“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 nb 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.”
