A/N: This takes place around the time of iGoodbye, but the events of iGoodbye never happened. In other words, Carly is 18 & Spencer is 30. It's Carly's senior year.

I'd like to apologize in advance for any inaccuracies having to do with cancer. I did a lot of research, but some of it may still be wrong.

I hope you enjoy the story. Please review throughout. Since I have the story completed I will be posting new chapters every other day or so. Hurray for no long waits! Thanks for reading.

SPENCER'S POV

"Spencer Shay," calls the hapless nurse, clearly not enjoying her job one bit. She looks exhausted and frazzled, and gives off a sense of apathy. I should cheer her up, I think to myself. I hate seeing people unhappy.

"Present!" I shout with a smile, jumping out of my seat and thrusting a fist in the air. The nurse is not amused by this; her face remains straight. "Sorry," I mumble as I walk past her, shoulders slumped. She tells me to go to room 17 and have a seat. She follows me in and asks, "So why are you here today, Spencer?"

"It's my thirty-year checkup. I'm a big boy now," I say goofily, still trying to brighten her day. I get nothing but an agitated look. I try to rebound with some normal conversation and details, "I haven't really had a physical in years. And I wanted to ask Dr. Tate about some weird back pains I've been having."

"Okay. Well let's start by getting your weight. Follow me back into the hall," she says, and I do. I remove my shoes and step onto the scale. After a few seconds, it reads 158.6. "You've lost almost fifteen pounds since February," she notes monotonously as she writes on my patient sheet.

"Well I work out pretty hardcore, so makes sense," I tell her although anyone who knows me would tell you it's not true—and they would be correct.

"I'm sure you do," she says sarcastically without looking up from her paper. She doesn't use the funny sarcasm you get from a friend, but the mean sarcasm you get from someone who clearly doesn't want to talk to you.

The nurse leads me back into room 17 and I once again take my seat on the exam table. The cheap paper covering crumples as I sit and I fidget until I'm comfortable. I can tell the nurse is annoyed by the way her dead eyes are fixed on me, but I don't like her attitude and at this point have no further interest in cheering her up.

The nurse asks me some other questions that the doctor is too overqualified to ask, apparently. Do I smoke—no. Do I drink—only socially. Healthy sex life—I get lucky every once in a while. Do I eat my veggies—sure I do…

She asks me if I have any questions or concerns; I say no and she tells me Dr. Tate will be in shortly. As she walks out I say, "Thanks, have a good day," in one last attempt to get a smile or even a simple look of content on her face. Nothing.

As I sit here waiting for Dr. Tate to come in, I look around the room. I'm observing the various tools surrounding the sink and the pro-health poster that is hanging on the back of the door. I could never be a doctor, I think to myself.

I stare at the wall for a good minute, and start to notice all the weird pictures hanging on the plain white wall. In one corner there's a photograph of a steamboat; in another corner there's a painting of a bowl of assorted fruits; and hanging right next to the door is an animated picture of these creatures that look like some kind of dog-fish cross mutation (what the hell?). Who decorates these rooms?

I hear a knock on the door followed by a man's voice as it is being opened, "Hello, Spencer. Long time no see. How are we doing today?" asks Dr. Tate. I've been seeing him since I was 16, which was when I decided that I was too old to be seeing a pediatrician. Dr. Tate was a tall man, like myself, with graying hair and glasses. I've always liked him as my doctor. He doesn't bullshit people—he gives it to you straight. That's the way it should be.

"Hey, Dr. Tate. I'm fine, how are you?"

"Busy as hell," he says with a laugh, "November is official flu shot month, apparently." He looks at the patient sheet the nurse had before for a moment before he speaks again. "Everything looks pretty good, Spencer. You lost fifteen pounds since your last visit, I see. You been working out?"

"Yeah..." I start to say before I remember that I'm bad at lying, "well, no, actually. Not at all if I'm being honest."

Dr. Tate grins and shakes his pointer finger at me as he speaks. "I should have known. Have you made any major changes to your diet?"

"Uhhh," I think for a moment, "nope. I don't think so. Maybe I eat a little less now. I don't know."

"But you feel alright?" He asks with sincerity, something I admire in a doctor.

"Yeah, I feel great," I say, and I'm actually telling the truth. Things have been going pretty great for me lately.

"Good, that's what I like to hear. Alright, Spencer. Let's take a look at you." Dr. Tate takes my blood pressure, looks into my ears, makes me say "AHHH" as shines a light into my mouth, and does all the other annual check-up things that doctors do. "My nurse also wrote that you had a question about some back pains?"

"Yeah, it's just been kinda sore lately. I've never really felt it like this before, though. It's like a weird, random shooting pain."

"Hmm…well come over here and I'll take a peek at your back and your spine. Stand up, please," he says as I get up from the exam table, the paper completely wrinkled and ruined by now, and I stand in front of Dr. Tate. "Alright, bend over and touch your toes and tell me if and where it hurts," he orders.

I start to bend over, but I stop midway. I feel this strange pain immediately and hurts like hell. "Ow!" I say as a grab my back and wince a little.

"Where does it hurt?"

"It was kind of in the upper middle of my back," I say, still holding it.

"How often does it hurt like this?" Dr. Tate asks.

"Every once in a while it just comes, but until recently I figured it's because I'm getting older, ya know?" I explain as I straighten up again.

