Chapter 25
Willow
“Glioblastoma is incurable and, unfortunately, the most aggressive type of cancer.”
Dr Hammond’s voice is gentle, practised. The kind of voice you develop after saying the same devastating sentence to too many families for too many years.
The office is painfully white—white walls, white blinds, white cabinets.
Every surface feels clinical, stripped of anything remotely comforting.
Posters line the walls—diagrams of brains, charts of tumour growth, leaflets fanned neatly across the desk, all screaming the same word over and over again.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
Dr Hammond is bald, with small glasses perched on his nose, deep lines carved into his face. He looks kind. Tired. Like a man who has watched hope walk out of this room more times than he can count.
But none of it is registering.
When Dad first told me what they thought it might be, I went with him for the biopsy. I told myself I needed to be there, needed to see through it from the start.
And when this appointment came around, I insisted on coming again. I convinced myself that hearing it straight from the doctor would make it easier to process. More real. More… manageable. Like, if I understood it properly, I could somehow control it.
But deep down, beneath all that forced logic, I was clinging to one stupid, fragile hope.
That they're all wrong.
Sadly, they aren't.
“There are treatments we can offer,” Dr Hammond continues carefully. “As I mentioned before, they won't cure it. They may simply buy you some time.”
Time.
The word echoes in my head like it means nothing.
“How much time?” I ask, my fingers digging into the skin of my wrist, nails scraping back and forth, back and forth, like if I focus on that sensation, I won't fall apart.
For the first time since sitting down, I force myself to look at him properly instead of the walls that feel like they're closing in on me.
“I can't give you an exact answer,” he says softly.
“I’m not asking for exact,” I snap. “Just… give me something.”
“Willow.” Dad's hand wraps around mine, stilling my wrist before I can scratch myself raw. His thumb presses into my skin, grounding and warm.
I swallow hard, blinking fast.
“I just want to know.” I focus on the doctor, my throat burning. “I need to know.”
Dr Hammond glances at my dad before giving me a small, resigned nod. He leans forward, forearms braced on the desk, sympathy softening his features as he speaks directly to me.
“First, we can operate and remove as much of the tumour as possible without causing damage to the surrounding tissue. After that, radiotherapy would be daily for six weeks. There's also a chemotherapy option called temozolomide that's often used alongside it.”
I don't care about names or the science.
“And this will… help keep him here?” My voice sounds small to my own ears. All I want—selfishly, desperately—is more time.
“There are always risks and complications with treatments like these,” he says carefully.
“I don't want to make this sound like an easier path, Mr Harrington. You've already been experiencing headaches, fatigue, and mood changes. Many patients also have seizures at some point, which we’ll need to monitor closely.”
I squeeze Dad's hand hard. “I can look after him.”
Dad turns to me, his expression pained. “I don't want you to have to look after me. You're eighteen. You've got college, dance, a life to live.”
I curl my other hand into a fist in my lap, nails biting into my palm.
Dad. Respectfully. Shut up.
“I’m doing this. You're going to need someone after the operation. Someone, when you're tired, when you can't be bothered and when things get hard for you. I’m not leaving you to deal with all of this on your own. And you know I’m capable and stubborn. So don't even try to argue with me.”
The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles as he smiles at me, soft and sad all at once. I know for a fact he was going to suggest that I stay at my mum's.
He knows better than to even suggest it.
I’d rather sleep in a skip full of shit than go there.
“Okay,” I breathe, turning back to Dr Hammond. “Now, doctor. How long does he have? And please don't give me the ‘I can't give you a time’ speech.”
He clears his throat, straightening his tie. “Most patients with this type of cancer live roughly twelve months. Eighteen, at a push.”
It's not enough.
No number would ever be enough.
Twelve months. Eighteen if we’re lucky.
There's no luck about any of this.
The figure loops in my head until they stop sounding like time and starts sounding like a countdown.
Everything inside me goes eerily quiet, like someone's pulled a plug on my thoughts.
A world without my dad in just over a year doesn't feel real.
It feels like something that happens to other people. People in sad documentaries.
Children aren't supposed to bury their parents.
I don't even realise I’m shaking until Dad is pulling me into him, one hand cradling the back of my head like he used to when I was little. His chest is warm.
“I’m going to do everything they tell me.” I can hear the tremor in his voice. “I’m going to fight for as much time with you as I can.”
He's the one who's dying.
Not me.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness in my throat. I can't fall apart. Not here. Not in front of him. He needs me to be strong.
As the doctor talks us through appointments, treatment plans, side effects, and schedules, I realise something with a dull, creeping clarity.
My dad has been handed a timetable for his death.
I sit quietly, listening to Doctor Hammond, nodding at the appropriate moments and trying to absorb the words I know I’ll need to remember later. As the conversation continues, I can’t shake the feeling that a part of me is dying alongside him.