I look up, and he’s already meeting my eyes. His expression is calm, but there’s something in the tightness of his mouth that makes my stomach churn. I rise from my seat, my legs embarrassingly stiff, the walk to the room feeling longer than it should. When I sit down in the chair opposite him, I notice how comfortable it is, and I wonder if they intentionally made it this way. Like they designed it to make bad news feel a little less bad.
It’s a solid attempt, I guess.
The doctor sits across from me, his eyes scanning my face for something I can’t quite identify. Then he looks at his computer screen. The sigh that follows is quiet, but it’s the kind of sound that twists your gut. My mouth goes dry.
“Liam,” he starts, “I’m going to be honest with you. We found something in your scan.”
He pauses, flipping the monitor around to show me the image. It’s a mess of grey and white, and then he points to a darker area nestled in the centre.
“This is a tumour,” he says, and I’m not sure I’m breathing. “It’s located in your thalamus, which is a critical part of the brain. Because of its location, surgery isn’t an option. Attempting to remove it would risk severe, potentially life-threatening damage.”
My chest tightens, my hands gripping the arms of the chair, and I watch my knuckles pale into a ghostly, sickly white. “A… tumour?” I repeat, the word tasting foreign and salty in my mouth.
“It’s a low-grade glioma,” he continues, and before I can ask him what that means he says, “that means it’s slow growing, but these types of tumours can be unpredictable. They can transform into more aggressive, high-grade tumours over time.”
I blink at the screen, my vision blurring slightly. “So… what does that mean for me?”
“Currently, the tumour is stable,” he sighs. “But because of its size and location, it’s causing significant symptoms. You’ve likely already noticed some of them: severe headaches, nausea, mild hemiparesis—weakness on one side of the body. Difficulty with motor tasks, blurred vision, episodes of confusion, trouble concentrating.”
I nod slowly, because that list is so accurate it makes me want to vomit again. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. And the headaches had been so excruciating at some point… I thought I was dying.
I guess I was right about that.
But I’ve brushed those things off for months. My family too. Stress, dehydration, anything but this.
“And it’ll stay that way?” I ask, my voice small. “Stable?”
The doctor hesitates, and the pause is louder than any words. “If we’re lucky, yes. But the symptoms will remain and require ongoing management. If the tumour starts to grow, even slightly, the symptoms will worsen.”
“Worsen how?” My voice cracks.
“Your current symptoms would intensify,” he explains. “But new ones could also develop: seizures, significant cognitive decline, difficulty swallowing. If the tumour grows large enough, it could compress the brainstem and other critical structures. That can lead to respiratory failure, loss of consciousness, even a coma.”
I stare at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. “And if that happens… how long would I have?”
His eyes meet mine then, unflinching. “If the tumour progresses to that point, the prognosis would be one to two years, at best.”
Death. I’ve not put much thought into it before, not really. Sure, there were the occasional moments—late at night when the world was quiet—the thought would creep in. What if? When?How? I’d watched people die before, seen how it impacted other people. But it seemed so far off, so abstract. I had barely lived, why should I think about death?
But it’s here now. At the door, debating whether or not it should knock. And the truth is right there, staring at me through the screen. It’s here, sitting on my shoulders, pressing into my ribs until I’m choking and I can’t breathe.
I’m not ready.I’m not ready.
I lean back against the seat, running my hand through my hair, and squeezing my eyes shut. What if it gets worse tomorrow? Next week? How do I know it’s not already worse, that something’s not happening in my head right now while I sit here?
It’s the not knowing that’s driving me mad. I try to think about the tumour that’s apparently inside of me, but somehow all I can picture is a black, creeping mess, spreading out and choking everything it touches. I can feel it there now, like some kind of parasite burrowing deeper into my brain. It makes me wonder how on earth I haven’t noticed it before.
I thought I had time. God, I thought I had all the time in the world. I’m eighteen. Eighteen. People don’t die at eighteen. They go to college, then to university or get an apprenticeship. They go to parties, make new friends, and hook up with random people because it’s fun and they’re bored. They don’t sit in hospital hallways wondering if they’ll even make it to twenty.
I take a short glance at the doctor again, who stares back at me with serious, pitying eyes. It can’t possibly get any easier to deliver news like this, to tell them and prepare them for the inevitable.
Because how the hell do you prepare for death when it finally decides to pay you a visit? You can’t. You can only hope that when it does, it’ll give you a light tug, not drag you into its depths screaming.
***
104 days ago, I found out I have a brain tumour. And that my chances of living a long, healthy life are significantly lower than the average person. A lot lower.
I’ve learned that time moves differently when you’re counting it backwards, and when every day feels like it’ll slip through your fingers when you least expect it. It’s not that I’m dying—not yet. But I also don’t know if I’ll live. I don’t know if I’ll have a next birthday, or next Christmas. Or if I’ll see Ava become a famous actress, or my friends grow old. I don’t know anything at all.
