The man had started treatment at sixty-eight, which was late. Not impossible, but the ceiling projections put him around ninety rather than the 130 or 140 of someone who'd begun at forty. He had not started earlier because he and his wife had decided together that they would not. Then she was diagnosed. Then, after a conversation the man described as the hardest of his life, they decided together that he should.
His wife had eighteen months, give or take.
"How do you grieve someone who's still alive?" the man asked.
Kael gave the answer he'd developed over nine years: you don't. You grieve the future you expected to have with them. The person is still here. You grieve forward, which is different from grieving back, and you let the person in front of you be whoever they actually are right now, which is still someone worth being present for.
The man listened and said that helped.
After the session, Kael wrote his notes. The man had been thorough and articulate and in a great deal of pain. Standard intake complete, follow-up in three weeks. He closed the file.
He checked his calendar. Dinner with Wen, seven o'clock, the place near the market. He confirmed the reservation.
He and Wen had been together for nineteen years. Kael had started treatment at forty-nine. Wen had known, and had thought about it, and had said: not for him. That was two years ago. He was fifty-three now. Kael had said he understood, which he did, and that Wen didn't have to explain himself, which was true.
The math was not difficult. He had done it twice and then stopped doing it.
He opened the next file.