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It was an intimate departure. She held my hand all the way down the hall from my room, squeezing hard as we stopped before the operating room door. My heart was jumping out of my chest with wanting her to stay with me. I wasn’t scared, I just wanted her to be there. To share this with me just like the pills and the creams and the injections that had paved the way to this moment.
Okay, I was a little scared. I was worried that if she wasn’t there with me at each step, the person she found when she caught up with me again wouldn’t be who she remembered.
“I love you,” she whispered, squeezing my hand again. “I’ll be waiting right out here the whole time, babe.”
“I love you too,” I told her loudly. Probably the drugs were kicking in, because the words sounded sluggish and muddled even to me. In glorious slow motion I felt her kiss me, felt the curves she had in all the right places against my all wrong ones — but that was about to change.
Our lips and hands parted, and the nurses wheeled me away.