A Field Full of Tulips

I was five when I first noticed it. We visited a hospital to see my neighbor Mrs. Johnson, the trusted adult who babysat every kid including me. We’d always messed with her in an affectionate way but we stopped a few months back since she was dying. The moment I walked into her cancer ward it hit me. A repugnant smell slapped me in the face before I could get past the receptionist’s desk. It was worse than rotting eggs, it was like decay, rotting fruit that had been left outside for days.

“It smells bad, I want to leave,” I protested. My mother, however, would not stand for my disobedience. She dragged me by the arm straight into Mrs. Johnson’s room to pay my respects. I wish I could say I gave her the goodbye she deserved, but I could only focus on the smell, desperate to remove myself from the room and feel some sort of relief.

***

I was sixteen when I learned to be more empathetic. On a random Tuesday we were ditching school when my best friend told me his mom, Mrs. Brown, was diagnosed with breast cancer. He looked so scared, a boy stripped of the confident bravado all sixteen-year olds wear. After school officially let out we went back to his home hoping it wasn’t obvious that we had missed the day’s lessons. When I hugged his mother hello, I was reminded of the same smell that radiated from Mrs. Johnson. Eleven years of maturity meant I didn’t recoil at her touch. I breathed in through my mouth and out through my nose, no longer paying attention to the words coming from her mouth. Lost in my thoughts, I wondered: Is it possible that I could smell cancer? Mrs. Brown smelled almost as bad as Mrs. Johnson, who had spent the last month of her life in the hospital. How could my friend’s mom still move around independently?

Mrs. Brown died three months later.

***

I was eighteen when I finally honed this ability. I spent the summer before college working at an oncology center. In hindsight, this was a terrible idea; some days I could barely stand the smell, while others were almost bearable. My first day confirmed I could smell cancer on people. Over the remaining weeks of my internship, I conducted different tests to figure out what it meant. I learned that the worse a person smelled, the more advanced the cancer had become. There was the Japanese man with the kindest eyes filled with life, but he smelled worse than Mrs. Johnson and died in my third week. Then there was the five-year-old who came to his treatments in a Buzz Lightyear costume. He didn’t smell too bad just musty, like someone who had been outside all day in the hot sun without deodorant. I silently rooted for him, figuring he still had a chance since his smell kept receding over the summer. I cried with the rest of the ward when he got to ring the bell to celebrate being cancer-free. After twelve weeks, I finally began to understand my ability, getting better at predicting a person's cancer stage and how much time they realistically had left.

***

I was twenty when I saw her for the first time, Sade. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, a TA in the beginner art class I took only to boost my GPA. Her braids were wrapped in a bun out of her face, I would later learn she hated her hair in her face because it disrupted her focus. Her skin was the shade of midnight and her eyes were a river of brown I wanted to drown in. But it was her laugh, light, warm, and open that drew me to her. Of course, I made a fool of myself the first few times I tried to talk to her but eventually it worked, I think she saw my stupidity as a charming quality. We talked all through class, even though I was supposed to be paying attention and she was supposed to be assisting the professor. After a few embarrassing attempts, we finally had our first date. I wanted to take her to my favorite kebab stand a few blocks away from campus. But of course, the one day I needed him to be there, the grumpy old man who runs the place decided he wanted to go home early.

“I have an idea,” Sade said. “Let’s have ice cream for dinner so I can show you one of my favorite places on earth.” Since I had nothing better to offer, I let her lead the way. We walked through the city talking about nothing in particular, weaving between embarrassing childhood stories and our hopes for the future. All of a sudden she stopped and disappeared in between two tall structures. I blinked quickly thinking she had disappeared but then I saw the small gap she slipped through and quickly followed her. My senses were immediately overwhelmed with what I saw. Tulips. Lots of them in all different colors. Once my senses calmed down, I saw Sade sitting on a nearby bench, beaming at me and holding her arms out for me to join her.

“I found this place during my first year,” she said. “I was feeling homesick and I just needed someplace that wasn’t covered in concrete.”

“And then you found this,” I said.

“And then I found this,” she replied.

We sat in silence, her staring at the tulips, me unable to take my eyes off of her, afraid that the moment I did she would disappear forever.

***

I was twenty-five when I married her. We were on the California coast, overlooking the ocean with waves crashing on the cliff below. I could feel the chill of the ocean air in my bones, but in that moment, as I held Sade's hands while she stared across at me, it didn't matter. There weren't many people there, just us and a few of our closest friends. We timed it perfectly so the moment we said "I do," the sky would be that perfect sunset orange. Or rather, she timed it perfectly. This was all Sade's idea, her dream of getting married in front of a canvas.

