I'll Leave You With The Outtakes // Phan

Part 6

They never say the word dying. Or possibly they do, but not until they've already used the term Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, early stages which is in some way a thousand times worse as they point blankly at the graphs from the EMG, blood and urine draw results, and the pictures from the MRI, all displayed on a large computer screen. And even though the results on the screen mean nothing to Dan, the words that the doctor is rattling off do, and he can't stop shaking, his mind is racing because now it all makes sense. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

Dan can't find the words to say, but Phil blurts,"So what are the options?" And Dan had almost forgotten Phil was there, and now he doesn't want him to be, because this isn't Phil's problem. And Dan just wants to be alone, so he can absorb it all. Actually realize that...there are no options. His whole world is spinning and Dr. Valdez won't stop talking, even though there should be nothing more to say. It's hopeless. He's has ALS, and Dan's not stupid—he's not a fucking idiot. There's no cure.

There's one drug that might help him last longer, and the doctor seems to think it should give him hope, but it doesn't. Because the entire point of every word she is saying is that he is going to die. And it's so much worse than that. His body is going to rot away, until eventually he's a perfectly functioning mind trapped inside a failing body. And Dan has fucking heard of Stephen Hawking before, he's not an idiot. He knows what this looks like.

"They were just hand tremors," he mumbles, it's the only thing he knows to say. This cannot be happening to him, it has to be a nightmare. He wants to disappear and dissolve into the sky. To be nowhere and nothing and yet everything at the same time. Part of the stars, or the trees, or anything but a human being. Anything but a sick, dying human being. He can be one of Phil's houseplants for all he cares. At least houseplants, can't feel, can't cry, can't get Lou Gehrig's disease. When Phil let's out a small choked sob beside him, Dan wants to scream. He wants to snap and slap Phil across the face as hard as he can. This isn't Phil's life, Phil's not sick. He's not supposed to even be here. And for fucks sake Phil isn't even supposed to care. Phil isn't the one whose body is shriveling into uselessness. In that moment Dan has never hated anyone more than he hates Phil. He almost curses every fiber of Phil's being right there, he almost screams. Almost.

Instead, he jerks out his chair and blurts,"I need to puke,"before he nearly runs out of the room and stumbles down the sterile white hallway, brushing past nurses and patients until he reaches the bathroom and locks himself in a stall. Dread is weighing down Dan's stomach like lead. There is sharp panic crawling at every inch of his skin, and he can feel it, can feel it crawling up his throat. He clutches the porcelain rim, spewing breakfast and lunch and the really good latte he'd been drinking earlier into the stark white of the toilet bowl. And it's disgusting but Dan can't bring himself to care. Suddenly, Dan feels like all of his energy has been drained away, and he can't move anymore. So he sits there, numb and wilted on the cold tile floor. It seems like a long time—or maybe it's just that every second Dan is breathing seems to be one more second he has alive and so each heartbeat thumps in slow motion—but eventually there is someone pounding on the door to his cubicle. There's only one person it could be: Phil. Dan wants to yell at him and tell him to piss off, but he can't bring himself to even speak.

Phil's begging him, pleading with Dan to just open the goddamn door, please. His voice is thick and broken, and Dan can tell he's been crying. Even though Dan's too shocked to cry, Phil's apparently not. The floor seems to be dropping out beneath Dan and he's spinning, careening out of control.

"Please, unlock the door, I'm begging you. Please, bear."

Dan blanches at the old nickname, stiffening at the rush of emotions that fall over him. And as much as Dan didn't want anyone to touch him earlier, now he just doesn't want to be alone. He opens the door, and without even thinking, finds himself collapsing into Phil's arms. Dan's shaking so hard he can barely stand, but Phil manages to hold him up, and as Dan gasps into the fabric of Phil's plaid button up, the world seems to dissolve away. Phil smells like Phil and he feels like home and he feels like safety. And suddenly it's 2009 again and Dan doesn't fucking care if he hates Phil—because he's nineteen again and oh dear god he needs Phil like he needs oxygen.

"It's going to be okay," Phil is whispering over and over into Dan's hair, like it's a prayer. They both know saying it won't make it true, but they can pretend it does. Held in Phil's arms Dan is devolving, he's rolling back in time, trying to forget two years of absolute shit. Trying to revert to before. When he loved Phil. When he was going to live until he was eighty-something. When Phan wasn't a brand name.

"Phil,"he chokes, somewhere between a sob and a plea,"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Dan doesn't know what he's apologizing for. Getting sick? Dying? Two years wasted? All of the sharp words and glares and fights and fake smiles?

Sorry for breaking up with you.

Sorry for breaking your heart.

Sorry for doing it again.

Sorry for dying.

Phil tells him it's okay, that it's all okay, and is going to be okay. Dan doesn't believe him, but he follows Phil back to the doctor's office anyway. There's nothing else he can do.

They settle back into plastic chairs silently, and Phil is still holding onto Dan's hand and Dan actually doesn't mind. Phil's near-death-grip on his fingers is the one thing anchoring Dan to the room, keeping him from floating away. Dr. Valdez smiles in rigid professionality, and Dan can't help but wonder how many time she has done this. How many people she has told that they're dying, how many times she has given the same speech she's about to give him. Honestly, the doctor has probably had a lot of practice. Yet, the pained look in her eyes betrays her. He feels sick all over again.

"So, options," she begins again, folding her hands in her lap, and not quite meeting Dan's eyes. "There really is not much we can do. There are some clinical trials you could sign up for. But those hold little promise for those who've already been diagnosed. Most are to discover preemptive drugs. I'm going to prescribe you with a drug called Riluzole. It's an antiglutamate drug that will prolong the life span by a few months at the least. It slows the progress of disease, which means, Mr. Howell, that you will have more time in the higher functioning state of ALS." Dan can't listen, he just lets the words bounce off of his icy skin.

"ALS is terminal, the best we can do is cope with the symptoms as they progress."

"As—as they progress?,"Phil stutters.

"Yes," the doctor nods, and Dan knows that this is just another death sentence that's she's used to giving out, he is just one more dead patient, he sways uncertainly in his chair as Dr. Valdez rattles on,"At first limiting the motor failure in Dan's legs with a walking aid, such as a cane. Eventually he'll need crutches, and power chair and so on. As far as use of his hands, we'll have to do what we can to help him function even after he loses control over those extremities. Eventually, a computer for communication, a catheter, and in the final stages of the disease, a ventilator."

A wheelchair, a voice that isn't his own, a machine breathing for him, Dan can't do this. He cannot do this. A whimper escapes his throat without Dan realizing.

"How—how long?"He doesn't want to know how long, and Dan wishes Phil would just shut the hell up.

"A conservative estimate, between two and five years. But some patients live even seven or ten years past their diagnosis." It's like they've all forgotten that Dan's in the room, that he can hear Phil and the doctor talking about him like—like he's already one foot into the grave.

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