"Spencer, you're thirty, not fifty. I want you to take your shirt off so I can get a closer look."

I take my shirt off and toss it on the exam table. Dr. Tate takes a look and asks me to bend over again slowly. I do it again and it's still painful, but this time I don't wince.

"Hmmm."

"Do you see something wrong?" I ask with a tinge of concern in my voice.

"Spencer, I'd like to take some x-rays of your back. Particularly your spine." Dr. Tate says seriously.

"Is something wrong with it? Scoliosis or something?"

"I'm not so sure it's that. I don't want to worry you, but just to be safe x-rays need to be done. You can put your shirt back on and follow me."

I follow Dr. Tate to room 28. Another white room. There are no weird pictures in this room for me to smirk at, but there is a ginormous white x-ray machine. Dr. Tate instructs me to remove my shirt again and stand in front of the white wall. He snaps the x-ray photos and then sends me back to room 17, where I will wait for him to return with the photos and hopefully no bad news.

I sit and wait for Dr. Tate for fifteen minutes, but it feels like much longer under the circumstances, and because I'm a very impatient person. When he returns to the room, my doctor has a serious look on his face, which is never a good sign. "Here's the deal, Spencer: there's a bump located on your spine—do you see it?" he asks holding it up to the light.

I have to squint a little, but I see it. A small white thing growing on my spine. "What is that?"

Dr. Tate shakes his head and responds, "I can't say for sure. In order to determine what it is specifically I'd like you to see an oncologist." He must have seen that I was confused, as I don't know specific doctor names. "A cancer doctor, Spencer."

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. "A cancer doctor? You think I have cancer?" I can't believe what he's telling me. I hope that for the first time ever, Dr. Tate is wrong.

"Unfortunately, that's what I'm leaning toward." I try to process this information with no avail. I feel a little lightheaded and don't know what to say. "I'm sorry, Spencer. I don't want to worry you without knowing for sure, but it's important that we get on top of this. Here's the number for Dr. Welsh. She's one of the best oncologists in Seattle. I advise you to make an appointment with her as soon as possible. Tell her secretary that you're one of my patients. Until then, keep an eye on it and call me if you notice any changes, feel any pain, or if you have any questions."

I nod my head and look into my doctor's eyes. I see his concern for me and as touching as that is, it makes me worry even more. "Thanks, doc." Dr. Tate pats me on the back before exiting the room. As I remain sitting on the exam table I am attempting to fathom that I, the invincible Spencer Shay, possibly have cancer.

I finally get on my feet and walk sluggishly out into the hallway. After paying the co-pay, I slink out to my car, feeling like a ghost. The first thing I do when I sit down is pull out Dr. Welsh's phone number from my pocket. I hold the slip of paper in my hands for a moment, staring at it thoughtlessly. For a split second it feels like a dream, and I am relieved. But I inevitably snap out of it, and decide to give her office a call.

When I hear my alarm sound off the next morning, I dread the thought of getting out of bed. Today is the day that I learn my fate, and that scares the hell out of me. A part of me is dying to know, but a bigger part would rather go back to sleep and get away from the idea completely. I finally drag myself out of bed to shower and get dressed.

I called Dr. Welsh's office yesterday and told them that Dr. Tate recommended her to me. It turns out that Dr. Welsh and Dr. Tate go way back. Because of this, Dr. Welsh was able to squeeze me into her early morning schedule without a problem.

My appointment is at eight o'clock so I leave extra early just to be safe. Thankfully, Carly doesn't hear me leave and I avoid her questions. I don't want her to know about this unless I know for sure what it is. I hate to worry her, or anyone else for that matter.

I manage to beat the bulk of morning traffic and arrive at Dr. Welsh's building twenty minutes early. I sit in my car and wait for a few minutes, thinking of what lies ahead of me. I know that by over thinking this I am not doing myself any favors, but I don't care. I decide that it's better to man up and face it. I open the car door and step out, ready to learn my fate.

Disbelief. Pain. A lump in my throat—or rather on my spine. This is all I feel as I skulk through the parking lot to my car. I weakly pull the door open and sit inside, slamming the door behind me. I look into my hands. I cover my face with them. Shit.

I spent the last two hours at the oncologist's. I waited in the lobby, I met Dr. Welsh, she examined me, I took the tests. They came back positive. Fuck.

Dr. Welsh—a woman with red hair and pale skin in her mid-forties—told me the news that I saw coming. I have cancer. Cancer.

My diagnosis: Stage III Schwannoma neurofibrosarcoma. I can't even say it. Literally. How the hell do you say that?

Dr. Welsh opened my eyes to problems I didn't even realize I was having: night sweats, soreness in other parts of my body, loss of appetite. How could I have not seen this coming or at least thought to see a doctor sooner?

She also discussed my treatment options with me. She said that my best bet is chemotherapy at this stage. Otherwise I have radiation and surgery to choose between. She gave me brochures on all three options and is having me give her my choice tomorrow. She says that we should begin treatment as soon as possible.

The person I think of next tears me apart: Carly. The idea of telling her about this makes me sick, but I know I have to do it. I think it would be best to do it later rather than sooner because I hate to see the kid sad and worrisome. I know that I can't lie and I can't act, but I will have to for her sake.

As I start the car and emerge from my parking spot I try to leave my illness, my shock, my depression, and my fears behind for the day and move on.

Nothing.