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Chapter 18: Unravel
Death arrived from another direction first, catching them
unprepared.
Ifa’s father died during an afternoon nap. No warning. No
illness. One moment alive, the next unreachable. There was no buildup, no
chance to rehearse grief. It entered their lives like a sudden shift in
gravity—disorienting, absolute. Reza held Ifa through nights that felt unreal,
when sleep came only in fragments and mornings felt heavier than the last. He
stood beside her through rituals that blurred together—condolences repeated,
prayers spoken by others, days measured by obligation rather than meaning.
Together, they learned how fragile “normal” truly was, how easily a life could
slip out of reach.
Years passed, and life reassembled itself around the
absence.
Four years later, loss returned—this time slower, crueler.
Reza’s father complained of stomach discomfort that was dismissed too quickly,
misdiagnosed, treated as minor until it was no longer manageable. Complications
multiplied in the hospital, each one stealing ground, until his body could no
longer keep up. This grief landed differently. It carried anger. Questions with
no use anymore. Almost simultaneously, Reza’s mother’s health began to
deteriorate, each update another small erosion of certainty. The world felt
less reliable now, its edges less forgiving.
In response, Reza turned toward care.
Health became his daily practice—not out of fear, but
devotion. Every year, without exception, he booked his annual health check
weeks ahead of schedule. He brought Ifa along for everything else: long walks
around the park that stretched longer than planned, weekend cycling routes
mapped and remapped for pleasure rather than endurance. They moved together,
not to outrun anything, but to remain present inside their bodies. Health, to
them, was shared time. Movement was conversation. Prevention felt like gratitude.
They trusted routine. It had never betrayed them.
Until it did.
It began as discomfort.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing urgent. A dull, persistent ache in Reza’s abdomen
that came and went. He mentioned it casually, almost apologetically, like
someone mildly inconvenienced by his own body.
“Probably something I ate,” he said, waving it away.
His yearly health check flagged something small. One
measurement—just one—was one percent off the usual range.
“Probably nothing,” the doctor echoed, kindly, confidently.
But Reza had always been thorough. He had watched enough
data over the years to know when something strayed from pattern. He asked for
deeper tests, more clarity. Ifa accompanied him, notebook in hand, questions
prepared but unasked unless needed. She trusted his instincts. He trusted her
steadiness.
The results came back slower this time.
Cancer cells, they said. Along the lining of his intestines.
The word cancer entered their vocabulary without
ceremony. No raised voices. No collapse. It settled between them like an object
placed gently but irrevocably on the table. They asked questions. Took notes.
Discussed options calmly, as they always had.
Surgery was recommended.
They agreed.
The operation was successful. The doctors were optimistic.
Margins were clean. They used words like encouraging and promising.
Reza healed quickly, walking hospital corridors with quiet determination, his
IV pole trailing behind him. Ifa counted his steps, marked progress in small
victories. For a while, they exhaled.
Then came the next checkup.
Something else appeared. Cells that didn’t belong. Patterns
that suggested persistence rather than resolution.
Stage 3 colon cancer.
The room felt smaller. The air heavier. They held hands—not
tightly, not desperately. Just enough to remind each other they were still
here.
Chemotherapy was discussed.
They listened. Carefully. Respectfully.
Later, at home, they talked.
“I’ve seen what it does,” Reza said quietly. “How it takes
more than it gives.”
Ifa nodded. She had seen it too—how treatment could stretch
suffering without guaranteeing time.
“This isn’t about fear,” she said. “It’s about how we want
to live.”
They decided against chemotherapy.
Not because they rejected medicine. Not because they denied
reality. But because they chose presence over prolongation. Quality over
quantity. Agency over fear.
And then—unexpectedly—they survived.
Three years passed.
Three years filled with intention. More trips taken without
postponement. More laughter allowed to linger. More plans made without
hesitation. They cycled further, camped longer, loved harder. Cancer
existed—but it didn’t own their days.
Until the fourth year.
The change in Reza was sudden.
Fevers arrived without warning. Nights soaked in sweat. Pain
that bent him forward, stealing breath. One evening, the pain sharpened into
something undeniable, something that refused to be endured quietly.
A&E.
Hospitalization.
Scans.
This time, the diagnosis came without cushioning.
Stage 4.
Colon cancer, now joined by pancreatic cancer.
Aggressive. Advanced.
One year, they said. Maybe less.
The timing felt cruel. Almost simultaneously, Reza’s mother’s health continued to deteriorate, each update another reminder of how much could be lost at once. And then, before the weight of one diagnosis could even settle, she was gone. No pause. No space to brace themselves. Grief stacked upon grief, collapsing inward, unprocessed and unnamed. They went home quieter than before, carrying losses that had not yet found their shape.
They didn’t cry immediately. Shock has its own stillness. Yet even in that stillness, there was no break for mourning—no moment where sorrow could arrive gently. It simply existed, heavy and constant, breathing alongside them.
They made tea.
They sat.
They talked—not about miracles or bargaining, but about how
to remain themselves inside what was coming. About care. About dignity. About
love that did not need more time to be complete.
Always calmly.
Always together.
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