The Path Back Is Long Forgotten

1
In the third year after my brain tumor diagnosis, my attending physician was my wife.
An hour before my surgery, Dr. Claire Sterling suddenly pulled my anesthesiologist and lead surgeon.
Her first love, Julian, who suffered from depression, was having an appendicitis attack and was threatening to kill himself.
"Julian is psychologically fragile, his surgery has to be flawless. What's the big deal if you just accommodate him?"
"You're a man. Can't you handle a little pain?"
She wheeled my ventilator to her ex-lover's room, leaving me to sweat through waves of agony in the hallway.
Watching her fuss over him, her back turned to me, my heart finally died.
I tugged on the corner of her coat.
"Just sign this one last thing, and I'll never bother you again."
Without a single glance, she scribbled her signature across the document with a flourish. She even smiled, teasing me for finally learning not to be jealous of her patients.
She promised she'd be back to sit with me through my chemo as soon as Julian's stitches were out.
As she turned and walked into the OR to be with him, I ripped the IV needle from my hand.
She had no idea.
What she had just signed was a Do Not Resuscitate order.
...
The draft in the hallway cut through my gown, slicing at my skin like a thousand tiny knives. I leaned against the cold wall, the tumor in my head pressing on my optic nerve, my vision pulsing with darkness.
It was a grade IV glioblastoma.
The "king of brain cancers."
Today was supposed to be my best chance, a surgical window I had waited three agonizing months for.
Claire was one of the country's top neurosurgeons. She was also my wife.
She had once held my hands, her gaze resolute, and vowed, "Ethan, trust me with your life. I will snatch you back from the jaws of death."
But ten minutes ago, a single phone call from Julian had made her feed every one of those vows to the dogs.
Julian said his stomach hurt. He suspected appendicitis. He said the pain was so bad he wanted to jump off the roof.
Without a second thought, Claire postponed my surgery.
"Ethan, your tumor has been growing for three years. A little more time won't make a difference."
"Julian is different. He has severe depression. What if the pain becomes too much and he does something stupid?"
She ordered the nurses to wheel my equipment away, her voice sharp with impatience as she lectured me. I looked at her anxious profile and felt like I was seeing a stranger. In five years of marriage, I had never seen her so flustered. Not even on the day I was diagnosed. Back then, she had just looked at the scans calmly, analyzing the surgical options.
I finally understood. She wasn't cold by nature. I just wasn't the one she was warm for.
The moment the IV needle came out, blood arced through the air, splattering on the linoleum floor. I ignored the sting, my hand clenching the signed DNR form. The paper was crumpled and damp in my fist. The signature, "Dr. Claire Sterling," was strong and confident, a bitter, mocking parody of her promise.
A young nurse passing by gasped and rushed over, fumbling to apply pressure to the wound.
"Mr. Hayes, what are you doing? Dr. Sterling just went to..."
The nurse trailed off, her eyes filled with pity. Everyone in the hospital knew. They all knew about Claire's unforgettable first love, the one that got away. And they all knew that I, her husband, wasn't even a backup plan in her heart.
I waved her off, indicating I was fine.
"Don't tell her," I rasped, my throat feeling like it was full of sand.
The nurse's eyes welled up, but she nodded.
Bracing myself against the wall, I shuffled back to my room, one step at a time. With every move, the pain in my head intensified, like a power drill boring into my temples.
I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling tiles.
Memories flooded back. I remembered three years ago, right after the diagnosis. Claire had held me and cried all night, swearing she would sell everything we owned to cure me.
She truly loved me then, didn't she?
Or at least, she thought she did.
Until Julian came back to the country. The man who had once abandoned her for his career needed only to crook his finger, and she would drop her armor and run back to him.
I closed my eyes, a single cold tear tracing a path down my temple.
Claire, this was the last chance I'm giving you.
And the last one I'm giving myself.
Since you chose to save him...
I will let you.
And I will finally let myself go.
The pain woke me.
