I'd be able to connect with Julia, but I can see that I'm wrong. I now know what to do for our play dates from now on.
It's amazing, isn't it? How much a simple trip to the museum can reveal so much about our family? And this one day was exactly one week before my hospitalization and exactly two months after being diagnosed with Leukemia. That day now feels so distant, like a lucid dream manifested in reality. Languished in obscurity. Drowned in anxiety. This recent memory has become a quantum of solace, amidst foreign territory. As the tiny lights create menacing shadows, my thoughts turn to you and the family. I don't know what will happen; all I know is that I'm not alone: we're all in this together. And you will be here, supporting me.
With a love that will never forget,
Your Lover
Your Lover
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