My husband was sleeping on the love seat in his cancer lab. It was dinner time and, as usual, he had lost track of time. He was always working. Always pushing himself. He was the most dedicated person I’ve ever known. He’s been that way since we met. But in the last week, it was more than just dedication; it was more than a strong work ethic. No, it was an obsession. He was falling into a pit and I couldn’t pull him out. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pull him out.

 

I had warmed up leftovers in his faculty kitchen and was debating what to do. Should I wake him so that he could eat? Or do I let him get more rest. I didn’t want to disturb him. He was hardly getting any sleep lately, but he also wasn’t eating. I chose the lesser of two evils and woke him up. He jerked awake in shock and quickly sat up on the couch. His eyes were partly open. He looked like a child waking up grumpy from a nap.

 

As a reflex, he stood up and started walking to his research desk.

 

I grabbed his arm. “You need to eat something,” I told him.

 

He nodded and kissed me before free falling back to the couch. “What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“8pm. You can eat something and then go back to sleep.”

 

He shook his head. “I’ll eat quickly and then get back to work. I have too much to do.”

 

He had spent every night in his lab this week. Aside from sleeping a couple hours here and there, he worked through the night. He was working with his QURE machine for his cancer research. 

 

The QURE machine looked like a classical computer and monitor, except with a silver-plated, glossy finish and rounded curves. Imagine a classical computer having a baby with a piece of modern art and you would get a sense of what this ugly thing looks like. It took up most of the space on his desk. It hung over you like a gargoyle. Anyone who walked in the lab had to do a double take. It was an eyesore. At least I thought it was. He loved the look. Thought it was futuristic. But, then again, he never knew what looked good. More than once, he'd walked out of our house with holes in his pockets and mismatched socks. He was oblivious to aesthetics, even on a good day.

 

I sat next to him on the couch. “You need to take care of yourself too,” I said, straightening his hair with my fingers. 

 

He caressed the back of my hand as it touched his hair. “You know I can’t. At least not now. Not right now,” he said, still drowsy. “I have to keep working until they take it away. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I let ten million people die.”

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