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

"I do," Sade said softly, with assurance.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

"I do." I had never been so sure of anything in my entire life.

***

I was twenty-eight when I started noticing the smell. It was so faint, I could have easily missed it. Was it sweat after a workout? The trash I forgot to take out? Or maybe she just forgot to put on deodorant? Maybe. Just maybe. I was losing my mind, trying to figure out if the smell meant what it always did. One day my nose was buried in her hair, searching for something that would never come, but the next, as she walked past me, only her perfume lingered.

***

I was twenty-nine when I started to relax. It was all in my head, or at least that’s what I told myself. We were living our life together. She was now a full-time professional artist. Sade had done a painting in honor of our wedding day, capturing the breathtaking sunset, the crashing waves, and the picturesque sky. The painting had officially launched her career, selling for a high five-figure price. We were walking down the street, looking for a place to celebrate. Most of the restaurants we passed were closing, but we didn’t care. We were laughing and running, chasing each other down the street, when she suddenly stopped and collapsed.

The world slowed as I watched her crumple to the ground, shattering once her body was splayed across the pavement. I blinked slowly and heard a guttural scream coming from somewhere—it wasn’t until later I realized it was me. A woman ran out of a closed shop with her phone in hand. Assuming she was calling for help, I fell to my knees beside Sade, watching her figure convulse. I held her close, saying words I didn’t believe. “Don’t worry, help is coming, they will be here soon.” “Everything will be fine.”

After what felt like an eternity, the ambulance finally came. They carried her limp body into the back, but they wouldn’t let me go with them. The woman who called for help offered to drive me to the hospital, taking my silence as agreement. I couldn’t focus on the road as she drove. Luckily, she didn't force a conversation, allowing us to ride in silence. I focused instead on the blurry images of our surroundings, speeding past as I thought about everything that had brought us to this moment. What had I missed?

I jumped out of the car not bothering to say goodbye or thank you for her act of kindness. I shouted Sade’s name at the receptionist behind the desk.

“Sir we can’t let you go back in there for now. She is still being treated.” 

“Please just let me see her for just 5 minutes. I need to make sure she’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry but we can’t allow that just yet, please take a seat and when the doctor is ready they’ll come outside and give you an -” 

I slammed my hand on the table not letting her finish and I went to sit back down on the chairs they had set to the side. I put my head in my hands waiting, hoping to pass the time. The woman who called for help appeared at some point during my waiting. 

“You don’t have to say anything but I figured you shouldn’t be alone while you wait. I was in this position a few years ago with my husband.” So we waited together as the emergency room thinned out late into the night.

After an eternity, a doctor appeared, speaking to the receptionist, who pointed to the corner where I was waiting. The doctor walked toward me, and I shot straight up, meeting her halfway. Before I could say a word, she said, “She’s fine for now, and she’s doing well.” I released a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“What happened?”

“Her lungs collapsed which is why she was struggling to breathe. By the time the paramedics saw her she could barely get air in and out of her lungs.”

“Okay but you fixed it right?” 

“Yes, luckily we diagnosed the issue quickly and got her into surgery immediately to drain the air that was trapped in her lungs.” I sighed again taking in all this overwhelming information but the doctor wasn’t finished yet. 

“This sent up some red flags for me,” the doctor said. “Looking at her medical history, she’s healthy, and there was nothing visibly wrong with her. Tomorrow, after she has had some time to rest and recover, I want to run a series of tests. We won’t know the results for a few days, but I want to understand why her lungs collapsed in the first place.”

“Okay, but can I see her now?” I asked. “Can I stay and be here with her while she takes her tests?”

“Yes, of course. Right this way,” she replied.

I followed her down a long hallway to the room where they were keeping Sade. “Please, take your time. I told the nurses to allow you to stay with her for the night,” the doctor said. With that, she left me alone in the doorway. I took a deep breath to center myself before walking into the dull room. What would she look like? Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the door slowly and peeked around the corner. Sade looked so small. She was asleep on the hospital bed, tubes sticking out of her arms and plugged into machines that radiated a soft hum and an occasional beep. She looked so peaceful, as if she were both here and not here at the same time. The last time I saw her face, it was contorted in pain, but now she looked so serene and at peace. To the side of the bed, a couch had a pillow and a blanket, perhaps left by a nurse for me. I walked to Sade’s bed, kissed her forehead, and then lay down on the couch, trying to sleep. 

