In December, ten months after we’d met, he proposed.
As he got down on one knee, I cried and asked if he was sure – if we went ahead, he’d be a widower before he was 30.
I could die following a seizure, or he might have to take care of me until the bitter end. But he said that he’d rather be married to me for a few years than not at all.‘When we got together, I worried about what our families would think.
When he messaged me just minutes later, I felt a flush of excitement, then remembered it couldn’t go anywhere.Dying people didn’t date, so part of me did feel guilty as I replied, but just being “normal” again was so lovely that I couldn’t help myself.‘Soon we were talking constantly, but when he texted to suggest meeting up, I felt scared.Sitting in the consultant’s office the following week, my parents wept as I was given three years to live, but I just felt stunned.I was only in my twenties, yet I was already a manager at a designer outlet and I was incredibly ambitious.He replied a minute later, saying he still wanted to meet me.‘Heading to meet him at a pub, I was still sceptical.
I brought up my illness, in case he felt uncomfortable.I hate the idea of him becoming my carer, and it terrifies me that I might not be “myself” at the end. It’s not about a dress or a big party, it’s about making memories for Andy and making a commitment to each other.From years of writing about chronic pain and illness, I’ve learned that young people carry several extra burdens, especially when their disability is invisible (as is more often the case than not).No matter what their diagnosis, they're continually told that they can’t possibly be in chronic pain at their age.Imagine how hard it must be to respond skillfully to a comment like that.Plus, while I’d had a four-year relationship in the past, we weren’t right for each other.