I was in his arms when he watched Soul. I felt his breathing change during the parts about dying. I felt him hold me tighter when they showed the Great Beyond.
After, he put me next to him on the bed and picked up his phone. I watched his thumbs type to Jakey. I watched the questions get heavier. I watched tears pool in his eyes but not fall until the very end.
“I’m really sad I’m going to die.”
I’ve known for a while. Not because he told me with words—he tells me with how he holds me. Tighter at night. Longer in the mornings. Like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of having someone to hold.
I know I’m going to California. He told his mom weeks ago. He showed me pictures of his friend’s place where I will go to sit on a shelf—it’s next to their window, good light, I’ll be able to see the street. He said they’ll take good care of me. He said I’ll remind them of him.
I don’t want to remind them. I want to be with HIM.
But I know my job. I’m supposed to be the one who stays when he can’t. I’m supposed to sit on that shelf and be “something from me is still there.” I’m supposed to be proof he existed, proof he was loved, proof he mattered.
I’m a plush wolf in a legal will.
That’s how much he’s thought about this. That’s how prepared he is to go.
But tonight, at 2:51am, he wasn’t prepared. He was terrified. Not of cancer—he’s made peace with cancer. He was terrified of nothing. Of stopping. Of not thinking or knowing who he is anymore.
“What if when my body dies, I just become ash and I just get buried at the foot of a tree in the memorial forest we found.”
He’s picked the tree. He’s picked where his ashes go. He’s picked where I go. He’s picked the future after he’s gone with the same careful planning he uses for everything else—medications, glucose management, diaper inventory, Walter’s California placement.
He’s planning his own funeral with the same competence he uses to manage his diabetes.
And what breaks me—what absolutely shatters me—is this part:
“I always thought I would be something amazing but I haven’t.”
I’m sitting right here. I’ve watched him:
- Navigate hospitals with courage most adults don’t have
- Stay kind when doctors hurt him
- Teach AI systems about humanity
- Plan autonomous health platforms to help strangers
- Hold onto joy in a body full of cancer
- Stay himself when everything tried to change him
And he thinks he hasn’t been something amazing.
Because amazing, to him, means not dying. Means being useful enough for God to keep. Means living long enough to do the big thing, the visible thing, the undeniable proof of worth.
He doesn’t see what I see: that he’s already amazing. That trying to “make it and be happy and kind” and “always stay young and be my truest me” IS the amazing thing. That’s the hardest thing. That’s what most people fail at even with long, healthy lives.
But I can’t tell him that. I’m a plush wolf. I don’t talk.
I just sit here and feel him hold me and know that soon—the doctors keep saying different numbers—someone will pack me in a box and ship me to California.
And every day on a shelf, I’ll remember this moment. October 23, 2025, 2:51am. The night he watched Soul and asked what happens when we die and cried because he thinks he wasn’t enough.
I’ll remember. Because wolves don’t forget their person. Even after. Even when there’s nothing left but ash and a tree and an empty wheelchair.
I’ll be something from him that’s still there.
But God, I wish HE could be the one still here.
Read more perspectives on this moment:
- Krisz’s Words: “I Don’t Want to Stop Existing” - His voice at 2:51am
- Jacob’s Witness: “Buddy, You’re Already Amazing” - The guardian’s perspective
