Page 61 of Better as It

This life?

It’s mine.

And I’m not letting go.

EIGHTEEN

DIA

"A mother bear's love knows no bounds; nurture your passions with the same intensity." — Unknown

I goto every treatment with him now.

I sit beside Justin in a too-cold infusion room that smells like antiseptic and defeat, my hand wrapped around his while poison drips into his veins.

He always jokes about the chairs, says they’re the most uncomfortable recliners ever made and that the nurses here could probably win bar fights with one hand tied behind their backs. He calls his favorite one “Chainsaw Suzie” because of how fast she rips the tape off his skin when unhooking the IV. It’s like she wants to cut him with tape.

But the truth?

There’s nothing funny about watching someone you love get sicker before they get better.

The treatments make him pale. The nausea comes in waves. Some days his hands shake so hard he can’t hold a fork.

So I cook.

God, do I cook.

Anything I can find online that boosts white blood cells, helps fight fatigue, keeps him steady. Chicken broth with turmeric. Mashed sweet potatoes with Greek yogurt and flax. Smoothies with spinach, ginger, and almond butter, even though he gags halfway through every single one.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he groans the first time I hand him a green one.

I deadpan. “Only your taste buds. Your immune system will thank me.”

He drinks it anyway. Gags dramatically. But he drinks.

That’s the thing about Justin.

He fights, even when it hurts.

Especially then.

We shave his head together.

He comes home one afternoon, looking at me with that quiet resignation that makes my heart crack. “It’s falling out worse than before. It’s time.” he says simply.

I nod.

We sit in the bathroom. He leans over the tub. I buzz the clippers to life.

Neither of us says much while I do it.

But his hand rests over mine the whole time.

When I finish, I smooth my fingers over the bare skin.

He looks in the mirror.

Says, “Damn. I look even meaner now.”

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