Page 120 of Fighting Fate
My mind reels, struggling to grasp the reality of a week slipping by unnoticed. My thoughts are a whirlwind, but they're interrupted as Kins steps up, adjusting the IV with practiced ease.
"You're fortunate to be awake now, Miles. We've all been quite worried." She offers a gentle smile.
Surveying the room, the sterile walls, the anxious faces of my family, their concern weighs on me, tangible and heavy.
"And now?" My voice is frail, laced with uncertainty.
Dr. Reynolds leans in, his voice a blend of reassurance and seriousness, but he's cut off by my dad's deep sigh. "Son, the cancer's back."
The news doesn't stir me; it's an old shadow, one I've felt lurking. Dr. Reynolds and I exchange a silent look, an acknowledgment of a truth unspoken to my family. I close my eyes, fighting the surge of emotion, refusing to let it overwhelm me. When I open them again, everyone's eyes are fixed on me, seeking answers I don't have.
Fuckkkkk.
I'm swimming in a fog of doubt. Every wish, every plan for what's ahead feels blurry. Why bother setting dreams in motion? Why imagine a tomorrow when this sickness throws a shadow across everything again? The room's thick with worry, a tangle of love and fear that's just too much. How do I offer up hope when I'm knee-deep in my own questions, my own dark thoughts?
And Milli, what about her?
How is she coping with all of this chaos? The thought gnaws at me. She must be struggling, maybe even resentful. A lone tear escapes, trailing down my cheek. Only a week ago, we were basking in the joy of confessed love, seemingly untouchable in our little slice of heaven. But then, as if on cue, fate cruelly snapped its fingers, deciding I'd had my share of happiness. "Enough, Miles," it seemed to say.
The weight of guilt twists in my gut, the secret of my condition now laid bare. They deserved the truth, but the burden felt too heavy, too dark to share when I couldn't even face it myself.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, piercing the tense quiet. My voice fractures, heralding the tears teetering on the edge. "I didn't mean to pile on more for you to fret about." In a silent exchange of looks, my parents' expressions meld understanding with apprehension. They reach for my hands, their touch a quiet anchor in the storm.
But it's not long before Dad's familiar resolve surfaces. "Miles, we've overcome this before. You're a fighter. You'll show everyone what you're made of, on and off the field." It's like being seven again, back in a hospital bed, Dad's encouragement morphing into those motivational speeches, urging me back to health.
How naïve to think he'd react any differently.
Mom's eyes linger on Dad for a moment before turning to me, her voice soft yet firm. "Honey, what's most important now is getting you healthy again. Back to your normal self."
Normal. That word stings more than it should.
I am normal. I'm just...me. My mind races, yearning to escape this room, to find peace in my own space, with Milli, to somehow return to the joy of our Panthers' Day game victory.
I shake my head, trying to focus, to heed Kinsley's advice on breathing through the chaos. But it's a losing battle when Dr. Reynolds interjects.
"Miles, we need to keep you here another day for observation. Then you can go home. But," he pauses, his gaze flitting between me and my parents, "with your cancer returning, we need to discuss treatment options."
His eyes lock with mine, an acknowledgment of my stubborn refusal to face this sooner.
If only I hadn't delayed. Could I have prevented this?
Regrets won't help now, Miles.
"The silver lining," Dr. Reynolds continues, "is that we're dealing with a benign form this time, not as aggressive as before."
Somehow, this doesn't feel like relief. The words "brain cancer" still hang heavy, malignant or benign. It's a loop of fear and uncertainty, a cycle I thought I had escaped.
Dr. Reynolds' voice softens, attempting reassurance. "This means we have a fighting chance with a less aggressive treatment plan."
Just like before, right? And yet, here I am again, facing down the same beast in a slightly less ferocious form. The optimism in his words feels distant, unreachable. I close my eyes, tuning out the hopeful murmurs. They're just echoes in the void of my frustration and fear.
"I'll start preparing your treatment plan," Dr. Reynolds says, breaking the silence. "We're in this together. You're not alone."
But I've heard it all before. As my parents go over the details, my mind wanders, caught in a tempest of anger and despair. It feels like a vicious cycle, a harsh echo of a previous fight I believed was behind us. The idea of a "less aggressive" cancer doesn't soften the blow; it's a harsh reality, shrouded in the same fear and ambiguity.
Life can feel like a maelstrom sometimes, everything moving at lightning speed, and you're just there, fully immersed in the thrill of it all. But then, without warning, something slams into your world, a hurdle or a twist of fate, and suddenly, time drags. It's been three weeks since I found out Miles is battling cancer. Three weeks of silence from him. Three weeks of a void where he used to be.
He's shut everyone out.