Chapter 8 Sloane
SLOANE
Pops sits beside me the next morning with his hands folded in his lap, posture straight like he’s still in charge of something. Like if he keeps his shoulders back and his chin up, his body will follow orders.
Cameron paces.
He tries not to, but he does—three steps toward the vending machines, three steps back. He checks his phone like the screen holds answers. He cracks his knuckles. He rolls his shoulders. He looks like he’s warming up for a game.
Logan isn’t here since he has rehab this morning.
It’s better that way.
That thought should make me feel relieved.
It doesn’t.
It makes my stomach twist.
I keep my eyes on the double doors down the hall that lead to the oncology wing. The ones we’ve walked through so many times that they might as well have our fingerprints memorized. The ones I used to walk through with a plan.
Chemo day. Blood work day. Scan day.
I used to treat it like a schedule I could master.
If I did everything right—if I asked the right questions, tracked the side effects, counted the days, enforced the rules—then maybe we could cheat the ending.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
A text from Jade pops up.
Jade: u ok?? practice later?
I stare at it until the words go blurry.
I don’t respond.
I can’t respond.
Because if I type anything at all, I’ll admit it. I’ll put it into the world. And once it’s in the world, it’s real.
A nurse appears in the doorway and calls our name.
My chest tightens like I’m bracing for impact.
Pops stands first.
Always.
Cameron stops pacing and falls into step beside him, shoulders squared. He looks at Pops like he can protect him with his body if he stands close enough.
I walk behind them, because if I walk beside Pops, I’ll grab his hand, and I won’t let go, and then I’ll start crying, and I refuse to do that in a hallway full of strangers.
We get led into a small room with a desk, a computer monitor, three chairs, and a box of tissues placed so deliberately on the corner of the desk it might as well be a warning sign.
The doctor comes in a few minutes later.
Dr. Patel.
Kind eyes. Calm voice. The kind of face you want to trust and hate at the same time.
He greets Pops first, shakes his hand, and asks about symptoms like he’s checking boxes and trying not to show his own dread.
“How have the headaches been?” he asks.
Pops shrugs like he’s talking about the weather. “They come and go.”
“And the dizziness?”
“Some days.”
Dr. Patel nods, clicks something on the computer, then turns the monitor slightly away like he doesn’t want us to see the screen.
My stomach turns.
He folds his hands on the desk and looks at Pops, then at me, then at Cameron.
“I’m glad you all could come in,” he says gently. “I know this has been a long journey.”
Pops’s jaw flexes.
Cameron’s foot starts bouncing, his energy compressed into his leg like a spring.
I keep my face blank.
I’ve been practicing blank for weeks.
Dr. Patel takes a breath.
“We received the MRI results,” he begins. “And I’m very sorry. The scan shows progression.”
The word hits like a punch to the throat.
Progression.
I knew it.
I saw it.
But hearing it out loud is different.
It’s heavier.
It takes up space in the room.
Pops doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just sits there like he’s waiting for the rest.
Dr. Patel continues, voice even, careful, “The tumor has grown, and there are multiple lesions. It’s affecting areas of the brain that control balance, speech, and—” He pauses, like he’s choosing which truth to give us first. “Behavior.”
Behavior.
My chest tightens.
So that’s why Pops has felt…off. Why he’s been slower. Why he’s been tired and stubborn and quieter in ways that don’t fit him.
Cameron makes a sound—small and sharp, like he swallowed a rock.
Pops exhales slowly. “So what are we talking about here?”
Dr. Patel doesn’t rush. He looks at Pops like he respects him.
“It’s aggressive,” he says. “And at this stage, the options become limited.”
Limited.
I clench my hands in my lap hard enough that my nails bite into my palms.
“What about surgery?” Cameron blurts, voice tight. “Can’t you take it out again?”
Dr. Patel’s gaze shifts to him, steady and kind.
“We consulted neurosurgery. Given where the tumors are located and the extent of involvement, surgery would pose more risk than benefit. There is a high likelihood of significant complications—loss of function, worsening symptoms, even…a reduced quality of life.”
Cameron’s face goes pale while Pops sits perfectly still.
I feel my body trying to float away from itself, like my mind is stepping backward to avoid being hit.
“What about treatment?” I ask, voice too controlled. “Chemo? Radiation? Trials?”
Dr. Patel nods slowly. “We can discuss palliative radiation—treatments meant to reduce symptoms and potentially slow progression. But I want to be honest about what we’re looking at.”
My pulse thunders.