Morning came quicker than I expected. I was next to the window, and the sun hit me dead in the face, blinding me as I moved my arms around, trying to get my bearings. I heard a laugh, and as I looked over the side of my makeshift bed, I saw Sade laughing at me. “Good morning to you, too,” she said.

“You’re awake,” I said. I walked over to her bedside and took her hand in mine. “How do you feel?”

“A little sore,” she replied. “Do you know what happened?”

“Yeah, I talked to the doctor last night,” I said. “She said your lungs collapsed and they had to rush you into surgery to seal the air hole.”

“That explains why I felt like I couldn’t breathe and my chest was hurting,” she said.

“Did you feel anything beforehand? Or during the day while we were at the art gallery?” I asked.

“No, I felt fine leading up to it,” she said. “I think my heart was beating really fast, but I assumed that was just the nerves, you know? From the big day.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” I said. “The doctor said she wants you to take a bunch of tests today so they can figure out why your lungs collapsed.”

“Ugh, that makes sense, but I want to go home,” she said. “You know I hate hospitals, everything just feels so sad.”

“Let me see if I can find a nurse,” I said. “Hopefully, if we run all these tests quickly, we can go home?”

“I’ll be here,” she replied, “like I have any choice.” I tried to return Sade’s weak smile.

I quickly found the nurse. After we forced Sade to get some food in her, they started the series of tests the doctor had ordered. It was difficult for me to see her get poked and prodded; it was even worse knowing how much she hated needles. The MRI was arguably the most uncomfortable part of the day. She looked so small as the large white machine swallowed her whole. By the time she finished her tests, it was dinner time. Instead of the nurse who had brought breakfast, it was the doctor we spoke with yesterday who came with the food.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Jun,” she said. “The nurses told me you had a very busy day?”

“Yeah, we did,” Sade replied. “Busy and uneventful. When can I go home? Nobody has been able to give me a straight answer.”

The doctor set the food down on the bedside table. “About that. Since your lungs collapsed pretty much out of nowhere, I don’t feel comfortable sending you home until the tests come back and we have a definitive answer.”

“So I have to stay here?” Sade asked, her voice a little snappy. “Well, when can I leave?”

“Yes, unfortunately, but it will only be for an additional two days, maximum. Your husband is more than welcome to stay with you. I asked them to fast-track your results so they’ll be ready sooner than normal.”

Two extra days. I guess it could be worse, but from the look on Sade’s face, the doctor might as well have said two hundred days. I took this as my cue to jump in. “Thank you for fast-tracking the tests and for letting me stay here with her. If we have any more questions, I’ll ask the nurse,” I said. I quickly ushered the doctor out before Sade could say anything else. I turned back to look at her, seeing her slumped against the back of the bed.

“Two whole days. What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

“Hey, I’ll be here,” I said. “We can catch up on our shows, read, or just talk. Do you want me to call your mom or any of your friends?”

Sade paused. “No, I don’t want to worry them in case it’s nothing, you know? We should at least wait until we get the test results back. Will you please go home? I need so much stuff: my laptop, my books, extra clothes, my skincare routine.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Anything else? I can pick up some dessert for us, too.”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied.

“Okay, I’m going to take a shower, but I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?” she said.

The two days in the hospital went by quickly. There wasn't much else that needed to happen to Sade medically. Besides some coughing fits and a few moments where Sade felt like she couldn’t breathe, everything was fine. We spent most of our time watching Real Housewives on Sade’s computer. At the beginning of the third day in the hospital Dr. Jun came back to visit us. She seemed tense and hesitant. This should have been my first clue that the rest of our lives were about to change. “Hi, is now a good time?” she asked. “Something came back from one of the tests we ran.” I looked at Sade and sat on the side of the bed next to her. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but you have stage 4 breast cancer,” the doctor said. “We took a biopsy from your lungs, and the follow-up immunohistochemistry analysis showed the tumor originated from your breast.”

I don’t remember much from these next few minutes. The words that came out of the doctor’s mouth barely registered in my brain. She sounded far away and muffled, as if she was at the bottom of a pool trying to get my attention at the surface. 

My heart slowed to a dangerous pace. I turned to look at Sade, watching her face as she took in all the doctor was saying. I think Dr. Jun went into more detail around a possible treatment plan, but I stopped listening. How could I have missed this? My summer at the cancer treatment center taught me how to smell stage 4 cancer on a person from a mile away. I had been with and seen Sade for years and the telling, grotesque smell had never followed her. What did I miss? I came back to reality when I heard a choking noise. I realized it was Sade who had finally broken at the doctor’s words. I wrapped my arms around her as sobs moved through her entire body. “I’m sorry, let me give you a moment,” Dr. Jun said.

