While Heather was fighting for her life, in some ways I was fighting to be a part of her life. I had been asking Heather all along if I could come to the west coast and be with her. During my visit in early 2006, she finally acquiesced. She laid next to me on her bed, propped up on one elbow as she spoke.
“But before you come out I need you to understand, if I….I don’t know how long I have. And if things..if things get to the point where the pain or the nausea is too bad, I’m going to take my own life. And I need to know the people closest to me aren’t going to oppose me.” I nodded, and she kissed the tear that was running down my cheek.
And then we had sex and didn’t talk about it anymore. Because when you’re having hot sex, you don’t stop to talk about assisted suicide. You just have hot sex.
A friend once asked me if it was the decision to move to be with Heather was a hard one.
Nope. Deciding wasn’t hard at all. I mean, if someone you really really love almost dies, and then doesn’t die, and might– and then might not– live for a while longer…and you live 3000 miles apart? And they have logistical needs than can be partially met by someone with your skillset and mindset and also heartset. What other possible choice is there?
It wasn’t a hard choice. It was a joyous one.
Actually living out that decision, okay, yeah a little tough. But making the decision was as simple “hell yes!”