When I left the hospital, I was a shriveled remnant of what I had been mere weeks before. I walked with a cane, hunched over it, desperately using it as a support while I wheezed for breath to sustain me. That walking stick became my permanent companion. Each waking minute became a hacking, bile spitting nightmare. There was little that I could do to ease the pain.

Christine became my comfort. When my self-confidence had ebbed; when I was little more than a shell of my former self- my body a roadmap of scars and needle marks; when I was ready to pack it in, she was there to provide her warmth and love that made my days bearable.

My usefulness, as far as our layout and design company, was waning. It was an effort for me to just to get out of bed and take a shower. Occasionally I felt well enough to sit at the computer and do a day of work, but other times I scarcely had the energy to eat.

Months dragged by as I held tenuously to some form of functionality. Christine stayed by me, though it must have been sheer torture for her to see me reduced to such a state. She held together remarkably well, keeping a brave face in what must have, eventually, became clear to be a hopeless situation. Though I had fervently prayed that I would recover, I soon came to the realization that my time was coming to a close.

The infection in my lungs took hold and no medicine seemed to be able to make a dent in it. My doctors ordered me back into the hospital. They began pumping me with the strongest antibiotics known to man, but nothing could clear out my respiratory system. The pain had sapped my body of all its strength. I had nothing left to fight with; no energy, my willpower was drained. They put me on a morphine drip, and fed me intravenously.

I looked like a walking cadaver. Even at the top of my form, my body retained no fat. You could see every fiber of my muscle as it rolled beneath the skin. Now my body had eaten away my muscle, scavenged it for nutrition. My body had always had difficulties breaking down food, now it had almost given up on the task and was looking to its own flesh for sustenance. Every bone in my ribcage was outlined in sharp relief, slack skin sagging over the protrusions. My face was hollow; dark rims around my eyes and sunken cheeks without color.

My lungs were filled with infection, but I didnít have the strength to hack out the phlegm. The pick line implanted in my chest wasnít always sufficient, and they punched extra intravenous lines into my arms. Looking like some cyberpunk computer jockey that had been chained to his computer for far too long, I let them load me up with painkillers. The pain was so intense that the drugs didnít make me high; all they did was take the edge off. Short of overdosing me, it wasnít possible for them to load me up with enough drugs to make me oblivious.

Christine stayed by my side for the majority of my hospital visit, sometimes sleeping in a chair beside me.

"Iím sorry," I told her.

She caressed my hair. "What are you sorry for?"

"To put you through all this," I said. "You could have easily married someone else. Someone you could have lived a long life with"

"Yes, maybe. But Iím in love with you, and better to have you for a few years than none at all."

This gratified me to hear her say, but all I had offered was my love. In return, she had offered me redemption from the past; a new beginning and a reason to be a better man. I had certainly gotten the better end of the bargain, but my time with her had been all too short, and I wished for centuries longer to bask in her beauty and the beauty that she created. Not only were her creations works of art, but our very interaction transcended anything I had experienced before and I had felt warm and secure in our love.

My grandfather spent much time at my side.

"Grandfather," I said. "Before I go, I want you to know how much I appreciate all that you and Grandma have done for me. Iíve been a pain in the ass, and havenít always shown that I was grateful, but I want you to know that I never would have made it this far without you."

My Grandfather could go on at length about spiritual matters, and speak with much passion; but aside from his religion he had great difficulty expressing emotion. I could see a tear welling in the corner of his eye and he quickly brushed it away.

"You donít need to tell me. I know that youíre grateful," he said brusquely. "Youíve done a good job showing it this last couple years. Youíve been less of a pain in the ass."

I laughed, though it was painful for me. "I finally realized that I didnít know everythingÖalmost everything, but not everything."

Grandfather patted me on a leg that had shrunken down to the size of a small womanís arm. "Itís good having you for a grandson."

Though we had made our peace, he could not accept that his grandson was going to pass from this life before he. Constantly, he urged me to fight against the infection that wracked my body. But I had fought and I had fought, and my struggles were growing