6 posts tagged “cancer”
So, poor Tyler has been dying, because I gave him cancer. Well, I finally got around to writing his death. Originally, I was going to do two versions. This one, and then something else that wasn't quite as miserable, but the un-miserable one comes out sounding all fake and wrong inside my head, and I can only imagine what it would sound like on the page. So this is the one that's done so far. And it may need some tweaks, mainly because I ended up having to write from Al's perspective for a second, and we all know I'm not very good at that, but I think it came out okay. It is sad, though, because I've purposefully made his life suck slightly worse than mine to make myself feel better.
Tyler could feel it. He was dying. Really dying. Today. Now. In a few hours.
It'd been a year since he'd run away and then come back, and his health had held out for a while, but about three months ago, he'd take a turn for the worst. A month and a half ago, he could no longer deny it because he looked like he was dying. And now here he was. This morning. Fixing his coffee and wondering if he was even going to get to enjoy all of it. Well, that was no way to think. He liked coffee, and he was damn well going to drink it. If Death wanted, he could have a mug.
Didn't even break thirty. Damn. He looked at the calender. It didn't particularly matter what day it was, but he liked to know, anyway. He was three months shy of his thirtieth birthday. So close, and yet so far away.
He smiled to himself and sat down, watching the coffee pot as it brewed his caffeine. He was in pain. It was dull, throbbing, like it had been for a while now: months, it seemed. He was used to it, but he could feel it gaining in intensity. It hurt more, starting at his spine, clawing its way to his heart, his brain.
Ty downed two cups of coffee and then picked up his telephone. He wanted someone here. Someone around. He wanted to see his best friend.
He listened to the phone ringing. On the third ring, Sam answered.
"Hey, Sam. Can I talk to Al?" he was amazed that his voice sounded no worse (or better) than it had for the last couple weeks.
There was some grumbling, then the phone was passed off.
"Ty-boyo! How are you doing?"
Tyler smiled. He wasn't exactly sure why Al even asked anymore, but he always did. Ty wasn't about to tell Al the truth. No, he wasn't going to come out and tell the zombie that he'd be dead in a few hours. He didn't want to worry him, and he certainly didn't want Al doing anything stupid.
"I'm good enough," he told him, figuring that was close enough to the truth because, for the moment, he was still alive. "I was calling to see if you could come over and hang out for a while. I know it's short notice...."
Al came over a lot as it was, more often once Ty had been unable to deny the fact that he really was dying. It wasn't unusual for them to spend four or five days a week at one or the other's houses, sometimes with Sam, sometimes without. Sam was civil now, and Ty was at ease with him if only because he was the only person who couldn't really see how horrible he looked.
"O'course! I'm about to give Sammy some lunch so he can take his pills, then I'll be over in a jiff."
"Great. Thanks a lot." Ty hung up the phone and moved to get some strawberry tea ready for the two of them.
Al finished off making lunch and slid it onto the table with Sam's pills. "I'm goin' over ta visit with Ty fer a bit, do ye wanna come?"
"Nah, I've got some shit ta do."
"All right, but be sure ta take yer pills."
Al grabbed his jacket out of the closet and was about to leave, when the phone rang again. He picked it up. "Yeh?"
He listened, his frown growing deeper. "They did what?" He closed his eyes. "A knife fight? In the halls? Was anyone hurt?" He sighed. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"'Ey! Sammy! Yer bros just got expelled. I'm goin' ta pick 'em up! Try an' find another school fer 'em, eh?"
Tyler sat on his sofa. It didn't take this long, not usually. Ten minutes? Less sometimes when Al was in a good mood. It'd been thirty.
Then an hour.
Then longer.
Ty felt the sickness spreading. The pain throbbed all through him until it hurt to move. He'd taken up a seat on the sofa, their glasses of tea on the coffee table in front of him. His blue eyes trained on the door. Any second, he expected to see the bubbly, smiling-in-front-of-the-worry, redhead bound into his living room.
The longer it took, the worse things got. He hurt. But more than that, he was starting to get scared. Terrified, really. What did he know about death? About dying? Sure, he'd known that he was going to die. He even knew it would be soon. But now Death was sitting on the easy-chair across the room from him and he was stressed out.
He wanted someone here. Someone that knew Death, who understood it. He wanted Al to smile at him the way he always did when Tyler got stressed out or worried. But more than any of that... he just didn't want to be alone.
