It’s natural, when faced with your own mortality, to question why. Why me? Why? One innocuous word, three letters. Worth a measly score of twelve points on a Scrabble board.

I wasn’t raised religious. I’ve stepped foot in a church once, after my diagnosis, curious to see what one looked like. It wasn’t that impressive. I’d been expecting stonemasonry and stained-glass windows. I got wooden bench seats and a bulletin board with a handwritten notice saying Terry the Budgie was missing—had anyone seen him? Any spiritual insights I’d been hoping for were not forthcoming. I left disappointed, but reaffirmed in my belief that what was happening to me was through no lack of belief on my part.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why. What did I do to deserve it? Why me and not the girl who lived in the flat next door to mine? She seemed a friendly-enough sort; we waved to each other in the driveway and once I fed her cat for her when she went away to Fiji for a week. Why not her? Not that I would wish it on anyone else, because I wouldn’t do that even if I hated someone.

But who picks? Or is it just some great, big, universal random lottery draw?

I roll over in bed and pull the rough hospital sheet up over my head, like I did when I was small and scared of the dark. I’m still scared of the dark. Perpetually. Only now it’s an endlessly dark tunnel that looms before me. Infinite darkness.

“I’m tired,” I mumble.

“OK, love.” Mum’s voice is tight, strained. This is hard on her, on them both. “You sleep. We’ll pop home and shower and be back later. Do you need anything?”

“No.”

Blink.

When I wake it is with a cry. Disorientated, I was dreaming that I was swimming in the ocean. Pleasant at first, but then I noticed the shore getting further and further away as I drifted out. No matter how hard I swam I couldn’t get back in, until the land was just a tiny sliver of green in the distance. I could sense the incredible depth of the water beneath me, the vast open space of nothing but waves around me. I was nothing, a speck, insignificant. Slipping under.

“No!” I flail in the bed; the sheet is still over my head and I can’t breathe.

“Hey, it’s OK. I’m here.” The sheet is ripped off and arms slip around me, pulling me in. A voice makes a shushing sound in my ear. It is soothing like the sound of rain and I feel myself start to calm.

“James?”

“Yes. It’s me. I’m so sorry I took so long. I came as quickly as I could.”

“Who called you?”

“Amanda.”

“She shouldn’t have.”

“I’m glad she did.”

“You were working and this is all a fuss about nothing. I’m OK.”

I say it as much for my benefit as his.

“Of course. I know you are.” His voice lacks the conviction of his words. “But I’m still grateful she called.”