Shawn stared at the ceiling, willing himself to count the raised bumps.

Anything to distract himself from the week and a half of Hell he had just endured.

The call had come late on a Wednesday night…was it really almost two weeks ago?

"Mr. Spencer, we have a possible match for you in one of the international bone marrow donor registries. It's not perfect…but it's close. Can you come in tomorrow for some more tests, and we'll begin the transplant process?"

Of course, he had immediately agreed.

For the first time in two months, he actually allowed himself to think, to hope, that maybe he would be alive in a year.

Maybe, just maybe, he might even be alive in five years….

Maybe…

Of course, what he didn't realize at the time was that by the end of the following week, he would actually be praying for death.

The horrors began almost the moment he stepped foot in the hospital the next morning. His life suddenly became a blur of tests, pain, anxiety, exhaustion, and crippling nausea.

Before he could get the transplant, he had to undergo three days of intense chemo to kill as much of his remaining marrow as possible. By the end of it, he was too tired to move, too sick to think, and every time he turned around someone in a white lab coat was jabbing him, sticking him, poking him or telling him what could, and probably would, go wrong.

"There is always the possibility that your body will reject the new marrow because it's not a perfect match."

"Even if the transplant is successful, there is no guarantee the leukemia won't recur later."

"After the transplant, you will have to be in isolation for at least four days. Your immune system is about to be severely compromised, and you'll be susceptible to all kinds of infections and diseases."

That's where he was now.

In a sterile room.

Completely alone.

The transplant itself had gone fine, but it was only Day 2 in isolation and he was already going out of his mind. He had already read the few magazines he had been allowed to bring a dozen times each. He could talk to the nurses who came in every hour to take his vitals, but they were dull. What he really needed was to talk to Gus, but all visitors were strictly prohibited.

Even Gus.

"Mr. Spencer, I don't think you realize how serious this is," Dr. Hastings told him, scribbling on his chart. "You have a fever, which can be deadly to someone whose immune system is in shambles. You can't be exposed to the germs."

So, for hours on end, Shawn lay alone on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Counting the raised bumps.

Thinking, but not too hard.

It was still too scary to think hard.

What if my body rejects it?

What if it comes back?

What if I get an infection?

Shawn didn't really become overly concerned, however, until his fever refused to subside.

The nurses suddenly became less friendly and more business-like. They frowned and furrowed their brows as they took his pulse, blood pressure and temperature.

Something was definitely wrong.

Dr. Hastings started coming by every half hour, reading and scribbling furiously on Shawn's chart.

"Am I okay?" Shawn asked, the knot in his stomach growing by the second.

"I'm concerned about the fever," the doctor admitted. "It should be going down, Mr. Spencer. I'm afraid you're not going home the day after tomorrow. You're not going anywhere until it's gone."

"How long will that take?"

"As long as it doesn't get worse, a few more days."

"And if it does get worse?"

Dr. Hastings didn't respond. He just replaced the chart on the foot of the bed and left.

Once again, Shawn was completely alone.

He glanced down at the magazines he had left scattered across the floor.

Slowly, deliberately, he gathered them up and began to flip through them. His eyes scanned the pictures at lightning speed, his fingers ripping pages out seemingly at random. He worked furiously at this task for hours, beads of sweat breaking out across his face and back with the effort. The nurses tried to ask him what he was doing, but Shawn just ignored them and kept working at ripping pages, throwing them on the floor, and ripping them again.

Finally, he seemed to be done with…whatever he was doing.

At least, the nurses could only assume he was done. He had grabbed a handful of the scraps and crammed them into a small envelope, leaving the rest of the shredded magazines in a pile on the floor.

Then, still clutching the envelope in his sweaty palms, he had collapsed back into the bed.

By now, his fever was 103.

The next morning, it was 104. By noon, he had fallen into a fever-induced delirium; kicking all the sheets off the bed and thrashing around the bare mattress, rolling in puddles of his own sweat and muttering incoherently under his breath.

The nurses tried everything, but nothing could calm him.

Nothing could break the fever.

And no one could pry that plain, white envelope out of his hand.

He had scrawled something across the front in ink, which was now badly smudged, though still somewhat legible.

Jules---My Goodbye Crap.