At these words, Dr. Jun left our room. Sade wouldn’t stop crying, and there was nothing I could say to comfort her. Her tears felt endless, and her breathing became haggard, signaling the beginning of a panic attack. “Hey, hey, breathe slowly,” I said, coaching her. “Come on, inhale, exhale. Slowly. There you go.” I held her face in my hands and began to breathe slowly myself, imitating the pace I needed her to mimic. I softly blew air on her face, hoping the sensation would help calm her down. After what felt like an eternity, Sade went limp and silent in my arms.

“I’m going to die.” Sade said. 

The words hit me, nearly knocking me off my center. “We don’t know that yet,” I tried to keep my voice even, hoping she wouldn't hear my fear, but there was never anything I could hide from her. She held me tighter and smiled. “I think you zoned out,” she said. “The doctor said I have a 15% survival rate and I’ll have to go through rounds of chemotherapy to try and kill the cancer cells. I don’t want to do this.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What was she saying? That she wanted to die? That she wanted to leave me? “Sade, no. What do you mean you don’t want to do this? Fifteen percent is enough. We can try and fight this.”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “I just don’t think I have it in me. The chances are so slim. What’s the point?”

“The point? The point is we get more time together,” I said. “The point is we take the chance, no matter how small, that you live.”

“Please, I don’t want to go through the rollercoaster,” she said. “I don’t want to disappoint you and give you false hope that I’ll live. I don’t know if I will.”

“Can we please not talk about this right now?” I asked. “It’s too fresh. We should sleep on it, hear what else the doctor has to say, and then we can make a decision based on what’s best for us.” I could see Sade wanted to argue more, but she looked so tired.

“Okay,” she agreed. “Let’s sleep on it and talk more about it tomorrow.”

The next day came quicker than I had anticipated. Dr. Jun came back to our room prepared to have a longer discussion. She explained that Sade’s cancer had spread to her lungs faster than normal. The cancer in her breast had likely been growing in severity until it spread, and the tumor began to grow rapidly. It was showing signs of not slowing down, and this would cause her lungs to deteriorate slowly over time.

“Ms. Sade has expressed that she does not want to undergo chemotherapy,” the doctor said. “We want to respect the patient’s wishes, and we assure you that we will do everything we can to make sure you are comfortable.” The rest of the doctor’s sentence lingered in the air: they would make sure she was comfortable as she embraced death. After Dr. Jun left, Sade looked at me with pleading eyes.

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” she asked.

***

I was thirty when Sade became a shell of herself. Seven months ago, she started coughing up blood at least once a week. After that, things only got worse. Five months ago, I quit my job to stay home and take care of her. Two months ago, she had to wear an oxygen tank 24/7. She had lost so much weight and become so frail that most days I was afraid the wind alone would carry her away somewhere I couldn’t take care of her.

By this point, hospital visits had become routine. Today, she had been hospitalized for a few days, and her lungs had collapsed again, this time much worse than the last. Her oxygen tank was the savior that kept her feet firmly planted on this side of existence.

As I was signing some papers, I saw someone who looked strangely familiar. It was the woman who had driven me to the hospital almost a year ago when Sade was first diagnosed. I ran after her and called out.

“Hi, you might not remember, but…” I started.

“I drove you to this hospital a year ago and called the ambulance for your wife,” she said. “I remember. How is she doing?”

“She’s not good,” I said. “She has breast cancer that has spread to her lungs, and it’s getting harder and harder for her to breathe.”

“Oh, young man, I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said. “The smell was strong on her when I approached you two, but I was still optimistic.”

I thought I hadn’t heard her correctly. “Wait, you can smell her?” I asked.

“Yes, I can,” she said. “And I know you can smell cancer on other people, too. Over the years, I’ve learned that people like us have a somewhat similar smell. All that death we can sense lingers and clings to us, desperately trying to fight for a chance of survival. Here, take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.”

I stepped closer to her and breathed deeply. She was right. I could smell cancer on her, but not in the way I could on other people. This smell was softer and wasn’t sticky like it was on others.

“Then why couldn’t I smell the cancer on her as it was developing?” I said. “I could have caught it sooner. I should have been able to give her a higher chance of survival.” Everything I had been carrying over the past year came spilling out against my will. All the blame and guilt I had been keeping locked away finally had a place to be released.

