I knew Chloe was sick when we met. I knew she had a rare autoimmune disease, and I knew there were hospital visits, treatments, medications, and days when she could barely get out of bed. What I didn’t understand was how bad it really was. We were 27 when we met during a hot summer in Minneapolis, and at that age, I honestly believed people like us didn’t die. Not yet, not people who still had plans, and certainly not people who laughed too loudly, made stupid jokes, and argued over what to order for dinner. At least, not in my world.
Chloe had a way of making me believe that too. She joked about hospital gowns, named her IV pole Barney, and whenever nurses asked her to rate her pain from one to ten, she’d look them straight in the eye and ask, “Emotionally or physically?” Three weeks into dating, I accidentally typed “Clover” instead of “Chloe” in a text message, and she never let me forget it.
