Mark grew weaker much faster than we expected.
By my eighth month, I was helping him button his shirts and pretending not to notice when he had to stop halfway to the bathroom just to catch his breath.
A few weeks before he d*ed, Mark began asking to speak to his doctor alone.
I never understood why.
Whenever I asked what they discussed, he would only squeeze my hand and say,
“There’s something I need to arrange.
Please trust me.”
It was unlike him to keep anything from me, especially then.
But he was strangely firm about it.
So I let him do it.
He passed in the hospital with my hand wrapped around his.
Afterward, I signed the final donation papers with tears dripping onto the page.
I remembered that Mark wanted this.
I had to honor his final wish, even though doing so caused me unbearable pain.