“Oh, dear.” She reached out and held both my hands. “I lost my husband to prostate cancer, and I didn’t smell anything on him for years. I wish I had a good explanation. I think it’s because this is a person we love, someone we are so intimately close with, who we imagine we will spend the rest of eternity with, that we delude ourselves from believing any harm will come to them. We instinctively block out the scent, refusing to believe that they will suffer. I miss my husband every day. I wish I could say it gets easier without him, but it doesn’t. The grief I feel only gets quieter as the constant noise of life starts to drown it.”

I took Sade home after my talk with the shopkeeper. When we arrived, I carried her into our living room and sat her on the couch. I wrapped her in her favorite blanket and turned the AC on high, just how she liked it.

“Can you get me a bowl of ice cream, please?” she asked.

“Of course, one second,” I said. I went into the kitchen and poured her a double helping of cookies and cream. Her appetite wasn’t what it used to be, but she would always devour a bowl of ice cream, no matter how much I gave her.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sade said when I handed her the bowls. “We should go somewhere, get away for a few days.”

“Okay, did you want to do a weekend trip down to the beach?” I asked.

“No, I was thinking of something far away. Let’s go to the Netherlands.” I couldn’t help but laugh at her suggestion. “It’s not funny,” she said as she tried to throw the pillow she was anchoring herself on at me. She almost fell off the couch, but I grabbed her by the wrist and situated her back on the pillow as she continued. “I’m serious. I think we should go.”

“Sade, the Netherlands is a ten-hour flight, and you need hours to recover whenever we go on a road trip,” I argued.

“I know, but I really want to visit Keukenhof,” she insisted.

I laughed again. “What the hell is Keukenhof, and is it really worth all of this?”

At this, she hesitated, fidgeting with the melted ice cream at the bottom of her bowl. “It’s supposed to be the world’s best flower garden for tulips.”

Her words reminded me of our first date in college when she showed me the tulip garden surrounded by all that concrete. She looked up at me and kept going. “I want us to make one last big, happy memory together. I don’t want you to remember me this way, weak, fragile, and barely able to breathe on my own. I want us to have this for each other.”

I understood what she meant. We both knew she didn’t have much time left. She looked up at me, waiting for what I would say. For the first time in a while, I took a closer look at her face and saw how much of her had withered away. Her cheeks, once full, were now hollow, her skin was duller, losing some of the shine and luster she had. But her eyes stayed the same. They were the same pool of brown I had fallen in love with all those years ago by the tulips.

“Okay, fine, but we have to ask your doctors, and-” I couldn’t finish my sentence. Sade threw herself at me and wrapped her skinny arms around my neck.

“Thank you, thank you!” she said. “I promise it’s going to be so much fun and so beautiful. You’ll see.” I laughed as she rambled on, grabbing my phone to show me what the tulips look like during full bloom.

So began my preparation to get us to the Netherlands. None of the doctors fought me when I asked if it was wise for her to travel internationally. I think they all knew she didn’t have much time left, so any little thing we could do to bring her joy was okay. I splurged on first-class tickets, stretching my already maxed-out credit card. In two weeks, we would be off to see the tulips Sade loved so much.

Our travel day came without much commotion. Sade’s coughing fits had subsided, and for the first time in a very long time, she was able to walk on her own for about thirty minutes. I had to hold her and wheel her oxygen tank by my side, but she was walking and laughing and smiling. “I need to get my strength up so I can walk through the tulip fields with you,” she said.

We made it to the airport and through security with ease, Sade’s illness making it easier for us to board quickly. Neither of us had ever flown first class, and we certainly acted like it. Sade was unable to contain herself and giggled the whole time, playing with the seat that laid down flat, bringing it up and down over and over again. We were sitting diagonally from each other, and I laughed every time her face would appear and disappear as she played with her seat like a toy.

“Excuse me, miss, would you like some champagne?” a flight attendant appeared, holding a tray filled with glasses. Sade shot me a mischievous look before she grabbed the glass by the stem and said thank you.

“You’re only allowed to have one, okay?” I called out to her. It was fine to let her enjoy herself a little, since we were on vacation, but it was hard not to think about how it would affect her.

