Control

35

To say that Adyson took the news of my seizure and subsequent short stay in the hospital well would be misleading. Although she didn‟t get quite as upset as I had built up in my head as I lay in the hospital bed waiting to be released or during my drive home from the hospital. She was none too pleased that I hadn‟t called her to inform her of the incident. It frightened her that I had had another seizure, and it terrified her that my tumor had not only not as we had hoped, but that it had actually grown. These were things we had known were possibilities, and had been somewhat prepared to deal with when or if they should arise.

I had not overestimated Adyson‟s reaction to my decision to stop all treatments. It took me a while to work up my nerve, and the right wording to tell her. I had come up with several speeches in my head, but none of them really seemed right. There was no easy way, it was something you had to just say, to speak honestly and in the moment, and hope that the recipient would understand. When I finally got the words out and told her that I was tired, and that I knew there was nothing more to be done, she just stared at me. I felt like I should say more, as she sat there for a long while with her eyes fixated on my forehead. I wasn‟t sure if she had heard me, or if she was still lost in her thoughts of my incident and CT scan results. When her face starting turning red, as it had a tendency to do before she got upset or yelled, I knew she had heard everything I had said. I also knew that it was going to be a long, loud afternoon.

She said she didn‟t understand why I was so resistant to treatment, and why I seemed so hell bent on just letting myself die. I understood her point, and knew that if the tables were turned, that I would feel the same way and have the same reaction. I knew that from the outside it did look as if I was giving up. But from inside, in my own mind, I knew it was already over. It had crossed my mind countless times, and although I would have the occasional urge to fight and do anything and everything it took to beat this, I always felt there was some futility to what I was doing.

Sometimes growing up I would get this feeling, that I couldn‟t put in words. When I would think of myself as an old man, what I would be like, how I would feel, how my life would play out, I had a feeling I would never reach that point. Obviously I had no idea why or how I wouldn‟t live that long, but somehow I knew that something would stop me.

Morbid, I know.

Adyson went on a little rant, asking me how I could give up so easily, reminding me how short of a time I had been fighting this, and that in comparison to many my fight had been easy so far. She had seen what cancer does to people, and even in their last moments she could see a fight in them. She just couldn‟t understand why I was giving up so soon and so easily.

And I couldn‟t explain to her why. I wished I had an answer, but I truly didn‟t. Not one that made sense anyway. I knew she wouldn‟t take well to my „I just always knew I was going to die young‟ explanation. So I just told her I wanted to be with her and Aiden, to really BE there. Not drugged up, not half asleep at the dinner table because of the fatigue from treatment. Not vomiting in the bathroom all weekend missing Aiden‟s little league or riding a bike. The treatments had already robbed me of time with my family, and although I understood they were necessary at the time I was ready to take back whatever part of my life the cancer would allow me.

She listened to me, shaking her head, tears falling silently from her eyes. She heard me, but didn‟t understand me. I couldn‟t blame her.

"So that‟s it?" she asked, bitterness lacing her voice. "You‟re just going to give up? Just going to die and leave us because you want to spend time with us? That makes no fucking sense, you know that?"

"Yes, I know. From your point, it makes no sense. But from where I am, from what I know, this is my best option. Come on, Adyson, you know the treatments aren‟t working. You know it. We could go on like this for months, maybe years more. Me throwing up most of the time, spending whole weekends in bed because I‟m just too tired to get up and play with my son. Sooner or later, people will notice. I‟ve been better since the treatments were cut back, but I‟m still not me. Not really. And I‟m tired of lying and living a double life. My work life versus my sick guy life. I‟m done with it."

"So are we going to tell people the truth?" she asked, almost challenging me. "Are we going to tell them that you have cancer, and that you‟re going to let yourself die?"

"Yes." I admitted, noticing the way her eyes widened at my sincerity. "We are going to tell them. Eventually. I don‟t want a big „I have cancer‟ announcement, but I am sick of lying. I‟m sick of leaving Aiden in the care of our family and friends and lying about where we‟ve gone. I‟m tired of all of it."

She didn‟t seem to have a comeback for that one. She just sat silently across from me on the couch, her hands balled into angry little fists at her sides as she stared at me.

I could only imagine what this must be like for her. I hated that I was putting her through this. She not only had to deal with my abnormalities, but also the chance that our son would inherit my strange quirks, the fact that I was sick, and now that I was dying. I hated that I couldn‟t give her what she needed or deserved, that I was weak and tired and just ready. I hated that my son would possibly never really know me. That he would grow up knowing not only that his dad died from cancer, but possibly thinking that I didn‟t care enough to fight to stay with him.

Despite all the hatred I felt towards myself and the situation I was in, I couldn‟t muster the desire to change my decision.

For the first time since all this had begun, I felt at peace.

I knew it wouldn‟t be easy and I would get scared. I would reconsider and think I had made the wrong choice over and over and over. That, as I watched myself deteriorate, I would wish I would have just fought a little harder.

But that was something I would have to deal with. I had to make a decision one way or another, regardless that neither option was good. Fight, be sick, lose quality time with my family, or stop fighting, be sick, but have the chance to truly be present for them for whatever time I had left.

I felt my choice was right. Maybe not for everyone else, but for me.

"So that‟s it?" Adyson said. She seemed lost. "You‟ve made your choice."

I nodded. "Yes." Tears fell from my own eyes, mirroring those of my wife. "I just want to be here with you while I can. I don‟t want to fight a losing battle anymore."

She sniffed loudly. "You know it won‟t be easy," she said, again preparing to challenge me. "As the tumor grows, you will get sicker. You may hallucinate. You may end up not even knowing who Aiden and I are. You say you want to be here with us, truly be present for us, but you know that as this progresses, there is a chance you won‟t be. Not really."

"I know. It is possible that I will be able to know you until it‟s over." I countered.

She gave me a bitter smirk. "It‟s possible. Not likely." "Possible is enough for me."

With that, Adyson seemed to deflate. Her shoulders slumped, rounding her back as her hands came to her face and she cried in earnest. She had no more contradictions, no more challenges. She knew that nothing she said was going to change my mind.

I slid across the short distance that separated us on the couch and drew her closer to me. She resisted at first, pushing me away angrily. But I didn‟t let her go. I forced her to me, holding her tight as she cried.

Neither of us said anything more for a long while. I don‟t think there really was anything left to say at that point. Everything that needed to be said, or that mattered saying was already out in the open.

I had no idea how I was going to tell my family and friends. Or when. I wasn‟t ready yet. I needed time to process the decision myself, and settle into a sense of acceptance with my family before I had to deal with the opinions and emotions of others in our lives. They didn‟t need to know all the details. Telling them it was inoperable and treatments were no longer an option seemed enough to me. But I knew that questions, opinions, recommendations would still come freely and frequently. That was something I knew I would have to deal with that, but for now it could wait.

There were a lot of things I was going to have to deal with now that my mind had been made up. But for now, the only thing that mattered to me was sitting with my wife.