“The likelihood of a meaningful response at this stage is minimal,” he says. “It may offer some symptom relief for a short period, but it is unlikely to change the overall outcome.”
There it is.
The part where he says the thing without saying the thing.
Pops’s voice comes out calm. “And the overall outcome is…?”
Dr. Patel takes another breath.
“I’m very sorry,” he says. “This disease is terminal.”
The air leaves the room.
I feel it physically, like someone opened a door and sucked all the oxygen out.
Cameron’s knee stops bouncing.
Pops doesn’t flinch.
I do.
Something in my chest cracks, just a hairline fracture, but I feel it.
“How long?” Cameron asks, voice hoarse.
Dr. Patel’s eyes soften. “It varies,” he says. “Weeks to months. Occasionally longer. But given the rate of progression and the symptoms you’ve described….I would prepare for months rather than years.”
Months.
My stomach lurches.
Months isn’t time. It’s a ticking time bomb, waiting and ready to rip the thing I love most in this world away from me.
Pops nods slowly, like he’s filing it away.
“Okay,” Pops says quietly.
Cameron makes a choking sound and turns his head away, pressing a fist to his mouth.
I sit there, frozen.
Because the only thing I can hear is the word hospice.
It hasn’t even been said yet.
But it’s hovering.
Dr. Patel leans forward slightly. “At this point, I want to focus on comfort and quality of life. We can connect you with our palliative care team—sometimes called comfort care. They specialize in managing symptoms, supporting the family, and helping you plan.”
He says plan like planning is something we can still do.
Like there’s still control to be found.
“And we should also begin discussing hospice,” he adds gently. “Hospice can be provided at home. It’s focused on comfort. Support. Peace.”
Peace.
The word makes me want to scream.
There is no peace in this.
There is only loss.
Pops clears his throat. “If we do nothing…what happens?”
Dr. Patel’s voice stays steady, but the pity in it is sharp. “The symptoms will progress,” he says. “There may be increasing confusion, changes in personality, difficulty with balance and speech. Eventually, there will be sleep. And then…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t have to.
My vision blurs.
I stare at the tissues on the desk.
I refuse to reach for them.
If I reach for them, I’ll break.
And if I break in front of Pops, he’ll try to comfort me.
He’ll spend his remaining time taking care of me.
I can’t let that happen.
Pops nods again, slowly. “Okay,” he repeats, voice even.
Cameron finally looks at Pops, eyes glassy. “Dad…”
Pops turns his head slightly. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Don’t.”
Cameron swallows hard, jaw trembling.
Dr. Patel speaks again, gentler. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I had better news.”
I hear myself say, “When do we meet with comfort care?”
The words come out like I’m asking about a dentist appointment.
Dr. Patel nods, almost relieved to have something practical. “We can schedule it this week,” he says. “As soon as possible.”
This week.
The world is moving too fast.
Pops stands with the same careful steadiness he walked in with. Like the diagnosis didn’t just change everything. Like he’s still Pops, and he’s not about to let a room full of fluorescent lights take that from him.
He shakes Dr. Patel’s hand.
“Thank you,” Pops says.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
Thank you?
For telling us my father is dying?
But Pops doesn’t mean thank you for the news.
He means thank you for the honesty.
For the respect.
For not treating him like a problem to solve.
Dr. Patel squeezes Pops’s hand briefly, then steps back. “I’ll have my office contact you today,” he says. “And please…call if anything changes. If symptoms worsen. If you need anything.”
We leave the room.
We walk down the hallway.
We pass other families sitting in other waiting areas, holding their own breath, carrying their own ticking bombs.
The lobby looks the same as it did an hour ago, yet my life feels completely upended.
Same smell. Same warm-toned couches.
But I feel like I’m walking through it underwater.
Outside, the January air hits my face like a slap.
Cameron moves ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense like he’s trying to hold himself together by force.
Pops pauses near the curb, squinting at the sky like he’s taking inventory of the day.
“Want to go home?” I ask, voice too tight.
Pops looks at me, and for a second, his eyes soften—like he sees exactly what I’m doing. Locking it down. Packing it away. Holding it all so he doesn’t have to.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Home.”
I nod and reach for the car keys with hands that do not shake.
Not yet.
Because I can’t afford to fall apart here.
Not in the hospital parking lot.
Not with Pops watching.
Not with Cameron barely holding himself upright.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I lock it down.
I put one foot in front of the other.
And I drive us home like my world hasn’t just been given an expiration date.