I was in my studio, working on a painting -- a commission, although one that was a lot more fun than the dozens I’d done during my first year in New York -- when I got the call. I’d just dipped my brush in purple paint when my phone rang. I could see that it was Brian and not some scam caller trying to trick me into giving up my credit card number, so I hastily wiped my hands on a rag and swiped my finger across the screen to answer the call before pressing the phone to my ear.

“Hey, what’s up?” I said, trying to determine whether or not I should go ahead and rinse my brush, or if this would be a quick phone call. Brian knew I was at the studio -- and what I was working on -- so chances were that he was probably calling to see if I wanted him to bring me some food. (And, chances were just as good that he was going to bring me food anyway, regardless of what I said, because he would worry about me if he didn't, so I wasn't sure why he ever bothered to call and ask.)

I waited for his response, fully expecting some sort of lewd joke because that’s just Brian, but it didn’t come. What I heard was a shaky breath, followed by Brian’s voice -- sounding pained and tearful and not at all himself.

“Come home,” he said. He inhaled again, this time with a hitch that sounded almost like a sob. “Now.”

“Brian?” I said, my heart already in my throat and my anxiety quickly rising. Clearly something was very, very wrong. “Are you okay? What’s going on?” I picked up all of my brushes and practically threw them into the sink, haphazardly running water over them and hoping it was enough, because I didn’t have the patience nor the presence of mind to give them my normal level of attention.

Brian’s breathing didn’t sound any better on his next inhalation.

“Just… come home,” he said. “Please.” Then the line went silent. I took the phone away from my ear and saw that the call had ended -- Brian had hung up.

Immediately I was thrown into brain injury hell, as my anxious thoughts started to cloud my judgment and kept it from being as easy as it should have been to figure out what the fuck to do next. It was like the night Brian went to the hospital with the kidney infection -- I knew what I needed my ultimate outcome to be, but figuring out the best way to get there was like trying to feel my way through a dark maze, blindfolded.

I tried to call Brian back, so I could get more information, but it rang and rang and rang and he never answered.

I stood there in my studio for a moment, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, trying to focus. Trying to slow down my thoughts so I could make a decision about what mode of transportation I was going to use to get home, instead of being fucking paralyzed by my own goddamn broken brain. Of course, that was easier said than done, because various scenarios were running through my head like crazy as my mind tried to figure out what on earth could possibly be so wrong that it had Brian this upset.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my forehead in frustration, like I was trying to squeeze some sort of a sensible thought out of my head. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter. I knew I wasn’t doing Brian any good standing there doing absolutely fucking nothing, but I couldn’t make my feet move either.

Finally, I managed to find a lucid thought in the chaos as my brain tried to debate and consider all of the pros and cons of the various forms of transportation I could use to get home, and made a decision that I was going to take a taxi, regardless of whether that was actually faster or not. It was Friday evening, which meant it was rush hour -- a fact that only served to further complicate my decision making process. I’d come straight to the studio after the school day ended, promising Brian I’d be home in time for a late dinner, because I was working on a deadline with this commission and I really needed to get it done.

But in that moment, none of that mattered. It could wait. It could all wait.

At that point, I had no idea that it would be more than a week before I made it back to my studio.

I left everything exactly as it was, not wanting to take the time to clean up because that would only delay me in getting to Brian. I grabbed my jacket, locked the door with shaking hands, and ran down the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator either. I stepped out to the edge of the sidewalk in front of the building and stuck my arm up to hail a cab, praying an empty one would pass by soon. My wish was granted less than a minute later, and I gave the driver our home address, then settled into the backseat and tried to keep my thoughts in check.

I pulled out my phone and tried to call Brian again, but he still didn’t answer.

My anxiety was running higher than it had in a long, long time, and I could hear the unsteady quality of my breath as I tried to focus on breathing in and out, keeping the pace slow even though my brain was screaming at me to breathe faster. I needed something I could focus on to keep myself present, but at the time, all I could latch onto was the never ending stream of possible things that could be wrong with Brian -- the chain of thoughts I’d run through so many times in my mind, over and over. Was he sick? Was he hurt? He’d sounded like he was in pain. Did he fall? What happened? Why wouldn’t he tell me over the phone?

As the cab rounded a corner, my thoughts took a turn as well, when I suddenly remembered the doctor’s appointment Brian had with his oncologist earlier in the week. These visits had become routine over the years, as they became spaced farther and farther apart, but even though there had only been good news so far, the reason for these visits still weighed heavily in my mind.