Tyler swallowed down a wave of bile and then shivered as a chill crept over him. He grabbed the blanket off of the back of the sofa and pulled it over himself, trying to push Death back just by shoving away the cold. I'm not cold. It's downright balmy in here. Think warm thoughts. He'll be here soon.
The clock's ticking got louder. He could feel his heart, slow and steady, but slowing down. He bit his lip and focused his eyes on the door. Any second. Any minute.
Ty grabbed a post-it note and jotted a quick note on it, then stuck it on Al's glass. Just in case. I won't need it. He'll make it. But just in case.
His fear got worse as the clock's ticking reminded him of how very alone he was right now. How cold. How tired. How... by himself. His stomach knotted. His eyes started to close, but he didn't want to go to sleep, because he knew he wasn't going to wake up. And he wasn't ready. Not until he saw that smile. Saw his best friend pretending not to be worried sick.
Tears slipped down his cheek. I'm going to die alone. And all I'm leaving him is a post-it note.
He felt the urge to add another. Just a quick apology for not being able to wait. Death was getting impatient.
His eyelids got heavier. He only saw half the door. A quarter. An eighth. Then just the impression of light on the other side of his eyelids.
Exhaustion took over and the cold melted away, the pain stopped, and the light faded.
"Hey, Ty! Sorry it took so long! Ye wouldn't believe wha' the monsters did this time!" Al announced as he burst into the room. He looked at Ty, asleep on the sofa, and the tea in front of him. "Sorry I didn't call..."
The redhead stepped forward and the light from the door fell across Ty's face, outlining the dry path of the tears.
"Boyo? Yo, wake up!"
His eyes slid to the tea, and the post-it note on one of the glasses. He knew, but his brain wasn't registering.
In the neat little scrawl that was Tyler's hand writing, the note read, Just in case: I love you, you idiot. Be good.
Al felt his heart clench and tears in his eyes.
"No... Ty, this ain' funny. Wake up, boyo... ye got me. I shoulda called..."
He knelt, touched Ty's cheek, feeling the almost sandy texture of the dry tears. He stared at his friend, at the quiet look on his face: a little sad, but calm. He couldn't see the doubt, the fear, the loneliness, but he knew. After all, Ty had told him, hadn't he? That he was scared of dying alone. He should have made the boy move in with them. Should have insisted. Should... should have done quite a lot of things, but that didn't help matters now. Tyler was gone, the damage was done, and all he had was a post-it note and a glass of tea.
"Oh, boyo, I'm sorry."
"Hey, Al." He pulled out his keys as he headed up to the door, smiling lightly to the Irishman. "Took you long enough."
Tyler sat atop the parking deck, closing his eyes as the sun beat down against him. He was glad he'd headed south, the winter didn't sound too promising. Wind stirred locks of blond around his head.
Three days to surgery.
Tyler laid on the couch in his living room, staring out the window, the television droning quietly beside him. He waited. Nothing.
It'd been more than a week since Al had tried to kick down his door to visit. And outside the incident at work the other day, Tyler hadn't even see Al in almost as long. Tyler had spent the first few days rationing out his lack of Al visits. He's busy. Nessa's probably been arrested. Sam might have had an attack. But now, he just worried. He's distancing himself. Just in case... If he stops seeing me now, he can fool himself into thinking that I'm already gone if the surgery goes bad. He choked, a small whimper escaping him.
"If all of it isn't removed during the surgery, how long do I have?"
"We're very confident about the surgery..."
Tyler's chest constricted. "Doctor, please. If it all isn't removed, how long do I have?"
"Depending on how slow or fast it spreads, you could live for years, a lifetime even..."
"Or?" Tyler had pressed.
"Or... it could be a matter of months. If we don't get it all, we'll have you in here as soon as you heal for chemotherapy. And they're making huge strides in treatment options everyday..."
Tyler sat still, then. "Don't tell anyone. Not my mother, not my stepfather. Nobody."
"Well, of course, but your stepfather..."
"Will most likely figure it out on his own." He pushed himself up. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Mr. Dreylncourt.... If I may... You're young. You're healthy. Whether or not we remove it all, I do believe that you will live a long life."
Tyler forced a small smile to him. "Well, you know what they say... only the good die young."
Tyler's heart was hammering on his sofa. He shut his eyes, taking deep breaths. Everything was arranged, so that his family wouldn't have to worry about anything if things took a turn.
