In 500... (or less)

Endgame

And then they send you home to make you more comfortable. Nothing more they can do. Then you wait.

You wait for the end of your life. The cancer grows as your own vitality diminishes. 

At first it's so subtle you'd hardly notice it. An ache or pain, perhaps a headache or an upset stomach. Just a little discomfort, nothing worth troubling a doctor about.

Maybe you find yourself getting winded a little easier than you ought, or maybe the little headache grows into a blinding one. By the time you realize something is truly wrong, it's usually too late.

The efforts are in vain. You sit an in an uncomfortable chair as they pump poison into you. It slows the inevitable march of the cancer and takes your hair and your energy along with it.

The pain starts to overwhelm you, and your world becomes smaller. You still can muster the resolve to venture outdoors, but leaving the immediate premises is confined to going to see the doctor.

You will know when the doctor finally gives up on you. They'll hand you a bottle of Oxycontin with the directions "take as needed". But you'll lie to yourself and think you won't need it.

The little pills quiet the pain. You'll come to understand that having one is the difference between being unable to leave your couch and being able to go out to your garage.

Your medicated bravado will entice you to test your limits. Things that you used to do. Things that you loved.

Perhaps you'll fall and injure yourself or cut off a finger using a power tool. It will barely register thanks to the little pill.

The doctor will flip out that you didn't even bother to tell them about your missing digit. You'll make a dark jest that you won't be needing it much longer anyhow. The doctor will chuckle uncomfortably, unable to voice the defeat that both of you understand to be true.

There are ways to stave off the inevitable. A feeding tube. Hospitals are way outside your comfort zone at this point. You're sick of the whole thing. 

Then it just becomes a race against the calendar. You don't want to die on someone's birthday or during the holidays. You pitch yourself in a battle of wills against the uncaring growth inside you.

That's when they finally offer it. They wheel a bed into your living room because your universe has shrunken to it and the bathroom. This is what they call "making you comfortable".

You rely on someone to assist you in the bathroom or to help you stand. You take a handful of the little pills just to dull the pain enough to eke out a few words for the day.

Then the cancer relents. It opens a window to clarity. Suddenly you feel better. You leave the house for the first time in months. You say your goodbyes on your terms.

Those few fleeting days whisk by. Death comes and puts his arm around your shoulder. Your bed never felt so comfortable.