Dr Hammond glances at my dad before giving me a small, resigned nod. He leans forward, forearms braced on the desk, sympathy softening his features as he speaks directly to me.
“First, we can operate and remove as much of the tumour as possible without causing damage to the surrounding tissue. After that, radiotherapy would be daily for six weeks. There's also a chemotherapy option called temozolomide that's often used alongside it.”
I don't care about names or the science.
“And this will… help keep him here?” My voice sounds small to my own ears. All I want—selfishly, desperately—is more time.
“There are always risks and complications with treatments like these,” he says carefully. “I don't want to make this sound like an easier path, Mr Harrington. You've already been experiencing headaches, fatigue, and mood changes. Many patients also have seizures at some point, which we’ll need to monitor closely.”
I squeeze Dad's hand hard. “I can look after him.”
Dad turns to me, his expression pained. “I don't want you to have to look after me. You're eighteen. You've got college, dance, a life to live.”
I curl my other hand into a fist in my lap, nails biting into my palm.
Dad. Respectfully. Shut up.
“I’m doing this. You're going to need someone after the operation. Someone, when you're tired, when you can't be bothered and when things get hard for you. I’m not leaving you to deal with all of this on your own. And you know I’m capable and stubborn. So don't even try to argue with me.”
The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles as he smiles at me, soft and sad all at once. I know for a fact he was going to suggest that I stay at my mum's.
He knows better than to even suggest it.
I’d rather sleep in a skip full of shit than go there.
“Okay,” I breathe, turning back to Dr Hammond. “Now, doctor. How long does he have? And please don't give me the ‘I can't give you a time’ speech.”
He clears his throat, straightening his tie. “Most patients with this type of cancer live roughly twelve months. Eighteen, at a push.”
It's not enough.
No number would ever be enough.
Twelve months. Eighteen if we’re lucky.
There's no luck about any of this.
The figure loops in my head until they stop sounding like time and starts sounding like a countdown. Everything inside me goes eerily quiet, like someone's pulled a plug on my thoughts. A world without my dad in just over a year doesn't feel real. It feels like something that happens to other people. People in sad documentaries.
Children aren't supposed to bury their parents.
I don't even realise I’m shaking until Dad is pulling me into him, one hand cradling the back of my head like he used to when I was little. His chest is warm.
“I’m going to do everything they tell me.” I can hear the tremor in his voice. “I’m going to fight for as much time with you as I can.”
He's the one who's dying.
Not me.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness in my throat. I can't fall apart. Not here. Not in front of him. He needs me to be strong.
As the doctor talks us through appointments, treatment plans, side effects, and schedules, I realise something with a dull, creeping clarity.
My dad has been handed a timetable for his death.
I sit quietly, listening to Doctor Hammond, nodding at the appropriate moments and trying to absorb the words I know I’ll need to remember later. As the conversation continues, I can’t shake the feeling that a part of me is dying alongside him.
Chapter 26