Sade ended up sleeping through half of the flight. The other half she spent terrorizing the flight attendants, trying to score as much free stuff as she could. They were more than happy to entertain her. Against my protests, she got two more glasses of champagne, complimentary skincare products, and a full bathrobe and slipper set that was softer than anything I owned. They also fed us more than enough food, constantly returning to offer Sade more cookies and cream ice cream when they discovered it was her favorite. I loved seeing her so happy and full of energy; it had been so long since she was like this.

The flight attendants waved goodbye to Sade as we were getting off the plane. We quickly made our way through customs and into the car I had booked. Sade’s face was pressed up against the window as our driver took us to our hotel. This was the first time she had ever been out of the country. We had always meant to travel and see the world, but there was never a good time. I got us the nicest hotel my credit card could stretch to. After I told the concierge we were celebrating our wedding anniversary, he upgraded us to a suite. I think Sade, in her wheelchair and with her oxygen tank, also helped our case.

I wheeled Sade through our large suite, zipping through all the rooms and extra space we would never use while she screamed at me to go faster.

Sade woke me up the next morning, excited to finally see the tulip fields. After a rushed shower and throwing on the first clothes we could find, we went down to the lobby to wait for a taxi to Keukenhof.

“I called them ahead to see if it’s wheelchair accessible,” I told her. “They said it would be even enough for you to wheel through the garden.”

“I’m going to walk across the fields, though,” Sade protested.

“It’s okay if you have to use the wheelchair,” I tried to comfort her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I know, but I’ve always imagined that I would walk.” As the car pulled up to pick us up, I added, “Just don’t worry, alright? If you have to use your wheelchair, it's okay.”

After forty minutes, our car slowly made its way up the driveway of the Keukenhof. Sade waited in the car while I went to the kiosk to get our tickets. Once I had them, I went back to get Sade. I convinced her to at least start in her wheelchair, and when we found the tulips, we could walk like she wanted.

This didn’t take long. Once we turned the corner from the entrance, we were surrounded by batches of tulips in all colors of the rainbow, and some in between. I heard Sade gasp and take a deep breath beside me.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said.

I had to admit it really was. The perfectly manicured tulips were arranged uniformly, grouped by color. “I want to walk now,” she said.

I helped Sade slowly get out of her wheelchair and slung the backpack that held her oxygen tank over my shoulders. I hooked her arm around mine to help steady her. “If you get tired, you tell me, okay?” I said. “We can sit down and catch our breath.” Sade nodded, looking determined as we started walking. Slowly at first, but she quickly gained more confidence with each step.

We started at the fountain by the main entrance and walked past the crimson tulips, aimlessly following the path, not caring where it led us. We walked along the river that ran through the garden, pointing out our favorite colors: mustard yellows clumped together, tangerine oranges, and deep violets.

“It’s so beautiful,” Sade sighed. She hadn’t stopped smiling since she saw her first tulips.

We almost made it back to the entrance when Sade started sweating and panting. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how tired I was. I just need…”

“It’s okay,” I said, picking her up bridal-style and carrying her to a nearby bench.

“Does this remind you of something?” I asked Sade as I adjusted the tubes around her nostrils.

She smiled at me. “Of course. Our first date, when we spent the whole day sitting on that bench.”

“Did you think we would ever be here?” I asked.

“Honestly, yes,” she said. I laughed at how right she was. Of course, she had planned our future and all the adventures we would have. “I knew we would be here, however many years it would take. Just you and me, staring at this large field full of tulips. We took a few detours, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Thank you for bringing me here.”

We didn’t last long at Keukenhof after we sat on the bench. Sade lost all the energy she had, and we had to go back to the hotel so she could get some much-needed rest. We spent the last two days of our vacation in the hotel room while Sade rested. To make up for the lack of sightseeing, we ordered everything on the room service menu. If we couldn’t see the Netherlands, then we would at least eat like its people.

On our last day, we headed back to the airport for our flight home. Sade was asleep pretty much all through security and as we boarded the plane. She didn’t have the same energy she had on our flight over. She was quieter, and I had to wake her up a few times so she could eat. During one of our meals, I squeezed next to her, hoping I could coax her into eating a few bites. Her movements were sluggish, and I could see her fighting to keep her eyes open.

“Would you rather sleep until we get home?” I asked her. She nodded slowly. I started to pull myself out of her seat and lower it back down. I grabbed the extra blanket I had and draped it over her body. I turned to return to my seat, but Sade grabbed my hand and said in a soft, quiet voice, “I love you.”

I leaned down and planted a kiss on her clammy forehead. In a voice no louder than hers, I whispered, “I love you, too.” 

***

I was thirty-one when I buried my wife. She never woke up once the plan landed at home.