Every day, cancer steals something else from us.
And god, it hurts. But I can never show him that.
His lip trembles as the anger drains from him, recognition flooding back in. Shame.
“I’m so… sorry,” he whispers in defeat, wincing as he presses a hand to his head. “Didn't mean to shout.”
“It's okay,” I whisper.
But it isn't. None of this is okay. And I hate the world for it. I fucking hate it.
He's getting worse.
The last scan stripped away any fragile hope I’d been clinging to—the treatment isn't working. I can dress it up however I like, pretend we've got more time than we do, but I’m not stupid. I know what it means.
It might be time to look into a hospice.
Not just because I’m exhausted—though I am, constantly running on fumes—but because he needs more than I can give him. The headaches are worse now. Crushing. I see it in the way he winces when he thinks nobody is watching. In the way the light bothers him. Confusion creeps in at the edges when he loses words mid-sentence.
He knocks the heel of his hand weakly against his head, frustrated. “It's not. No… It's not okay. None of it is okay.”
The anger fractures into tears. They spill down his hollow cheeks, and it feels like something inside me splinters.
I don't care about the sick on his shirt or the sour smell clinging to the room. I don't care that I've just worked all night and can hardly keep my eyes open.
I wrap myself around him anyway, and this time he doesn't push me away. Instead, he clings to me with everything he has left.
And I hold him just as tight.
Because one day, I won't be able to do this. One day, I won't feel his arms around me, arms that have always felt like the safest place in the world. I won't breathe in that familiar scentthat's been the same since I can remember. I won't hear his voice, singing off-key when I'm sick, trying to make me laugh, even though he was awful at it.
One day, there will be nothing.
The thought crushes me from the inside out.
I help him clean up, moving slowly, careful not to hurt him, ignoring the mess and the ache in my own body. I make sure he drinks something with his tablets and sits with him until exhaustion finally drags him under. He looks smaller, more fragile, which makes me want to swap places with him because this shouldn't be happening.
Not to him.
Then I start the rest of the work. Cleaning the house, opening the windows, putting the washing on and letting work know that I won't be able to come in today. My voice is calm, no emotion, like I’m talking about somebody else's life.
Then I make the call I've been avoiding.
As they talk to me, explaining everything I need to know and do, I’m silently screaming inside, hoping to wake up from this nightmare.
But it isn't a nightmare, it's my reality.
And when that phone call ends, I sit on the edge of my bed, the room closing in on me before the tears start to fall.
They come quietly at first before the floodgates open, and I can't stop them. My chest burns, my head pounds, and my heart feels like it's been ripped out of me and twisted in my hands. I cry until I can't anymore, until my body trembles, and my lungs feel empty. I clutch the sheets to remind myself I’m still here, that he's still there, that something is still real in the middle of all this heartbreak.
Eventually, my eyelids close.
And the last thought that consumes me before sleep pulls me under is that I’m about to lose the only parent who ever truly loved me.
The only one who stayed.
The only one who lived for me.
