Holding my arms outstretched and parallel to the floor, I traipsed the length of the room with the grace of a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound ballerina. A week earlier, standing was difficult. Proud of my accomplishment, I looked at the sun-spotted face of the seventy-year-old doctor and hoped for a little recognition.

A golf clap.

A simple nod.

Other than blinking twice, his face remained expressionless.

I gave him a what the fuck’s wrong with you glare.

After a moment, he lifted his chin ever so slightly. “In the last week, there’s been remarkable improvements in your coordination and balance. It doesn’t relieve the fact that the magnetic resonance imaging scan revealed a tumor eleven by eight by thirty-three millimeters in size. If you’re hoping for a clean bill of health you’re not going to get it, Mister Reeves.”

I don’t know what I wanted. Reassurance that I could live a normal life until it was time for me to check in with my maker, I suppose.

Something.

After falling at the gym, I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. Incapable of rising to my feet, I eventually admitted defeat and called an ambulance. An MRI gave news that many people secretly feared, but that I knew was inevitable.

Mister Reeves, we’ve determined that you have a brain tumor.

I grew up in a single parent home of sorts, being raised by my mother and grandparents. My mother acted as mothers do. She comforted me, supported me, and was sensitive to my childhood needs.

My grandfather died from skin cancer when I was very young, and what memories I had of him were mostly manufactured. I used them to satisfy me that my home wasn’t fatherless. After his death, my grandmother stepped into the role as my fatherly figure.

She was stern and opinionated. My friends and I knew we had to toe the line with her, or else. We respected her. In turn, she treated us with respect. She died of breast cancer when I was thirteen. After losing her, I stumbled through high school full of rage and depressed. I eventually turned to weight training as an avenue to rid myself of the anger and stress that followed her death.

It worked well, providing an outlet I couldn’t seem to find anywhere else. Then, mid-way through my senior year in high school, my mother developed lung cancer. She didn’t live long enough to see me graduate.

After I buried my mother, I shut down. My seventeen-year-old heart was broken. I became numb to life and all things in it. I was convinced I didn’t have the ability to let another human being into life, much less my heart.

There were four people left on earth I that cared about. We’d been friends since kindergarten. We were inseparable hooligans who had managed to stay one step ahead of the law as juveniles. As soon as we turned eighteen, the five of us moved – as a group – away from Great Falls, Montana, and far from the memories of what cancer had taken from me. We settled in San Diego, California.

Certain that I was destined to one day die from the same dreaded disease, I spent every day as if it were my last.

Intimidation had always worked for me in the past, so I loomed over the desk and flexed on the old man. “No treatment. Period. End. Of. Story.”

“Considering your background, I can understand your reservation,” he said dryly. “But there’s no shame in receiving treatment for cancer. Men do it every day. Men just like you. Big men. Tough men.”

Apparently, his hearing was as bad as his comb over. I locked eyes with him and crossed my arms. “I don’t have reservations. The answer’s no.”

Unfazed by my tactics, he leaned against the back of his chair and cocked his head to the side. “Why are you here, Mister Reeves?”

“I need that prescription refilled so I can live with these headaches.”

“Very well,” he said, his voice monotone. “Be forewarned, the pressure against your skull will increase as the tumor grows. Your vision will likely blur. Eventually, you’ll lose many of your cognitive skills. You’ll be reduced to using a wheelchair, and you’ll certainly die. All of this may be able to be prevented. The first step is a biopsy.”

“Not. Going. To. Happen,” I said though clenched teeth.

Truthfully, I was no different than anyone else. I didn’t want to die. Yet. My time had come, and there was nothing I could do to change it. Accepting it was a different story altogether. I expected my remaining days on earth would be spent angry and alone.

His jaw tightened. He studied me for a moment. His gaze fell to his desk. He scribbled something down on a pad of paper and then tore off the sheet.

“Here,” he said.

“Thank you.”

I glanced at the scribbled note. It wasn’t a prescription. It was an address and a phone number. I looked at him and arched an aggravated eyebrow.

“It’s a meeting you’ll need to attend,” he said. “An oncology social worker runs it, and she’ll be able to help you with coping. I’ll reserve hope that your attendance will open your mind to proceeding with treatment.”

I tossed the note in his direction. It fluttered onto his desk like a leaf that had fallen from one of the thirty-foot-tall oak trees along the river of my home town.

He picked up the sheet of paper and stretched his arm over the top of his desk. “The meeting, Mister Reeves, is mandatory.”

My eyes thinned. The only mandatory meetings I planned to attend were with the motorcycle club. Sitting in a room filled with strangers and discussing my life wasn’t something I was willing to do.

“It’s required by your insurance carrier,” he explained. “It’s considered mental health treatment. If you don’t attend, your insurance company will not pay your bills. Treatment, or no treatment, the bills will likely exceed half a million dollars.”

I took the note from his grasp and gave it a second look.

He nodded toward my hand. “All you must do to comply with your insurance carrier’s requirement is attend. I’ll ask that you do so with an open mind.”

“I’ll attend,” I said. “But you’re not drilling a hole in my head. Not now, or ever. There’s no one in your little meeting that’ll change my mind about that, either.”