50. Cameron
Cameron
It’s been weeks since the transplant. Weeks of pain, exhaustion, and waiting. Waiting for hope to shine through all of this, waiting for something to go right.
Gabrielle is sitting beside me, gripping my hand so tightly I think she might break me before the cancer does.
My parents are here too, seated in the chairs across from my hospital bed, their eyes trained on the doctor standing in front of us.
I should be listening to what he’s saying. I should be absorbing every detail, every statistic, every possible outcome.
But all I hear is white noise.
The words slip through my ears, and I swear they echo around me.
The marrow didn’t graft properly.
Your body has been through too much.
The transplant failed.
I blink. My body feels numb and heavy, but my heart is slamming in my chest like it’s trying to escape.
Failed.
I hear a sharp inhale next to me—Gabrielle’s breath catching like she’s been punched in the stomach. My mom’s hands are clutched together in her lap, knuckles turning white. My dad’s jaw is clenched so tight I swear it could shatter.
I keep waiting for the doctor to follow up with a solution, a next step, something.
But then reality hits—
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any other options left.”
I barely feel Gabrielle’s nails digging into my skin, and I barely hear the strangled noise my mom makes. I barely register anything besides those words looping over and over in my head.
No other options.
None.
“How…long?” I ask simply. Straight to the point because I know what comes next. What’s the point in beating around the bush?
The doctor exhales, shifting slightly, like he’s waiting for someone else to speak. When no one does, he delivers the final blow.
“Cameron…you have about six months to a year left—best case scenario.”
I blink and nod…but it’s an autopilot response.
The words don’t seem real. They don’t fit in my brain. I don’t react. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Mostly because I just can’t.
But Gabrielle does. She jerks forward, shaking her head, her voice coming out sharp and panicked. “No…No!” she says louder. “There has to be something else. Another trial, another treatment, something—”
The doctor turns to her, his expression softening, but his voice is still firm. “We’ve exhausted every option. Cameron’s body can’t handle any more treatments. They would only speed up what time he has left and risk major complications.”
Gabrielle shakes her head harder, her breathing coming too fast. “That’s not—it can’t be—”
“Gab,” I try to interrupt, but she doesn’t stop.
“Please,” she begs, her voice breaking, her grip on me tightening like she’ll be able to anchor me here by sheer force. “Please, just tell me there’s something else.”
I hate this.
I hate that she’s the one pleading. That she’s the one suffering while I sit here in a daze, barely able to feel anything at all.
The doctor sighs, pained by this conversation. “The only thing we can do now is make sure you are comfortable, Cameron. We can focus on palliative care, pain management—”
I stop listening again as Gabrielle lets out a strangled sob beside me, and my mom turns into my dad’s chest, her body trembling.
I sit still.
So still.
I think I nod. I don’t really know.
The doctor stays a little longer, explaining things, but I’m not absorbing a single syllable. My mind is somewhere else.
Six months to a year.
That’s it?
I should’ve known. I did know.
I knew this could happen. I knew my odds. I knew my body had already been pushed to the brink.
But knowing it in theory is different from hearing it spoken out loud. It’s different having to watch the woman I love beg for more time that I don’t have.
I glance down at my lap, only able to focus on the way Gabrielle’s hand trembles against mine. My throat is too dry to swallow. My heart is too heavy to beat properly.
It all feels too suffocating.
I’ve given this news out countless times. Now I’m on the receiving end.
Just like that, my expiration date is set.