I Am Disappearing

He said it out of the blue. We were at home, probably about a month before he walked out of the house that fateful night in January 2019. I was gazing into the refrigerator trying to decide what to make for lunch. He had become quite a fussy eater over the duration of his disease, and I was lucky that he at least liked grilled cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, items that were super easy for me to make. He was funny; he would get stuck on something and then that would be all he wanted. Like Chili’s baked potato soup. He loved that soup. We got to know many of the servers at our local Chili’s, and sometimes when they saw us, they’d already have a bowl hot and ready for him when we were seated.

Standing in front of the refrigerator, I was contemplating forgetting the cheese or peanut butter sandwich and hopping into the car instead for Chili’s. Jim may have been stuck on his baked potato soup, but I had the luxury of choosing anything I wanted, and right now that sounded inviting. And then he threw me a curve.

“I am disappearing.”

He had come up behind me and said it matter-of-factly, but I instantly knew the magnitude of his words – and each one ran a separate knife through my heart. Through my soul. He said it again.

“I am disappearing.”

I thought I might explode into tears. I quickly took his hands. “You are not disappearing. Not to me … not ever to me.” I hugged him hard, right in the doorway of the refrigerator. Despite my wishes, the tears were building up behind my eyes, and I quickly moved back and closed the refrigerator. “Hey,” I said, turning, “let’s go to Chili’s for lunch. How ‘bout that? I’ll go grab my purse.”

We did, and he downed two bowls of potato soup. But I, I couldn’t eat anything.