where truth and fiction meet // buckin

thirty-seven

*

Chris' POV

Two weeks.

Two weeks I've been waiting for Jay to awaken from this comatose state.

Shortly after he'd passed out on the floor the doctors said he had a brain hemorrhage—which was caused when his brain tumor must have erupted like a fucking volcano.

I tried explaining to Hannah how to deal with this. She was understanding of the fact but wasn't fully aware. But I never expected her to understand this.

"Your daddy will wake up soon, sweetheart. He's just—really sick. But it's okay, cause I'm here. I will always be here." I kissed her forehead as tears formed in my eyes. I was then embracing her; we shared a special bond with one another during this time when we needed Jay the most. His surrogate for his baby boy was doing spectacular in her ultrasounds and check-ups, but I was so dearly afraid if he didn't come out of this. I would have to take care of the two on my own. I would be drained, depressed, and all alone. It would be up to me, myself, and I to care for two other human beings other than myself. And if this were the end, it would be particularly hard for me to go on when I wouldn't survive without him and on my own. I would never find someone who has the same quantities or qualities as Jonny. To me, he was my one and only and nothing could ever snatch him from me—except this cancerous brain tumor. Why hadn't this been me who had gotten cancer? The world needs an angel and he was more than likely to never come out of this without some sort of harm done. I'm not an angel. I wished it was me. I love him too much. And to know that he was in the last stage of this, the end was fucking near and I couldn't stop crying. My arms were covered in blood all the time—I felt so terrible that I feel like I have done nothing but support him. I could have helped. I tried, though, so I don't know why I'm living in constant grief of how I might lose him. I wore long sleeve shirts and jackets to cover this from Hannah or whosoever else. I had to play this happy-go-lucky guy who had no worries but I was just so depressed. This was depressing me to the breaking point. I wanted to die if he had to go as well. But what about our children? One on the way and one of my own? They need us both; not only me.

Everyday for these past two weeks though, I had come to see Jonny. His mother had as well. He had not yet been awake even once during this time. It was so devastating to see someone I loved in this shape—hooked to machines and IVs to try and get his basic health care taken care of while he couldn't come out of this. This was not at all good news for anybody who cared for, loved, or cherished him. Sometimes, his mother and I would stay until after twelve in he morning, her head on my shoulder and my face in my hands as we sobbed together at the thought of losing such a sweet, delicate angel as he.

It was the very beginning of the third week of his coma, and progress was finally being made. He could squeeze your hand if you asked, and could even slightly open his eyes to look around. Hope in his life was refilled instantaneously as we received nothing but such delightful news.

Once he could talk again and could communicate much better, we learnt that his recovery would not have to go downhill so fast. His specialist decided to come in and have a final treatment walkthrough.

"Mr. Buckland, the staff and I have deeply researched this tumor and studied your CT scans. I have constantly stayed up until time to go to work, worrying myself to death as I studied it on my own. I just didn't know if I were so happening to do the wrong treatment plans, so I asked a coworker to lend me his second opinion. It's not just you in this fight. It's your husband, your kids, your family, and me as well. I struggle to find the right procedure to take even the slightest bit of the tumor from your brain, due to where it's located. It's where most of your memory is. It has been a struggle to get the surgery plotted on our charts," he said, handing us some papers. "And if there would be one slip up, you could wake up and feel like and think like a young adolescent."

Reality set in as we took a look at the scan of the tumor. It's almost doubled in size from the very beginning. "What are the chances of waking up and being the same?" Jonny's voice rings throughout the hospital room.

The doctor swallowed hard, and we both could definitely hear the lump in his throat. "The chances of you waking up just the same is lower than about thirty-five percent. If this fails, this could mean this tumor is advanced beyond our care."

•

Those words left the room cold, and it left our mouths bitter.