Mary's Fan Fiction

Dying isn’t hard Hazel Grace, nor is it easy. It just is.

They say that in some cases when you leave this world, your brain is still active for seven minutes. Turns out it’s true, and I get my seven minutes. I don’t know if you can hear me or sense me, now that I am gone. But if you can, listen. There are so many things left unsaid between us, things we didn’t get to indulge in before I departed. I may be a self-aggrandising bastard who contemplates the metaphorical resonance of everything, but I choose to spend these last few minutes thinking of you, us and what little time we did have together.

Where I am is devoid of anything really. I cannot see, taste or smell, which in a way is pleasant because I no longer have to worry about my defective body. All that is left is a glimmer of consciousness. I hope wherever you are, you are able to sleep. Sleep fights cancer, and I want more days for you than you will inevitably get.

Months ago, when you were in the ICU I really thought you were going to die. For just one moment I was a good enough person to hope that you died before me so I didn’t have to tell you I was sick too. But then I wanted more days and nights with you so we could fall in love. I got what I wanted,and yet my selfishness has resulted in you being hurt by my leaving.

I don’t believe in Heaven, but I do believe in Something with a capital “S”. I believe the universe is improbably biased towards consciousness and rewards it’s observers (us) with some kind of everlasting soul. So if I am right, this may not be the end for us.

I recall the day we met in support group. You had an ugly yellow t-shirt on with jeans that sagged in all the wrong places, but that didn’t stop me seeing your remarkable face; you were beautiful without being ostentatious. But it wasn’t your beauty that made me fall in love with you; it was the way you did things. I fell in love with the way your eyes groaned with exhaustion yet you still took the stairs rather than the elevator, the way your eyes met mine with kindness and determination. And your voice as you read poetry to me, rising and falling while lulling me into a daydream. I fell in love with the way your hand grasped my little finger as your lips stole the end of my sentences.

Thinking back, I remember a beautiful time before you knew I was sick. In Amsterdam we drank champagne, tasting stars, as the petals from the elm trees blew around us in a spring snow storm. It felt unreal, and in a way it was. We were still pretending that you weren’t sick and that this would not end in oblivion. I do not think it is wise to put off grief Hazel; it will come back and hurt you regardless. Pain demands to be felt.

I feel that the end is drawing close; my seven minutes are nearly up. I still don’t know if you can hear me or if this is all in my head. A great writer once said, “Of course this is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” I can only hope that what they said is true. I am no longer suffering from personhood, and for that I am grateful. But that does not mean I would take back any of our time together and how I wished we had gotten more. All the pain I endured was worth it because I got to have you by my side. Through my life I have discovered that things that come at little emotional cost are not worth as much, and if something comes at great emotional cost it is invariably charged with appreciation. Therefore I accept all the pain you and I have had to go through in exchange for the happiness you gave me. It may have hurt, but it hurt because it mattered.

What separates you from most people Hazel is that you are the one person who doesn’t feel like they need to leave their mark on the world, bequeath a legacy. I admit even I wanted to outlast death. But you walk lightly upon the earth, gracefully without hurting anyone. The marks we leave are often scars and we are just as likely to hinder the universe as to help it.

I may never be able to sleep by your side again, but I go into the dark knowing that I once watched your eyelashes flutter as you woke to the brilliance of the day. My time was not perfect but it was enough for me. It was seeing your breath curling like smoke in the winter air, the shiver of your skin under my hands and the words that you weaved around me that made my existence extraordinary.

It is a good life Hazel Grace.