June 26th, 2018. 8:30pm.

I’m not familiar with any news headlines from this day. I don’t know who the World Cup match winners were or what version of chicken I was served for dinner. But it was our wedding anniversary and Jen had surprised me with dessert. I was ecstatic.

You see, some of the medications caused my natural blood sugar to rise, which meant an additional insulin shot in my daily regimen. I’ve never had a fear of needles, but it becomes a bit much after a few days. Still, I was prepared for my sweet tooth to warrant that extra shot. I wanted it to be so delightfully bad, it would hurt a little.

Yet my excitement peaked as Jen pulled out a cinnamon roll from the paper bag.

Yes. Me. The 28 year-old in an unwashed hospital gown. The 28 year old with 52 crusty staples across the head. The guy who couldn’t move about freely.  

I still had the audacity. The fucking nerve.

An existential crisis: one of those episodes where you decide that life is inherently against you. Where a million made-up tragedies play out in your mind and there’s no substance to cling on to. You don’t know how to feel or how to act or what to do or what to think. You’re at a loss. It’s all useless anyway. 

Though an eternity to myself, the thought only lasted a second in the real world. This time, just like the rest, I managed to move on. I’m not entirely sure Jen noticed, which is a relief. It really was one of the best desserts I’ve had in my life.