But outside was a mess of snow, slush, and cold. My thoughts whirled dizzily, and I stumbled wetly toward the car, cradling Thomas’ words in my arms.
Inside, I jammed the key in the ignition and turned up the heat as high as it would go. My fingers were wet, staining the envelope with water. I struggled in the driver’s seat, sliding my arms out of my coat and wiping the icy pellets of snow over my shirt to get myself dry.
Inside there were four envelopes. One was labeled to Lucy, one for their son, one for our Sergeant, and the last one for me.
I stared down at Thomas’s handwriting blankly, trying to get the emotions of the moment to sink in. This would be Thomas’ suicide letter, for me. I ran my trembling fingers along the smooth edge of the packet, barely conscious of the sound of my heart accelerating and pounding thickly in my ears.
Minutes passed in silence. The engine vibrated quietly. The heaters pushed out warmth, and my hands were paralyzed in apprehensive of Thomas’ thoughts.
I took a deep breath to calm myself, and gently ripped open the seal.
Hey Bro.
Let’s start off with me saying I’m sorry to you. You’re probably angry, but you could never stay pissed at me for long. I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell happened, knowing you, you’re probably blaming yourself for not being a good enough friend to save me. Stop thinking that bullshit, dude. You were a great friend. You still are.
The problem was me. I’m dying.
Not dying because I’m about to take my own life, but dying because in December I found out I have inoperable brain cancer. Lung cancer. Hell, I had the shit all over my body. I was given less than three months to live. I researched my ass off. I was ready to fight it, and I came out swinging. I promise you I did. But the truth was there was no treatment that would save me, and I didn’t want my wife and my son to watch me waste away. I wanted them to remember me strong and happy. This cancer was a criminal, creeping into my body—my home, in the middle of the night and took everything important from me. So I did what I had to do. I stopped it dead in its tracks. I looked for other options. There are places in this country that have a thing called Death with Dignity, but I didn’t even have time for that. I didn’t have any time left. Don’t hurt for me too much, Dean. I had a good fucking life. I married the love of my life, and we had an amazing son. I had the greatest, hardest job in the world, and I loved every minute of it. I spent the last days of my life with the people I loved the most. I spent a weekend with my father, forgiving him for all the shit he’d ever said to me. I made peace with everything I needed to. I spent time with those who mattered and Dean it wasn’t the job that mattered, it was the people I’d met along the way that did. Don’t forget to live until the very last minute. Find a good woman. Find happiness. Live, Dean, because you never know when you’re time is up.
Within two weeks of my diagnosis, all the will and determination to fight I had just left me, and I suddenly felt ready. It was time to say goodbye to all my pain. Right now, I feel so calm and at peace. I’m so grateful that I can just go to sleep and be free of this vicious sick thing that has taken over my life.
So stop grieving for me douchebag. It’s time for me to kick the bucket. Going over to the other side. I’ll see you when you get here. Keep an eye out for Chase for me. Make sure he knows how much I loved him.
Love you,
Thomas
Icouldn’t stopthe rush of sadness that engulfed me as I realized what he must have gone through, all alone, how he suffered, but still made the best of the time he had left here.
Tears streamed down my face, slipping over my smile. I was bewildered and elated at the same time—horrified and grief-stricken—realizing that in all my harshest imaginings I never thought there would be any way Thomas’s death could ever be justified. Yet, somehow, holding his last thoughts in my hands, I understood where it was he was coming from.
I swiped the tears from my face, roughly. For a few infinite moments, I felt how bleak and dark the world around me was. I tried to breathe in deeply, slowly—ignoring the wretched emotions that crawled at my chest in sharp slices. Everyone should learn from Thomas’ tragedy. People should learn to take each moment of their life with gratitude and understanding.
My throat closed, and my heart rammed into it like a jabbing fist. In an instant, my life blurred like fast-forwarded movie clips in my head, streaking reflections of regret and mistakes that tainted and stained at the edges. I was twenty, headstrong and arrogant, the world in front of me, and I conquered everything in my path. Everything that meantnothingto me, none of it was of any importance. I did a terrific job of keeping everyone at a distance, married myself to a job that never loved me in return, and spent my energy on limited unemotional relationships. I blinked, and I was thirty and running from the only girl that made me feel something, really feel something. My life seemed to pass in hazy disjointed pictures. The only things that seemed to stand out were the significant moments, and the ones that seemed etched in my brain all included Thomas or Liv.
