May 22nd, 2066

30 11 29

I'm on the bus now, writing by a small light. It's nearly midnight, and we've been chugging along the road for about a half hour, now. Jess is asleep next to me. I think I'm the only one awake apart from the driver.

At least, I hope the driver is awake.

Jess and I didn't talk a whole lot. She asked about H. Mortenson's Disease, but I told her I don't know much. Harold Mortenson was the first confirmed case, roughly twenty years ago. It can appear at any time, though most documented cases were first identified before the patient was thirty years old.

I know it has something to do with my brain and spine. There's something in my brain--not a tumor--that's spreading slowly, starting from the center. Bits of my brain are also expanding. The stem is inflammed, which--and I might be wrong, I'm just going off notes in my old journal--causes pain and often creates pressure on the spine, leading to my limp.

There are two things I know for sure: there isn't a cure and I'll be dead in a few years.

I hate this disease, obviously, but I never would have met Sara without it. Had I not been diagnosed, I wouldn't have joined an online support group. That's how she and I met; a support group for HMD patients who knew death was coming for them. We thought "Hey, why not die together?" and so... we're going to do that.

At least, I hope she and I die together.

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