"And what would you like done with the ashes?"
"I don't care. Don't let anyone keep them in their house. That's creepy. Tell them to dump me in the ocean, or spread me around Al's kitchen."
The man looked alarmed. "Tyler... would... would you like me to write that?"
"No, of course not. My mother would faint. Just tell them to dump me someplace pretty."
What would it feel like to not be able to walk? Tyler tried to push himself up without the use of his legs. His arms shook a little. He frowned at himself. I haven't gone to a gym since I came back to Ireland. Of course my upper body strength is shot. Fuck.
He glanced at the television, and then outside at the dark night, then flopped back down. He hit the light on the table beside him and curled onto his side. Tears slipped down his cheeks in the dark. I'm not gone yet... why does it feel like nobody else knows that?
Another Tyler dribbly. Note to anyone that doesn't RP with me: David is Tyler's stepdad, who's a doctor and specializes in cancers.
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"We can operate, but it's dangerous."
David nodded, looking at the x-rays of his stepson's spine. "How did the tests come back?"
"It's malignant."
"So the operation is necessary?"
"Chemotherapy is still an option..."
"But?"
"To be honest, if it grows at all, the surgery would become entirely necessary and then it would be so dangerous that, in all likelihood, he would never walk again."
David nodded and sighed. "Thank you, Doctor. Let me go talk to him." They shook hands and David made his way to Tyler's room.
Ty looked up when the older man entered, giving a small smile. "You're giving me your doctor look, David. Stop it."
David grinned and squeezed the boy's shoulder, sitting beside him.
"That bad?" Tyler tried to look amused, but ended up just looking sad and lonely.
"It'll be all right."
"Don't lie to me, David."
"I have to smudge the odds a little, it's part of my job." He gave a smile and then sighed and looked away. After a minute, he spoke to the wall. "I think your best option is the surgery."
"Will I be able to walk afterwards?"
The doctor hesitated. "There's no guarantees. It's right against your spine... you know how dangerous that can be."
"You don't think so?"
"I don't know, Tyler."
Tyler looked away. "I'm not really worried about not walking."
"I know."
The younger man rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Gods, when it rains, it pours." He dropped his hand. "Have them make the appointment, if that's my best bet."
David touched the top of the boy's head affectionately. "Don't worry, Ty. You're in very capable hands."
"David?" Tyler looked up as the man started to leave.
"Yes?"
"Lie to mom."
"Only white ones."
"That's all I ask."
So, these are three different ones. The first one is about a character that still has no name, and I think I'm going to call that finished. The second two are about two VERY old charries of mine. The first is Michael, my pretty surfer boy. And the second one is about Scottie, who I can't give any details about because it would ruin the dribbly. I'll pull a Tem and separate them by colors. Wee.
Do you love me?
It was the question that lurked at the forefront of his mind. Every person that would meet his eyes: the cashier at the gas station, the waiter at his favorite restaurant, the librarian.
Could they read it in his eyes? Pleading with them even as he smiled at them?
He collapsed onto the sofa in his apartment, giving a weary sigh.
"Hard day?"
"Same as usual, I suppose," he shut his eyes and draped an arm across them.
"I worry about you, bro. Maybe you should consider the dorms--or a roommate."
"We'd end up killing each other. I can't live with anyone anymore. Plus, I don't want to."
"You're stubborn."
"You're dead."
"Inconsequencial."
"Says you. Go away. I want to be alone."
"That's the last thing you want," even as he said it, he faded from view.
The boy opened his eyes and looked grumpily out the window at the descending darkness. The room sank into shadows around him and he found himself watching a family in the adjacent building.
"It's times like this when I actually miss them..."
"It's times like this you forget what they did to you."
"I thought I told you to leave?"
"I promised you that you'd never be alone. If I left, I'd break that promise."
"If I had a time machine, I'd tell the eight year old me to add a clause for personal space into that promise."
"It's not good for you to dwell."
The boy sighed. "I know. But... it's hard. Sometimes, all I can remember are the good times."
"Would you like me to remind you?"
"Only if I start to call them."
"Fair enough."
"Hey?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you love me?"
The room got a little warmer, wrapping itself around the boy. "Always."
------------
It was the only thing vivid in his mind anymore.
The dark blues and purples, bursts of red, streaks of golden yellow. Orange mingled with pink, making a seamless symphony of color draping its way across the horizon above the waves.
