Greatest

1: time passeth swift away, our life is frail and we may die today

"Terminal," I say, quietly, looking down at a hangnail that I've been tugging at for the better part of an hour. It's bleeding now. I keep tugging at it for a moment and looking at the flecked black and white tile and my worn track shoes. They're running shoes really. I hate running.
I realize I've said nothing for a moment and that must be awkward for the doctor. It's hardly his fault I'm going to die. That wasn't his idea. I mean, it was his idea to go to medical school and eventually have to tell people that they are dying. But I am going to give him the benefit of the doubt, and say that it's not the best part of his job. Telling seventeen year olds with acne and low social skills that they're dying of cancer.
"Um can't you—," it takes longer than I thought to find my voice. "Can't you like—take it out?"
"Not in your case, no. Tumors such as yours, the cancer grows into your brain matter it can't—there would be no way of removing it. And it's fairly advanced," he says, leaning over his pot belly. He's wearing a faded blue button up, that's a few shades lighter than the pictures of my ruined my brain that he's sitting beneath. "Cyrus, it would be best if your parents came—,"
"They're busy," I say, immediately. About the third doctor visit for my mysterious headaches, my father had someone clever write up a load of paperwork that said I could go without a legal guardian, that is him or my mother. That sounds awful but thing is, the first four and half (that's a story I don't have time to tell, recall, I'm dying), doctors, they all said that I was having migraines. I am not having migraines. I'm having icky alien goop growing in my brain. That is a different, different sensation. This doctor, seventh and three quarters (one more time, I'm busy dying I'm not spending time relaying the flow of Cyrus from one doctor to the next). Anyway, the point of this is, I get to come to the doctors on my own. Doctor #6.75 was a neurologist and was nice enough to order a proper scan or three that revealed aforementioned alien goop growing in my brain (I'm well aware that's not what it's called. I believed I've mentioned I'm dying and that entitles me to call it what I like).
"How um—," my voice typically works better than this, "So you can't operate, can't I go on chemo or—,"
"We have some medicine that could make you more comfortable, but the headaches and the seizures are only going to get worse," he says, nodding.
"But like, chemo, would shrink it now?"
"Because your cancer—,"
"It's not my cancer I don't want it," I say, gripping the table, until my knuckles are white. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this moment.
"The cancer is deep in your brain, we can't treat it without damaging your brain more.  At this point, we're going to focus on quality of life," he says.
"What life—how—how long could that life potentially be?" I ask, looking down at my worn shoes again. Why am I sitting on this stupid table? Oh because I don't trust myself to be able to stand, that's why.
"The typical prognosis for this type of cancer is under five years," he says.
"And the um—statistics, of that—?" I ask, "Like, given—,"
"You have a 25% chance, on average, of surviving more than a year. As time goes on you're going to need more and more supportive care," he says, "Look, this is a lot and there's a lot of decision making to go on. You and your parents, your mother, can come back and I'm more than happy to go over it with them—,"
"No, nope, no, no, no, never, I'll sue, I'll not have you killed but I will sue, and I can do both of those things, no you're to tell no one about this. Ever. Ever, not even when I'm dead," this is my story now.
"If you would prefer to tell your family that's fine. It's entirely your decision, but they're going to need time too—,"
"No, no, this is my time. Only mine, and I'm going to make the best of it. I have to, don't I?" I ask, standing up. My feet support me with surprising willingness. I was expecting to fall down. Not now, no, for now I'm strong. "You said you had medicine, that could maybe help with the headaches or slow it or whatever?"
"Yes but—Cyrus at this point we're going to be treating the symptoms now, and that's going to be with limited success," he's wary, but he's also a bit afraid of me. Me, a scrawny chested, lithe boy in a faded campaign t-shirt, leather jacket, and jeans that still have dog hair on them. Well, he's not really afraid of me. He's afraid of what I represent. And that's my father. More on him later. Or not. Depends entirely on my mood.
"Excellent, um, thank you, thank you for your time, I'm going to be on my way now, because, I'm rather short on time it seems," I say, putting on my jacket.
"I can recommend a number of counselors, who are used to dealing with end of life issues—,"
"Not necessary, got my issues, and it's my end of life," I say, checking my pockets, and pulling out my phone. Several missed notifications from my brothers but nothing important. I text my youngest brother that I'm on way back. He's the only one asking how it went.
"What are you going to do?" The doctor asks, warily, standing up.
"You said I have a year, right?"
"Maybe more but—,"
"But probably a year that I'm not a vegetable due to invading alien goop?" I ask, scratching the back of my (treacherous) head.
"Yes, probably about a year," he says.
"I'm going to have the greatest year of my life," I say, smiling, "Don't feel bad. It's not your fault. I know now, not everyone gets that."
"Good yes, and I'm more than happy to talk to your parents about school, maybe not going back for your senior year, now spending time with family, maybe traveling—,"
"As I said, not got a lot of time it seems, I'm going to make the most of it, thank you, I don't plan on coming back not my favorite thing hospitals, if you could call the pharmacy send in whatever pills you think I might like, thanks, I appreciate you," I shake his hand with both of mine as I back out of the room.
"Cyrus, I highly recommend taking the numbers of some of these counselors you may!"
"I've got this!" I call to him, pumping my fist. I do not think that that comforts him whatsoever. That's okay. He'll get over.