Neverending Peace

Stay Stay Stay

They never actually use the word cancer. Or maybe they do, but that isn't until they've already used the word glioblastoma, grade four which is somehow a thousand times worse as they stare blankly at the light box on the wall, displaying Taylor' MRI results and she's certainly no expert but the white mass invading her frontal lobe isn't supposed to be there and her entire body is shaking, mind racing because it all makes sense. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She's finally let Joe persuade her into letting him come to an appointment. Particularly this one where they'd be seeing the progression of her cancer.

Taylor doesn't even have time to react before Joe is blurting out a shaky, "So what are the options?" His hand tightens instinctively around Taylor'.

Not many, it turns out, because Taylor has cancer and it's of the incurable, brain-eating variety and fuck, when did it get so cold in here? She can't stop shaking and the whole world is spinning. Dr. Allen is still talking, tight, grim smile on his face and Taylor wants to punch it off because he's using words like bad, but not hopeless except it is hopeless because, well. She can have them poke around in her head and feed her drugs through plastic tubing but the gist of this entire conversation is that she's going to die.

"They were supposed to be just headaches," she whimpers helplessly, wanting to disappear when Joe lets out this little choking sob next to her, hand curling around Taylor's arm and tugging her close but Taylor tugs back. She doesn't want anyone to touch her. Her skin itches, like she needs to shed it all and start anew. She wants to sink into the ground and disappear into the very core of the earth, to become part of the soil and rock and grass, to exist everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.

Instead, she stands up slowly and says, very quietly, "I think I need to puke," before walking out of the room and stumbling down the clean white hospital hallway to the bathrooms, locking herself in a stall and clutching the porcelain basin with shaking hands. She doesn't puke, though - just sits there, body heaving but never quite enough to get her to empty the contents of her stomach and god, she wishes she could because dread is coiling in her stomach like rope and she presses her forehead to the toilet seat.

It's gross, but she doesn't care. It feels suddenly like all the life has drained out of her and she sits there, limp and emotionless for a long, long time until Joe is pounding on the door, begging her to let him in. His voice is loud and broken and Taylor can tell he's been crying. It feels like the entire world is falling away around her and when she finally opens the door, shaking like a leaf, she collapses into Joe's arms.

"'S gonna be okay," Joe whispers into her temple, smearing tears into her hair. Taylor isn't convinced, but she follows Joe back to Dr. Allen's office anyway because what the fuck else is she supposed to do?

Once they're settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chairs and Joe has pulled Taylor' chair so close she's nearly in Joe's lap, the doctor smiles professionally. Taylor wonders how many people he's had to tell they were dying. He's probably had lots of practice, from the look on his face, but the guilty look in his eyes betrays him. Taylor' stomach churns violently.

"So, treatment," Dr. Allen begins again, folding his hands on top of the stack of papers on his desk. "The most common path is surgery; we can get a better look at it and remove a good portion of the tumor that way, though how much we're able to remove is hard to determine at the moment."

Taylor doesn't want to hear it. Joe is listening raptly, though, and Taylor almost expects him to whip out a pen and start taking notes. The thought makes her want to cry. she drifts in and out of the conversation, all too aware of the knobs of her spine pressing against the cold back of the chair and that her left sock has slipped off her heel, leaving her foot cold and uncomfortable. Drifting back to the present, she tries desperately to tune back into what the doctor is saying."...chemotherapy is always an option," Dr. Allen says, lips pursed, and Taylor' heart is in his throat. "Unfortunately, it has proved in the past to have very little effect on the life expectancy or even the comfort of brain tumor patients."

There's a low, guttural moan then and it takes Taylor a moment to realize she's the one making it.

" By taking a route without any treatment there is still the 15% survival rate, but most patients don't want to take the risk."

"Again, Taylor," Dr. Allen says, and Taylor flinches because up until now she's only been addressed as Ms.Swift. "It's all up to you."

"Can I..." Taylor begins, feeling the ache in her stomach grow and come crawling up her throat, like it's going to pop out and glue her mouth shut before she can finish but she pushes on, desperate to get the words out. "Can I have a few days to think about it?"

The doctor nods. "Absolutely. However - as is with all forms of brain cancer - time is of the essence." Taylor knows she's seen and heard this a hundred times before. How many dead people does this guy know? Taylor wonders. How many death sentences has he given out?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Joe asks on the car ride home, eyes rimmed red, chewing his lip worriedly, and reaches out to rest his hand over Taylor's. Taylor tugs away, almost instinctively, but the look of hurt on Joe's face is enough to make her rethink it.

"Not really," she mumbles, pressing her nose against the glass and slipping her hand back into Joe's. A beat of silence, then, "What about the band?"

"Fuck the band," Joe snaps and Taylor almost laughs at how very unlike himself Joe sounds right now. "Sorry," he adds quickly, eyes apologetic and a little embarrassed. "It's just, you know. You're more important."

"That doesn't even make sense," Taylor snorts, rolling his eyes. "They're not going to like that." she doesn't need to specify who they are. Joe knows.

Squeezing Taylor' hand, Joe says, "We'll figure it out."

Taylor does a lot of research, scrolling through articles on her phone or the computer from the minute she wakes up to early hours of the morning, light from the screen hurting her eyes and certainly doing nothing to help the pain in her head.

Not like anything is really going to help at this point.

And the doctor was right - there's not a lot they can do. There are medications she can take to help with the tumor swelling and they can remove some of the tumor but there could still be complications. A year of radiation and chemo and constant hospital visits she doesn't want it, doesn't want any of this. she wants to see her brother grow up, wants to buy a house with Joe, wants to be allowed to hold his hand on the street. she wants to go on tour again next year, wants to travel more, she wants so much and there's just no time for it all, even with treatment.

The average survival length for glioblastoma patients without treatment is a 12 months. Maybe 14. She has the privilege of having the best doctors, and most current treatments, but clinging onto the number 15 is exhausting.

It scares Taylor when her weary brain whispers, that's more than enough.

She's just so tired, is the thing.

It's two days, six hours, twenty two minutes and twelve seconds when Taylor makes her decision.

It hits her right in the chest like a bolt of lightning and she sits bolt upright in bed. Joe wakes up immediately, reaching out for her.

"What's wrong, love?" he asks, voice hoarse from sleep and cracking with concern. It makes Taylor sad that she knows she's going to have to get used to it.

But looking at Joe's tired eyes, she knows now isn't the best time to tell him. Maybe it'll be better to tell him in the morning, when light is warming his face and his brain isn't so muddled with thoughts and pain – so much pain. So instead she just lays back down, cuddling into Joe's chest and mumbling, "Nothing, love. Just a bad dream is all. Back to sleep now, just a bad dream."

If Joe notices how badly she's shaking, he doesn't say anything. Neither of them do.