"You know that tone people reserve for when something terrible happens?" Boris asked, sitting across from Carol in a little nearby bistro, having lunch. He'd brought her here and then told her to order whatever it was she wanted, his treat, to which she wouldn't refuse; he continued, "that sort of sad but not actually sad tone because they reserve their true sadness for things only pertaining to them? You know, how like when you tell someone your dog died and they just sort of look at you, head cocked to the side, eyebrows doing most of the heavy emotional face lifting, and say something along the lines of 'oh, that's so unfortunate, I'm so sorry!' but you know inside they're just happy it wasn't their dog who died?"
"Are you telling me people aren't capable of sympathy?" Carol asked, lifting her soup spoon to her mouth and sipping broth as she added, "because I don't disagree people do that, but I don't think it's fair to lump everyone in together like that. I know some people are truly sympathetic, empathetic, it just depends on the person." "I just don't wanna be the kind of person who tells someone something and then has them act like they're sorry when I know, in reality, their life won't really change one bit," Boris said, "I want them to genuinely care." Carol looked at Boris, spoon to her lips, before she lowered it cautiously and got a concerned look on her face. "...Boris?" "I have something to tell you," Boris said, "and I'm hoping you're not gonna like it anymore than I did." 1 HOUR EARLIER Boris hated going to the doctor. Not for any particular reason, moreso just because he hated being in large public spaces filled with potentially ill people. He was already old. The last thing he needed was to be specifically susceptible to their sicknesses. Boris turned a page in the magazine he'd picked up from the table nearby and sighed as he shifted in his wheelchair. Hopefully today he'd finally be out of it and back on his feet. He was feeling much better, all things considered, and was starting to get a little frustrated at being stuck sitting down all the time. He didn't know how actual handicapped people do it. They're stronger than he was, though, that much he acknowledged. He glanced at the young lady sitting next to him, in all black with short black hair, looking through a small book. "What are you reading?" Boris asked politely, as she turned to look at him, seeming almost surprised someone was interacting with her. "Oh, it's...it's daily affirmations," she replied, "you...you know, things like, um, like telling myself I am beautiful no matter what, or that I am strong enough to get through this day, or that, if I had a bad day, tomorrow will be better." "Does that actually work?" Boris asked, sounding suspicious. "...I mean, as much as a placebo does," the woman responded, chuckling lightly, "but it's something, you know? And at least I'm the one making the conscious decision daily to try and make my day better, even if it's just by reading a stupid little sentence or proverb." "Having that sort of agency makes you feel like you do have control over your life," Boris said, "I understand that." Finally a door opened and a woman stepped out, telling Boris he could come in. Boris smiled at the woman and said goodbye, plopping the magazine down on the empty chair beside him before rolling himself through the door and following the nurse down the hall. When they reached an examination room, she let him in and told him the doctor would be with him momentarily. Boris sighed and sat in the room alone, looking around at the various tools and instruments hung from the walls or on the countertop. After a minute or two, the door opened again and a youngish man walked inside. "Hey Mr. Wachowski," the doctor said, "I'm Dr. Alan Learner, you can call me Alan or Dr. Learner, either is fine. Whatever you prefer." Dr. Learner was a lean, tall young man who looked to be in his mid thirties maybe. He sat on the little rolling stool and pulled himself across the floor over to Boris's wheelchair and smiled at him. "Is this going to take long?" Boris asked, "I'm supposed to have lunch today with someone." "Oooh, is it romantic?" "No, he's my priest," Boris replied. "Oh," Alan said, "Well now I feel weird. So Boris, have you enjoyed your time in the chair?" "Actually it was surprisingly enjoyable," Boris said, "after walking for 70 something years, it's nice to kind of finally not have to use my legs for a bit. That being said, I'm not looking to extend it and making it a permanent situation. I'm ready to get back on my own two feet. Or someone else's two feet, whatever is easier." Alan chuckled as he plucked the chart on the clipboard off the counter that the nurse had left with him and started thumbing through it, checking each page and nodding at various things. "Then again, it does make people more willing