Roi thinks he's dying. This is not the first time.
There was the time his heart was skipping a beat, or adding a beat, I forget which, and he ruminated endlessly over his impending death. He got scared, he gripped my hand in the dark of the car as I drove him to the ER and told me he loved me.
Then he found out he was fine, just fine. A little heart irregularity that a little pill could smooth out.
A day later he treated me like dirt. Sat eating with his back to me.
He doesn't remember this.
Then there was the time...oh, never mind.
Today he thinks he has cancer. He's got a couple of weird symptoms that don't really match any cancer symptoms I can find on the big wide Google, and yet he's convinced himself.
It's not that I'm not concerned. It's just that he's bouncing from "woe is me", to gripping me in the dark telling me he loves me and he's so sorry for what he's done.
This would be tragically romantic if I hadn't already lived this moment with him a couple of times already only to find out he's fine, not even sick at all, healthy as a goddamned horse. And that in itself would be good news except that once he finds out he's not sick he instantly reverts back to being a wanker. A healthy wanker.
And I'm trying to figure out what to do with this. You know?
I'm being cheery, caring, and gently soothing his fears with rational facts about what this could be and what it isn't likely to be. It's a little taxing, but it's coming naturally. That isn't the problem. Nor is the problem the possibility that he's really sick and maybe, possibly, he's right and could die soon. That would be sad, but when I think of the potential grieving I see an end - a relief.
Death is solid. There's no wondering. It's done. Finis.
It's the idea of him finding out he's fine and how he'll behave then. Going back to the push and pull that always keeps me, US, on edge.
I do hope he's fine. But I would be lying if I didn't also say that I hope all of the realizations he's having right now stick this time.