“I’m done wasting time here,” I replied, not fully realizing what that statement carried until Rachel lifted her gaze and our eyes met. A sombreness drifted in the air, and I felt I needed to comfort her. Even though she was my therapist, she had invested serious time in me, and maybe she thought I was just quitting on her.
“I know you worked hard,” I whispered. She was the first to break eye contact, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I saw her lip quiver just a fraction.
I inhaled an even deeper breath. “My world has never felt good. There’s never once been a time I’ve felt like anything was improving. In fact, it feels like it’s only getting worse. Living has been unbearable. I just want to feel like something is going well for once. I just want to feel like something in this life is easy. I’m tired, Rachel. I’m so damn tired.”
Rachel looked up, hearing my pleas—maybe for the first time. “I know. Selfishly, I just want you to stay.”
If I had stayed much longer, I knew tears would have flooded the room. I smiled. “Selfishly, I thank you for being the one person I can share this one happiness with. It may not be something you feel good about, but know that you’ve improved my day for the first time since my dad called me ‘pumpkin’ and held me in his arms.”
And with that, I stood up and left Rachel’s office, knowing she was likely breaking down alone in her office.
Selfishly, I breathed a weight right off my shoulders and hopped into the elevator to go enjoy the rest of my life, knowing my days were numbered.
Asher
Three Years Ago
“Mom, I already told you. I’m not going through with all that chemo shit,” I said, frustrated that she wouldn’t drop it. It had been the argument taking up space between us since she won the battle of me moving back home after I was released from the hospital. The doctors had thought it would be best, given that I could faint more frequently as my symptoms worsened.
It felt like I was moving ten steps backward after making major strides forward. So there we were, several weeks after my diagnosis, moving boxes from my humble apartment downtown to my childhood home on Bayview Ridge—a mansion that sat right on the water’s edge. My parents had hated it when I moved into that apartment right from the start. They loved to show off all their money in material things. Sure, I enjoyed higher quality things in life, but shiny cars and big homes on the water weren’t at the top of my list, and especially not now.
Instead, I wanted top-quality gear that could help my morale and get me to the NHL. I was so fucking close. My coach had told me that scouts were watching my game. The last game I played.
The game that, in one fell swoop, ended my entire career in hockey.
As my mother packed away my clothes in the dresser drawers that hadn’t held them in what felt like lifetimes ago, she shook her head, frustrated with me. “How do you expect to live a longer, enjoyable life if you’re not getting treatment, Asher?”
I set a box down on the bed, and she looked at me, huffing, “You’re not supposed to carry anything, either.” I rolled my eyes while she wasn’t looking. “It’s a small box. I’m not completely useless.”
I took another deep breath. “Listen, Mom. I want to enjoy the remainder of my life, no matter how long that may be. I don’t want to be sick from something that may or may not prolong my life. Why can’t I just live it for the here and now?” I asked, trying to bargain with her thoughts. I could physically see how my mother had aged over these past couple weeks. My brother and I weren’t a lot of stress for her growing up. We were both honour students, strong athletes, and we got along with everyone we encountered.
I mean sure, we got into some teenage trouble, but nothing that ever drew significant attention. Wyatt had wanted to be a surgeon for as long as I could remember, so he didn’t want to jeopardize any chances he had at making it to med school. As for me, I felt the same. I had always wanted to be a veterinarian if the NHL didn’t pan out. Dad was always a hard-ass when it came to backup plans, so we each had one, but we aimed for the stars nonetheless.
My mother, kneeling on the ground in front of my dresser, stopped placing the jeans inside the drawer. Peering up at me with pained eyes, she said, “Asher, you have always been the most reasonable one in the house. Never pushing back, always smiling. Why—why, of all things, is this the thing you push back on?”
My head dropped, knowing this was killing her. For all she had done for me throughout my life, I just didn’t feel right givingin to this one. “I’m sorry, Mom. I wish…I wish this could be different.” She turned her head away from me, trying to hide the anguish she was feeling.
“Mom,” I said softly as I walked to sit next to her on the hardwood floor. “I just want to feel good. Isn’t that the whole point? To live out the rest of my life comfortable and thriving? With the treatments they offered—you heard it yourself—it would simply prolong my life, not cure me.”
With watery eyes, she looked up at me, wrinkles sitting under her eyes that I had never noticed before. “It just feels like you’re giving up, just like that. My boy, just giving up on life.”
Pulling her into my chest, she placed her hand on my heart, feeling its strong beat. It may have been weakening over time, but it still felt strong in its own way. Maybe if I had paid closer attention, I might have noticed the fluttering sensation in my heartbeat. Maybe I would have noticed how much harder I had to work because of how tired I always was. Maybe I wouldn’t have chalked it up to growing and working hard. Maybe I could have caught it.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
But there I was—a grown twenty-year-old man back living in my parents’ home on the verge of death because I hadn’t paid close enough attention. And now I had to comfort my mother in my arms because we hadn’t anticipated her youngest child dying before her.
I felt sick with myself for choosing not to get any treatment. Don’t get me wrong, I would be better to my body—take precautions, eat nutritiously, and live a healthy lifestyle. But I couldn’t be bothered to spend the next however long in hospital gowns, getting weaker over time, and feeling sick from the chemicals. I think, deep down, my mom knew it. She knew I was making the right choice, but she couldn’t accept the cost of it not prolonging my life. One day, she’d understand—I think.
I hopped up from her and extended my hand to hers. “Come on, let’s finish this shit.” She slapped my arm lightly. “Language,” she scolded. I chuckled and jogged out of the room.
As I exited, I looked over the banister and caught sight of my dad and brother getting suited up for a run. A feeling of jealousy washed over me.
It used to be the three of us who would go together.
They didn’t see me watch them as they laced up their sneakers, threw on their running jackets, and exited the obnoxiously large front door. Winter was in full swing, but the temperatures had been mild lately. Even if I tried to run now, I knew the cold air would burn my lungs, causing even more pain than usual in my chest. I didn’t want to risk it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t feel shitty.
Bumping into my shoulder, my mother paralleled me by leaning over the banister to watch them run off together. “No one wants to run in this stupid weather, anyway. I always said running was for sociopaths. Now, let’s go have some ice cream—I picked up your favourite.”