They were necessary because Brian was at a higher risk for not only a recurrence of testicular cancer, but of other secondary cancers as well, so it was important that he keep going back for scans and blood tests, to make sure everything was still okay. I usually tried not to worry about it too much, but I could never forget how he’d kept the cancer from me the first time around. And even though I knew our relationship was different than it was back then -- eleven years of marriage and a couple of life-changing experiences will do that -- there was always a small part of me that wondered how things would go if the cancer did come back.

What if it had? What if that was what had Brian so upset? What if they’d found something this time?

I could feel myself perched on the edge of the cliff between anxiety and panic, as the thought of Brian’s cancer returning loomed large behind me, threatening to send me over it. I closed my eyes and tried to pull my attention back to my breath -- and away from the edge of the cliff -- trying to deepen and smooth my inhalations and exhalations. Remembering everything I’d learned in the yoga class I went to once a week with Rob. Feeling my physical body in the car, on the seat, in this moment. Clinging to that to keep myself from descending over the cliff into panic.

I was so focused on my breath and my body that I didn’t even notice we’d arrived until I heard the driver impatiently say, “Hey man, we’re here.”

My eyes snapped open and I looked around, realizing we were in front of our apartment building. Quickly, I pulled some cash out of my wallet with hands that were still shaking, shoved it into the driver’s hand, and exited the car. I ran inside and punched the button for the elevator, willing it to be waiting on the ground floor and breathing a sigh of relief when it was. I stepped inside and hastily pressed the button for our floor as well as the button that would close the doors immediately. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes again, focusing once again on breathing in and out -- smooth and deep.

When the doors opened again, I stepped out and walked the few steps down the hallway to our door, pausing in front of it for a moment to try to collect myself. I struggled to get the key into the lock with trembling fingers, but finally, I was able to get the door open.

The living room was empty, but Brian’s laptop was open on the coffee table. There was a glass sitting alongside it with a small amount of what looked like whiskey in the bottom. His phone was face down on the table beside the glass. I walked down the hallway toward our bedroom, still not sure of what I was about to find, as the clues I’d seen so far hadn’t served to shed any light on what had caused Brian to call me and ask me to come home.

When I got to the bedroom, both of our suitcases were on the bed, open, each about half full with carefully folded clothing. I found Brian in the closet, his back to the door, pulling shirts off of hangers and laying them in his lap.

I walked up behind him and laid my hand on his shoulder.

“Brian?” I said softly, still wondering what was happening.

He stopped, then slowly turned to face me. His eyes were red and swollen, their color dark and haunted -- not at all the bright greenish-gold that they usually were. My hand reached out of its own volition, magnetically drawn to my partner, and brushed across his cheek, wiping away a still-damp tear track.

“Brian,” I said again, keeping my voice soft and low. “What’s going on?”

His eyes slid shut and he pulled his lips into his mouth, then bowed his head as his shoulders started to shake with silent sobs. I took the pile of shirts from his lap and set them aside on a shelf, then carefully lowered myself onto his lap, wrapping my arms around him. He rested his head in the space between my neck and my shoulder, and my shirt quickly became damp with his tears. I felt him let go -- his body shaking harder now as he collapsed against me. Gently, I rubbed his back, feeling the soft cotton of his t-shirt beneath my fingers.

I wanted to know what was going on -- what had my strong partner, who was so often my rock when I felt like I was falling apart, falling apart himself -- but now wasn’t the time to ask. All I could do was hold him and trust that he would tell me when he was able.

The minutes ticked by as we sat there together in the closet, me holding Brian as he cried. Him clinging to me, his fingers digging into my back, his tears soaking my shirt. All I could think of was how this wasn’t like Brian at all. Whatever was wrong, it was really, really bad. I fought to keep my focus on Brian -- to keep from running scenarios in my brain of what possibly could have happened.

Slowly, the shaking stopped and I felt Brian’s breathing become a little softer, a little more even, against my chest. I kept rubbing his back, trying to soothe him. Wishing I could take away his pain but knowing that I probably wouldn’t be able to, even before I knew what was causing it.

Brian lifted his head, keeping his eyes closed for a moment before he blinked them open, still shining with wetness.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He bit his lip, looking at me like he would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, besides telling me what he was about to tell me. He closed his eyes again and took a breath, like he was trying to gather the strength to do this. On one hand, I wanted him to tell me so I could help him, but on the other, I was dreading hearing whatever he had to say.

I was right to dread it, because when Brian was finally able to speak, his words turned my own world upside down as well.

“It’s Deb,” he said, his voice hoarse and sounding just as broken as he had on the phone. “She’s gone.”