to help me," Boris said, "suddenly people who wouldn't give two shits about me in public are opening doors for me, and that'll be kind of hard to let go of. Sad, isn't it? That you have to be visually disabled in order to get any kind of decency from others? What a shit show this society is." "Uh..." Alan said, nodding, "yeah, no you're not wrong, um, I have a niece who is blind, but because people don't know she's blind they often do shitty things to her without thinking about it, and only once they learn she's blind - which isn't always something you can tell just by looking at someone - they turn their entire attitude around. It's kinda sick. Okay so, looking at this chart, these ex-rays, you're perfectly fit to stand up again. Honestly, you probably could've a few days ago." "Thank god," Boris said, "putting pants on was becoming a problem." "Uh, that being said, I have to ask...were you ever in a car accident?" Alan asked, catching Boris off guard. "...yes, um, yeah. When I was much younger, when my daughter was little, we had a car accident that disabled her legs for a good majority of her life," Boris said, "I came away rather unscathed, all things considered, but yes. Why?" Dr. Learner sighed and set the chart down on the examining table, scratching his forehead and looking at the floor. Boris became nervous immediately. "Um, do you know what Meningioma is?" Dr. Learner asked, "it's a...it's a type of brain tumor. They can often be caused by head trauma, often present in car accidents. They're type of tumor that can develop and grow in the brain and involves the meninges, which are the protective membranes that surround the spinal cord and brain. This means that a meningioma can place pressure on the blood vessels, nerves, and brain tissues and cause potential damage, though typically, in most cases, meningiomas are benign. However, some meningiomas can be malignant and potentially life-threatening." "...why are you telling me this?" Boris asked, his voice shaky. Dr. Learner stood up and put his hands in his coat pockets, pacing around the room. "I wish there were better ways to tell people these sorts of things," he said, "but there isn't. There's no card you can buy for this sort of stuff, you know? Stuff a 50 in it and then just jot down 'hey, you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you!', which is a shame, because I guarantee you it'd be a fairly lucrative market if they tried it." "What are you saying?" "I'm saying you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you, sorry I don't a card," Dr. Learner said, standing there, scratching the back of his head, neither one saying a word. Boris stared straight ahead at Alan, uncertain of what his reaction to this kind of news could be. His lip quivered, his eyes wet with tears, he finally swallowed and spoke once more. "Are...are you...sure?" he asked. "I mean we can run more tests," Dr. Learner said, shrugging, "but this thing has been in you for ages, and it's likely what resulted in your stroke. I'm sorry, Mr. Wachowski, I never like telling people these kinds of things. It's not fun. I mean, maybe if they're a dick to me then I can take some slight sick enjoyment out of it, but otherwise. Listen, we'll run some more tests, and we'll see what we can do, but the fact that this has been here so long, has developed as much as it has...the outcome doesn't look pretty." Dr. Learner picked up the chart and sighed before heading for the door. Stopping at it, his hand on the knob, he looked back at Boris. "I guess it's a good thing you're seeing your priest today," he said, joking, and making Boris chuckle a little. Dr. Learner opened the door and exited, leaving a very confused Boris sitting there. He thought back to the accident, and he could remember smashing his head into the steering wheel a number of times during the incident. He couldn't believe that after all these years, this sort of thing would come back to haunt him in the way it seemed like it was. Boris finally, reaching out and grabbing the examination table, pulled himself up from his wheelchair and exhaled deeply. What does one even do when presented with this information? How do you even live the rest of your life, knowing it is in fact the rest of your life? Boris hobbled out of the room and back down the hall, heading back towards the waiting room. As he came through the door, he noticed the young woman he'd been speaking to was gone, but she'd left her little affirmations book on the chair. Boris walked over to it and bent down, picking it up and putting it in his coat pocket. Maybe he could find her and give it back. He then turned and looked at all the little kids in the office, some reading with their parents, some playing with other kids, others clearly very sick. Boris looked at all the younger people, all looking healthy and fresh faced, none even