The weight of love
It had been so long since I brewed a cuppa that I needed to refer to the coffee machine’s instruction manual.
I don’t drink coffee. But my boyfriend did and he was back.
YY had moved to Shanghai about a year ago to work for a Chinese start-up. We hadn’t seen each other since I visited him six months ago.
The smell of coffee woke YY up. He looked at his phone and ducked under the covers.
It had been a rough couple of days for him. He came back so that he could accompany me to get a second opinion from Dr C. I had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
I was fine when we last saw each other in Shanghai. So all of this must have been a rude shock for him.
The night before, when we were in bed, I turned over and saw that he was looking at me.
There were tears in his eyes.
I started crying.
I thought I had already processed the reality of it all but I realised I hadn’t really allowed myself to feel sad.
I had told only a handful of people, mostly family, about my diagnosis at that time. And they had all taken the news harder than me.
I had to be the cool one, calling them out for being in denial. I had to be the rational one, reminding them that a Parkinson’s disease diagnosis is not the end of the world — it is by far the most manageable neurological condition. I had to be the optimistic one — to lighten their hearts by informing them that the rate in which the disease progresses differs from individual to individual. And, hey, at a sufficiently slow rate, doesn’t it already go by the name of ageing?
So I didn’t really have the time to feel scared, depressed or sorry for myself.
Until I saw the emotions reflected on YY’s face.
He pulled me into an embrace and we wept silently into the night.
YY eventually joined me at the kitchen. Toast was also ready by then.
We made small talk as we dug in.
When we were done with breakfast, I decided it was time to launch into my spiel: “You know this is going to be worse, right? It’s not going to be pretty. “
He took a long sip of his coffee before he said, “Tell me more. Tell me what will happen.”
I showed him two clips of what the symptoms would look like in later stages. He actually looked a bit relieved.
He said, “It doesn’t look too bad.”
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and continued: “But you didn’t sign up for it.”
He grew silent. I could hear him wondering where I was going with this.
I took a deep breath. Here it goes:
“You don’t have to stick with me. We are free agents. We can still make choices that make sense for our lives. I’m telling you now — you can leave anytime because… That’s the only way we can move forward as equals in this relationship.”
It was an offer I thought that I wouldn’t be able to make one or two years down the road. I’d be too scared to be alone.
I don’t know if he was insulted but he said a little bit coldly, “Okay, let me think about it.”
I excused myself to go to the bathroom, where I bawled like a baby.
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