I’m 34, I’m dying, and I’m terrified. I have terminal brain cancer. I don’t even want to name the type—what matters is that it’s the kind that wins. Doctors say I have months, maybe less if things go badly. I’ve been trying to hold it together for my wife, my daughter who isn’t even three yet, my parents, and my friends, but I’ve never been this scared in my life.
People keep saying “stay strong” or “take it one day at a time.” How the fuck do you do that when every day is just another step closer to leaving the people you love?
I look at my daughter and the thought that she might not remember me is what breaks me the most. Will she remember the pancakes I made, or that stupid bunny voice that always made her giggle, or will she only have photos and a few videos?
I watch my wife try to be strong and hold everything together, and I know she cries in the bathroom so I won’t hear. We haven’t really talked about the end; we pretend it’s not real. We talk about paperwork, insurance, and what she’ll need to do when I’m gone, but we don’t talk about the actual not-being-here part.
I’m scared of the pain, yes, but more than that I’m terrified of missing everything: her first day of school, the first book she reads, the person she falls in love with. I want to be there so badly it hurts.
I don’t even know what I want from writing this. I needed to say it out loud. I’m not strong or brave. I’m just a dad who’s dying and doesn’t want to leave his little girl behind.
Thanks for reading.
