March 19th, 2012, my boyfriend was diagnosed with cancer. What I’m about to share is a story about out last month together.
March 3rd, 2012, we officially started dating. We’ve known each other forever, and I knew how outgoing and active he was, but since the first week of March he’s been tired, and weak, always complaining he’s sick, or something isn’t right. He just wasn’t acting like himself.
March 7th, 2012, Leon -that’s his name- told his mother what was going on, at first she passed it off as an excuse to miss school, but then she started to notice the change in his attitude and took him to the hospital for some tests. We waited and waited until finally, March 19th arrived and they received a call from the doctor.
March 19th, 2012, Leon called me at around 1pm; he didn’t go to school that day so he called me at lunch.
“Hey, babe, I have some bad news for you,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked, I wasn’t really paying attention to his serious tone, but something was telling me something was wrong.
“I just got a call from the doctor; I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. I’m going in for some more tests later; I just thought I should let you know first.” He replied. I could tell he was trying to sound confident and calm, but I could hear to fear and tears in his wavering voice. It was at that point when I dropped my phone and ran for the front doors. My friends yelled after me, trying to figure out what was wrong, but all I could think of was putting one foot in front of the other and not throw up.
I ran the whole 10 minutes to his house, not slowing down a bit, taking all the back roads to avoid traffic. He knew I was coming, why else would he wait on the front steps? This is just like the time when we were 6, and he broke his foot and called me to tell me to sign his cast. I was so scared for him then, thinking he was dying. We always brought it up, it was a good laugh, but now thinking back to that day, it’s not really funny. Not funny at all.
He looked up at me, shame shading his face, tear streaks down his cheek. He looked so scared and fragile I stopped in place, fell to the ground, and cried.
March 31, 2012, I went to his house early morning, excited for our picnic date he had planned yesterday during lunch. His mother works from 2am-10pm, so we would be alone for the whole day.
I walked into the house like I always do, and made my way up to his room. I knocked on his door twice and let myself in. His bed was made nice and neat but his clothes on the floor. I smiled to myself and sat on his bed, waiting for him to exit his bathroom. I could hear the shower going but nothing else. I wasn’t sure how long he was in there so I just sat and waited, watching TV, which he left on the weather channel.
20 minutes passed and the water was still going. It was at this point I started to get worried. My heart pumped faster and faster, my hand shaking and my knees weak as I reached for the bathroom door handle.
I knocked twice and let myself in, the damp air making it hard to breathe. I grabbed his towel off the sink and whipped the curtain open, unfolding the towel in front of me. I looked forward, nowhere else, and saw no one there. Right then, I knew he passed out in the shower and quickly dropped the towel and reached for the knobs to turn the water off, a pale foot against the edge of the tub proving my suspicions.
I ran out of the room as fast as I could, trying not to slip on the bathroom tile and ran for my cell. Like any other person would do is call 911, but no, first I called his mother, telling her to get home quick. With no questions asked she says she’s on her way and hangs up. Then I called 911.