aware of the things coming for them. He headed out of the offices and stumbled into the hallway, then headed down the hall and reached the elevator. As he got inside, he shut the doors, being the only one on board. Boris waited a moment, then stopped the elevator using the emergency button and put his hands against the wall, steadying himself, as he began screaming, finally in tears. Isn't life amazing, he had once said to John, just when you think it can't get worse, it always somehow does. *** "What's going on?" Carol asked, sounding genuinely scared, her voice low. "...I'm dying," Boris said, the words sounding unreal as they escaped his lips, "I have a brain tumor. Apparently I've had it for years. I'm dying, Carol." "...why did you invited me to lunch?" Carol asked, "it was so sudden." "Because I was supposed to have lunch with John," Boris said, wiping his eyes on his sweater sleeve, "but, uh...I felt like I needed to approach that with a different tactic, given the nature of our friendship. But you...you don't pretend to be sad, you don't act like nothing has changed. You acknowledge the elephant in the room. I needed that first and foremost. Not that I don't think John won't, but...his reaction will be far more tactful, and I don't need tactful right now, I need rawness." Carol slowly set her spoon down in her bowl and wiped her mouth with the napkin from her lap. She exhaled and leaned back in her chair, unsure of how to respond to any of this. She could remember the day Boris had moved into the home, the day they had met, and how they'd instantly become friends. It was nice to know that, even at that age, you could still make friends who felt like they'd known you forever, even if they'd only know you for a brief amount of time. And yet...and yet it never seemed like Boris could die. He struck her as immortal, which was ridiculous, because nobody was immortal, and yet he always seemed like someone who would be around indefinitely. "Carol?" Boris asked, finally pulling her back into reality, her eyes snapping at him across the table. "Oh," she replied, putting a hand to her head, "um, I'm sorry. I...I think I drifted off for a moment." "You okay?" Boris asked. "...are you?" Carol responded, almost sounding accusatory, before quickly following up with, "for christ sakes, man, you're gonna die. Doesn't that terrify you? How are you so fucking calm?" "Who the fuck said I'm calm?" Boris asked, his voice cracking, tears rolling down his old face, "what ever gave you the impression that I'm calm? I'm scared fucking shitless right now, Carol. That's why I came to you. Because you're like my oldest friend, and you won't just pretend. You'll make it about you, not about me, and that's why I wanted. That realness." Carol nodded slowly, sitting back up and putting her hand on the table, Boris slowly reaching onto the table and holding it, both of them smiling at one another. "...what am I gonna do without you?" she whispered, her eyes scanning the table. "What you've always done, thrive. You didn't know me for a majority of your life, I think you'll get along just fine," Boris said, "and if all else fails, I promise to come back and haunt you." "They're doing more tests to make sure?" Carol asked. "They are, but he sounded pretty certain," Boris remarked, "either way I'll keep you updated." So they sat there for a bit in silence, hand in hand, old friends, man and woman from two entirely different lives who somehow managed to share a life together, even if only for a little while. It just didn't seem fair, Carol thought, to wait your whole life to find someone who understood you on such a primal level, and then to have to lose them, as if they never belonged in your life to begin with. How was she going to manage? How was anyone who knew him going to manage? She thought back to Polly, and now understood how broken Boris must've been from her death. "...you know," Carol said, "if you're going to die, you could've sprung for a nicer lunch." "Oh, you mean like might as well enjoy the finer things in life before I have no life?" "Exactly, because, don't get me wrong, this soup is fine and all, but some atmosphere wouldn't hurt," Carol said, making Boris truly laugh for the first time in the entire day. He picked his sandwich back up and resumed eating, while she continued eating her soup, neither one saying another word for the duration of the luncheon, but that was perfect. That was as it should be. Intimacy is at its most intimate when you are so comfortable you no longer need words to acknowledge one anothers presence. That, to Carol, was true friendship. So what if he died. Who cared if he died. He wasn't dead now. And now was all that mattered.
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Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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