Every instant before had become a blur of half-forgotten, faded memory. The figures indistinct-the places, the objects-all mixed and abstracted.
The hours after passed in his memory in an instant--fast forwarded with brief snatches of dialog and saltwater. And pain.
He remembered the pain. But it was disjointed--as if the cause was interjecting his memory at random--a sting here, a stab there.
Time escaped him now. His memories were unable to be filed in order. They were shuffled. In the hospital, he tried to reorganize; to sort and order; while he was in the medicated haze.
Third grade: dressed as Thomas Edison, report on light bulbs.
Summer camp, age 12: Maddy kissed him by the campfire.
His first steps. Soccer practice. Uncle Mike's funeral.
Chronology became impossible.
His bandages were wet. The drugs were wearing off. He was terrified of the world without them.
A hand slid into his.
"Michael, are you awake?"
"Would you hate me if I said I'd rather not be?"
She laughed softly, then added, "Have you heard the diagnosis?"
"No. They had me on really good drugs."
"Yeah. It was a morphine drip."
"How bad?" he asked, trying to sound like his stomach wasn't in knots.
"Bad. Do you want to hear it from me, the doctor, or mom?"
He took a shaky breath. "Tell me so that I don't break down when mom is here."
She squeezed his hand tightly. "The rock cut deep--straight across your eyes. They saved your eyes, but... not your sight."
He let it sink in, clutching her hand. "I'm blind."
She nodded, then spoke. "Yeah."
"Well, on the up side, my tear ducts still work." His bandages were wet again.
"Michael..."
He felt the bed shift beside him and pressed his face into her shoulder, crying quietly against her.
----------------------------
Scottie would be throwing things or screaming out his frustration if he thought it wouldn't attract the unwanted attention of his mother or brother. He paced the room in sharp, measured steps.
One. Two. Three. Turn. One. Two. Three. Turn.
He caught his reflection in the family photo on the wall. The shine of his scalp brought bile into his throat. He took the photo down and threw it onto the bed.
"In one of your hateful moods again, are we?"
He glared at the taller boy leaning idly on his door frame. "What do you want?"
"To talk. And, mom's worried you're going to pace right through the ceiling."
Scottie's eyes softened and he looked down at the well-worn path on his floor with a faint blush.
"Sit down, Scottie. Let's talk."
He obediently moved to his bed and collapsed onto it. The fatigue that'd been held off by his anger latched onto him as his brother took a seat on the edge of the bed and he propped himself up against the headboard.
"Keep anything down tonight?"
"For about a half hour," Scottie said.
"You look pale."
"I'm tired. And sick. And sick of being sick..." he would have kept going, but a lump was forming in his throat.
"Scottie..."
"Chase, this is stupid! I'm dying and I'm going to die sick and bedridden like an invalid!" A wave of sickness washed over him and his face burned.
Chase picked up a bucket off the floor and offered it to him, but Scottie waved it off, putting a hand to his stomach.
"Calm down, Scott. It's okay."
Scottie covered his face and took a few deep breaths. "It's not. The chemo is making it worse and I'm miserable and I don't want to die like this..."
"Don't talk like that. If you really hate it that much, stop going."
"Mom would never let me..."
"It's your body, Scottie. Nobody can make that decision for you. If you honestly think it's not helping and don't want to do it, I'll sit down with you and we'll talk to mom together about it, okay?"
"Really?" he relaxed a little, his stomach unknotting itself.
"Yes. Scottie, having cancer does not mean that you forfeit all rights to make decisions on your own. It's still your life, even if it is a bit shorter than we originally thought."
He smiled lightly to him. "Thanks, Chase."
"No problem. Now, before you pass out on me, I have a present for you."
"What?"
Chase smiled and stood, leaving the room and coming back a moment later with a golden retriever puppy. "He was the runt of the litter and reminded me of you..."
Scottie's eyes got wide as he accepted the wriggling animal from his brother. "Oh my god, he's awesome. I can't believe it..." he giggled as the puppy licked his face.
"He's all yours, so you gotta walk him and feed him and everything. I'll walk with you until you get your energy back... deal?"
"Absolutely. Thank you so much, Chase."
"Don't thank me till after he's house broken," he said with a laugh. "Here. I'm going to take him out for you tonight. I'll bring him back in a few. Think about the chemo thing. If you want, we'll talk to mom tomorrow." He ruffled his little brother's hair with a grin. "Sleep well, kid."
