We arrived at the restaurant and after the hostess seated us and the waiter took our order, Keith grew quiet. He cast his eyes downward and fiddled with his silverware. “Can I ask you about what happened last week?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Did you have to clean up anything that morning?”

I responded matter-of-factly. “There was some blood and drool on the pillow-cases and sheets. The paramedics made a bigger mess than you did, though, when they moved furniture around to set up the oxygen tank and gurney and stuff."

“But was there anything else?” By now he was looking at his lap. “I don’t remember anything when I’m having a seizure or directly after it.” He paused yet again. By now it was clear his lightheartedness in the car had been a way to mask his embarrassment. 

I knew from experience how annoying it could be to discuss your symptoms. People usually get a panicked look in their eyes and quickly change the subject. I wanted Keith to know it was okay to ask what was on his mind, so I told him so.

Still unable to look up, he asked, “I didn’t shit the bed, did I? Because that happens sometimes."

“No, you didn’t. Like I said, there was blood and saliva, but that was it." To put him at ease, I added, “Don’t worry. You won’t be getting a bill for dry-cleaning.”

He looked up and smiled. 

“You know, Keith, you’ve seen me on a cane when my symptoms flare up. You could have told me about having epilepsy. If I think you’re weird, it’s not because of that,” I joked.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’d just like to forget about it sometimes, though. I haven’t been taking my medication lately because it’s been making me sick, so I’ve started having seizures again. It’d be great just to have a beer or two without having it be a big deal.”  He grew more animated and his voice was free from self-pity. He wanted to have a brew and get laid without ending up in the E.R. — a universal sentiment if there ever was one.

I empathized. Anyone with a chronic, incurable illness — particularly anyone who acquired it young — will tell you, you can approach your health with fortitude, humor and perspective. And yet, there’s inevitably a moment when you tell someone the facts in an even-keeled way and — kapow! — they freak the fuck out and you end up having to assuage their fractured sense of mortality. Because illness is death’s calling card and you’ve just reminded them they might not live to 105 and die in their sleep. That if it could happen to you, it could happen to them.

Dating and sex are loaded enough without tossing illness into the mix. And of course, getting sick doesn’t supplant the usual crap all of us reveal to a new partner. Keith had his bed-shitting worries, in addition to the stories of unhealed adolescent wounds and colleague grievances that everyone else has. 

Keith and I swapped anecdotes about pigheaded doctors who refuse to admit their treatment is incorrect and acquaintances who have a cousin who has a neighbor who has an Alsatian that was cured by bedside crystals and lavender sprigs and who know, just know, you’d be cured, too, if you followed the same course and kept an "open mind." We laughed harder that night than the paramedics had in my room.

After a few more dates, Keith and I amicably fizzled. All we really had in common was our shared experience of illness. It wasn’t enough to keep us together, though, because neither of us defined ourselves by our diagnoses. In this respect, our health was robust.  

Litsa Dremousis is a Seattle-based freelance writer. Her work has appeared in The Believer, Esquire, McSweeney's, the Seattle Weekly and on NPR. She’s currently finishing her first novel. Do yourself a favor and follow her on Twitter.