Inside were biopsy reports, appointment summaries, and a yellow folder from the cancer center in Peoria dated almost six months earlier. Stage four pancreatic cancer. “Not considered surgically curable” was typed right across the top.
Tom walked in while I was sitting on the floor reading it.
He didn’t even look surprised. Just set his coffee down and asked why I was digging through his desk. Like that was the problem.
I kept asking him how long he’d known. He finally said, “Since February,” then started talking about the garage shelves again because apparently he’d spent all morning reorganizing paint cans. I honestly think he’d rather discuss extension cords than his own funeral.
What bothered me was how prepared he already was.
Every bill written out. Password list updated weekly. Sticky notes under the sink explaining which pipe leaks in winter. He’d even labeled keys in sandwich bags with little notes like “back shed” and “generator fuel lock.”
I asked why he didn’t tell me.
He said he didn’t want “the house turning into a waiting room.”
Then he admitted he’d stopped treatment after the second appointment because the doctor said maybe a year if chemo worked. Less if it didn’t. He kept saying he felt mostly normal except for being tired after dinner.
I got angry after that. Not yelling angry. Just stupid practical angry. Asked if that’s why he’d been giving things away lately. Tools. Fishing gear. The snowblower to our neighbor for almost nothing.
He looked confused for a second and asked what I meant.
Apparently he hadn’t given the snowblower away.
Our neighbor Greg picked it up while Tom was at treatment months ago and told him, “Your wife said you wanted it gone before things got worse.”
Tom sat down very slowly after that.
Then he asked me why Greg would also have a copy of our garage door code written on the back of his chemotherapy schedule.