This is the day we go the hospital as usual. We have banter with Jörn and Nadine while they inject me. Jörn’s swearing makes us all laugh. For a moment we forget why we are there.
This is the day Jörn says I am sailing through. He ‘accidentally’ orders me more antibiotics and calls me an unrepeatable name.
This is the day.
Instead of going home we are shown into an office, the desk flanked by people. Jörn is there, but there are no jokes, and no swearing.
When they say ‘I’m most terribly sorry, but…’ and everything goes blurry, as in a film (you thought it might).
We are shown into another room, with candles and a sofa. Where we cuddle in quiet for a few moments before Jörn plonks himself down next to us, suddenly filling the room.
He never takes his eyes from us once.
This room. This day. Now.
Where we learn the names of new drugs, new procedures (we had always wondered what was behind this door), and how often. And my chances.
And Jörn saying ‘If you’re dealt a shit pack of cards, you still have to play with them.’ And that he has relapsed too.
And that he’ll be going away (he recommends Vodka and speed metal) for a while.
Then silence. Then see you tomorrow (more tests).
The day you tell your children. For not pretending.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Like any other (April) day. But. No.