A/N: The idea for this story is not mine, it was requested and this is my chance to finally get it down on paper (err, computer) That being said, this story will contain chronic illness and possible major character death (not Sharon or Andy, I promise, also no death is certain as of yet.) If you are sensitive to those types of topics, I would strongly discourage reading this story. As an author and friend, the last thing I want to do is unintentionally hurt any of you. Without further ado, here is chapter 1!
Philophobia: Noun. The abnormal, persistent, and unwarranted fear of falling in love or emotional attachment. The risk is usually when a person has confronted any emotional turmoil relating to love in the past.
I had seen it happen too many times to let him fight me like this. He is my son, not by blood, but my son none the less. And he is dying. I can see it in his eyes, in his pale skin, in the way he seems to shrivel when our eyes meet. He is afraid, and so am I.
It started out small; 'simple' headaches throughout the day, heavy eyes, popping ears. "It's just a sinus headache!" I had yelled down the hallway, "Just take a Tylenol!"
And he had, but he needed something much stronger than that. Headaches turned to splitting migraines, he would wake in the night yelling in pain, fighting me in his sleep as I tried to wake him. He stopped eating, stopped studying, stayed home from school and rarely got out of bed.
My mother had migraines, I remember days when she wouldn't leave her bedroom, wouldn't eat or drink, cringed at the light that came streaming through the old glass-pane windows. At first, that's all I thought it was, migraines. After much argument from him, a doctor's appointment was scheduled, and he was assessed.
"Just migraines. Pretty common." The doctor had replied, prescribing him Imitrex, to be taken only when he felt a migraine coming on. But the migraines continued, the medication unable to ease my son's pain.
"Maybe you should get a second opinion." Andy suggested over dinner one night, "Since he's not getting any better."
"He's being stubborn." I replied curtly, knowing full well that Andy was right.
Now, we sit in a cold doctor's office, after a frantic phone call about the results of Rusty's MRI.
"Sharon, I'm sorry." Rust apologizes, his feet hanging off of the exam table.
"It's not your fault." I respond, plastering a smile onto my face. I have to be strong for him. There is a knock on the door and we both sit up straighter, watching intently as the door opens and an older man with salt and pepper hair and large, black-rimmed glasses enters.
"Hello, my name is Dr. Selig." He introduces himself, extending his hand to me and then Rusty, "How're you feeling?"
"Shitty." He replies and I shoot him a glare, my face softening when I remember he is in pain.
"Aren't you just the comedian?" He responds cheerily, opening a folder and removing a disk, inserting the disk into his laptop, "So tell me, where is the pain?"
"Right... Here." Rust closes his eyes and gently places a finger to the right side of his head, just above his temple.
"And on a scale from one to ten, ten being the worst, how much pain?"
"Seven." He winces and I reach out, gently placing my hand on top of his, "It feels like I'm being stabbed."
"Alright young man, let me just double check this..." He opens his laptop and ponders the screen for a moment, "Son, can I speak to your mother alone for a moment?"
"Mhm." He nods and the doctor quickly ushers me out of the exam room and into a vacant one, closing the door hastily.
"We discovered an anomaly on his MRI." He explains calmly, "Here, take a look."
I sit down on the chair beside him and watch carefully as the MRI sequence plays. I can't help the sob that escapes at the sight of a grey blob in the center of his brain. There it was, plain as day, living inside of my son.
"Will he be alright?" I ask, looking down at my shaking hands, "Will it kill him?"
"I don't know yet. My colleagues and I determined that the tumor is, in fact," he pauses and our eyes lock as I anticipate his next word, "cancerous."
"What about surgery? Chemotherapy? Medications?" I question frantically, watching the MRI sequence once more, "Will my son be okay or not?"
Dr. Selig sighs and looks at me intently before placing his hand on top of mine, "The tumor is located on something we doctors like to call the Corpus Callosum, or the brain stem. Look," he pauses the MRI playback and points at the screen, "The tumor is in the center of his brain. Trying to remove it will be nearly impossible."
"What do I tell him?" I squeeze my eyes shut and will away the tears begging to fall, "What do I tell my son?"
"Tell him to enjoy what time he has left. We'll be in touch."
"Than you."
"So I'm dying?" Rusty asks quietly as we drive back to the condo, "This is it?"
"Don't talk that way." I manage to say, my voice breaking, "I'm not letting you go down without a fight."
"Nothing is ever easy with you, is it?" He mocks, glancing over and smiling brightly.
How can he be smiling right now? How can he joke with me like it's just a normal day? Here I am, his mother, the one who's not dying, and I feel paralyzed in my own skin, like I'm collapsing in on myself at the sound of those words, "Your son has cancer."
"You know I'm just joking, right?" He asks carefully, reaching over and placing his hand on top of mine, "I want to live, Sharon. There was a time when I would've wanted to die, but not now. I'm gonna fight this."
"I love you Rusty. We'll get through this together." I mumble, quickly wiping away a stray tear.
"I love you too, Mom."
Part of me wants to call Andy, but part of me knows it's a better idea not to. He knew I was taking Rusty to the doctor, and there was no doubt in my mind that I'd be receiving a call or text from him shortly. How do I tell him this? He and Rusty had become so close over these past few months, I knew exactly what this would do to Andy, and that was what I was afraid of, that it'd drive him to drink. But Rusty couldn't hide what he was going through forever, and Andy was one of my only, if not the only friend I had.
As I pour myself a glass of wine, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket with a text from Andy:
How'd everything go?
I shake my head and take a heavy sip of wine before beginning to type my response:
It's complicated.
In less than a minute, my phone is ringing with a call from my favorite Lieutenant. I pick up my glass of wine and head to my bedroom, quietly clicking the door closed.
"Sharon, what's wrong?" He asks worriedly. I take off my glasses and lay down in my bed, placing the phone between my ear and the pillow, "What's going on?"
I take a deep breath before quickly blurting out, "Rusty has cancer."
"Shit!" I hear Andy exclaim and the line goes silent for a moment before I hear the all-too-recognizable sound of his fist hitting the wall.
"Andy?" I whisper, pulling the quilt tightly around myself as I start to cry, "Andy, are you still here?"
"Yeah," he sighs, "'I'm here Sharon. Do you want me to come over?"
"No." I sniffle, rubbing my nose with the back of my hand, "Tonight's not a good night."
"Will he make it?"
"It doesn't look good." I answer, my voice breaking, "Surgery isn't an option."
"God dammit!" He yells and the line goes silent for a moment before I hear the 'thud' of his hand on the wall again.
"Hey now," I force a chuckle, "I need you to promise me something."
"Of course, Sharon." He sighs, breathing out heavily into his phone.
"Promise me you'll be strong through this. For him, and for me."
"I won't make a promise I'm not sure I can keep."
"Andy, you mean a lot to him, and if he sees us both breaking, he will too. At least tell me you'll try."
"I'll try." He mumbles, his face probably hidden behind his hands, "Do you want to keep talking until you fall asleep?"
It was sort of a tradition Andy and I had, ever since I fell asleep while we were talking about a case. I was exhausted, and curling up in bed was not my smartest move. A part of me wants to hang up, unsure of how long I'll be able to hold back these tears, but the other part of me knows that whatever Andy is going to say will be in his greatest attempt to make my heart a little lighter. Right now, that's probably what I need.
"Yes, please." I whisper, "But we might be up all night, I doubt I'm going to sleep."
"I've got aaaaaall night." He responds and I can't help the grin that begins to creep its way across my face, "And I'm your friend, that's what friends are for."
"Mhm." I nod, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth in a futile attempt to keep from crying, "That's what friends are for."