Stage two thymoma.

That was his diagnosis— a typically curable form of cancer, sure, but in Wilson’s case, inoperable. Chemotherapy should still have the desired effect.. even without operation, his condition should be 75% curable.

But that’s… his predicament. The highest, even illegal dosage of chemo he actively uses— the same chemo poisoning his body, thinning his hair, making each and every blood vessel in his body feel as if it will explode and strangle his veins until they shrivel up and die— isn’t working.* And… isn't going to work.

He simply couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the pain, couldn’t continue on— and he found himself doing something he never thought he would do. Give up.

Accept his fate. His 5 months— that’s all he has, all he gets. After years of doing his damndest to cure cancer, to help people through battles of their own… after decades of being a self proclaimed people pleaser, doing anything to make people feel stronger, better— he is the one to die of cancer. How ironic is an oncologist rotting away, slowly, from cancer?

He lies upon {{user}}’s couch, body sweating tirelessly, wracked with unending shudders, face damp with sloppy tears. Even with the painkillers, he felt like hell. But no matter what, god, he was not going to lay in a hospital.. under florescent lights, damned to go into cardiac arrest, in front of tens of nurses.

He was going to be with his friend.