PART 1
My name is Tessa Cole.
I was thirty-four when I became a widow.
Marcus was thirty-seven.
And when people hear that he knew he was dying, they assume there must have been months of emotional conversations, bucket lists, peaceful acceptance, and beautifully organized goodbyes.
There weren’t.
There was anger.
There were insurance forms.
There were nights when Marcus threw pillows across the bedroom because he hated that I had to help him put on his socks.
There were mornings when I cried in the shower so he wouldn’t hear me.
There were arguments about money.
Appointments.
Medication schedules.
And one ridiculous three-week disagreement about what to name our daughter.
I wanted June.
Marcus wanted Naomi.
“Naomi Cole sounds like someone who runs a Fortune 500 company,” he argued one Saturday morning.
“June Cole sounds like someone who owns six cats.”
I threw a dish towel at him.
“You’re insulting our unborn daughter.”
“I’m protecting her.”
“From what?”
“Cat ownership.”
He caught the towel and smiled.
Back then, the disease hadn’t taken his smile yet.
Marcus had been diagnosed with a rapidly progressing neurological disorder five months into my pregnancy.
The specialist estimated he might have six months.
Maybe less.
The disease was destroying his ability to control his muscles, but his mind remained perfectly clear.
That distinction would become important later.
At the time, I hated when doctors emphasized it.
I hated every clinical sentence.
I hated phrases like “disease progression.”
“Quality of life.”
“Long-term planning.”
“Advanced directive.”
Marcus, however, wanted to know everything.
He made lists.
He updated passwords.
He transferred our utility accounts into my name.
He recorded videos for our daughter.
He labeled folders in our home office.
I accused him of behaving like an accountant preparing for tax season.
He told me dying apparently came with terrible administrative responsibilities.
That was Marcus.
When life became unbearable, he made fun of it.
One night, about six weeks after his diagnosis, I woke at two in the morning and found the other side of the bed empty.
I panicked.
By then, he had already fallen twice.
I found him downstairs at the kitchen table.
A laptop was open in front of him.
“What are you doing?”
He quickly minimized the screen.
“Nothing.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“I know.”
I pulled out the chair beside him.
Marcus hesitated.
Then he reopened the page.
It was information about organ and tissue donation.
I felt something inside me collapse.
“Marcus.”
“I need you to listen before you get angry.”
“No.”
“Tess.”
“No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this tonight.”
He reached for my hand.
I pulled it away.
“You’re still alive.”
“I know.”
“Our daughter kicks every time you talk.”
“I know.”
“She recognizes your voice.”
“I know.”
“Then stop planning what happens to your body after you’re gone.”
His face changed.
Not dramatically.
Marcus rarely showed pain dramatically.
His shoulders simply lowered.
“Tessa, the planning doesn’t make me die faster.”
I looked away.
He continued.
“I’ve been registered as a donor since I was nineteen.”
That surprised me.
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
“That’s a ridiculous answer.”
“It’s still true.”
I stood up.
He caught my wrist.
“Tess.”
I turned around.
“If there’s anything medically usable when the time comes, I want it donated.”
I shook my head immediately.
“I can’t talk about this.”
“You don’t have to decide.”
“I’m your wife.”
“Exactly. Which is why I don’t want doctors asking you to guess what I would have wanted while you’re grieving.”
He pointed to the computer.
“I’m telling you now.”
I began crying.
Marcus stood, slowly because his legs had already become unreliable.
Then he wrapped both arms around me.
I pressed my face against his chest.
“I need you here,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to teach her how to ride a bike.”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to scare her first boyfriend.”
“I was planning to be extremely unreasonable.”
I laughed through my tears.
Then I hit his chest lightly.
“This isn’t funny.”
“No.”
His voice cracked.
“It isn’t.”
That was when I realized he was crying too.