The pressure inside my skull was immense, bringing on waves of nausea so violent I felt like I was trying to turn my stomach inside out. But I hadn't eaten in two days. All that came up was bitter, yellow-green bile.
The room was empty, the only sound the monotonous beep of the heart monitor.
No Claire.
No water.
Not even a nurse's aide.
When Claire pulled my medical team, she'd reassigned my private caregiver as well. She'd said Julian was shy around strangers and needed someone familiar.
Fighting through the agony, I reached for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. My hand trembled uncontrollably. The bottle slipped, clattered to the floor, and rolled under the bed.
I stared at it in despair, a perfect metaphor for my own life, teetering on the edge.
Just then, the door creaked open.
Thinking it was a nurse, I forced my head up.
But it was Claire.
She was still in her white coat, her face etched with fatigue, but her eyes were bright. It was a light I only ever saw when she looked at Julian.
She was carrying a thermos.
Seeing the pathetic state I was in, her brow furrowed, a flicker of disgust in her eyes. "How did you manage this? You're a grown man, can't you even hold onto a pill bottle?"
She walked over but didn't bother to pick it up for me. Instead, she slammed the thermos down on the table.
"Julian's surgery was a success. My mother made him some chicken soup. He couldn't finish it, so I brought you the rest."
I looked at the thermos, and my stomach churned.
Julian's leftovers.
Just like her love.
Always secondhand, always cold.
"I'm not hungry." I turned my head away, unable to look at her.
Claire's expression hardened. "Ethan, how long are you going to keep this up?"
"I already told you, Julian's situation is special. Can't you be a little more understanding?"
"I've already rescheduled your surgery. It's for next Wednesday."
Next Wednesday.
A cold, mirthless laugh echoed in my mind. I knew my own body. I'd be lucky to last the weekend. Besides, she hadn't even looked at my latest scans. If I'd had the surgery today, I might have had a thirty percent chance of survival. But now, having missed the optimal window, not even a miracle could save me.
"Claire," I said her name, my voice so calm it surprised even me. "If I died, would you be sad?"
She stared at me for a second, then scoffed as if I'd told a joke. "Are you serious, Ethan?"
"So I postponed your surgery for a few days, and now you're threatening me with death? You never used to be like this. Why are you being so dramatic?"
As she spoke, she opened the thermos. The aroma of chicken soup filled the room, making me feel even sicker.
"Hurry up and drink this. Don't waste my mother's effort." She poured a bowl and held it to my lips. The movement was rough, careless, with no regard for whether the soup was too hot.
I didn't open my mouth.
Her patience snapped. She slammed the bowl back on the table. Hot soup sloshed over the side, scalding the back of my hand.
"Ethan! Don't push your luck!" she yelled.
Just then, her phone rang. It was the special ringtone she had set for Julian.
The anger on her face vanished instantly, replaced by a look of pure, gentle affection. "Hey, Julian? What's wrong? Does your incision hurt?"
"Okay, don't be scared. I'll be right there."
She hung up, and without another glance at me, she turned and walked out. At the door, she paused and threw one last cold remark over her shoulder.
"If you don't want to drink it, then starve."
"When you've sorted yourself out, you can come find me."
The door slammed shut with a deafening bang.
The world was silent again.
I looked at the pill bottle on the floor and started to laugh.
And as I laughed, the tears began to fall.
Claire, this is probably the last time we'll see each other.
The next day, I felt surprisingly light.
The doctors have a term for it: a final surge of energy before the end.
I knew my time was short.
I forced myself up and started packing. There wasn't much. After three years in and out of the hospital, my possessions had dwindled to almost nothing. A few changes of clothes, a couple of books, and a picture frame.
In the frame was our wedding photo.
In the picture, her smile was forced, her eyes looking just past the camera. I didn't understand it then. I thought she was just nervous. Now I know. Julian was at our wedding.
She was looking at him.
I took the frame, pulled out the photo, and tore it into tiny pieces. I threw them in the trash.
Then, I called my lawyer.
"Mr. Davis, that will we drew up. You can execute it now."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, followed by a sigh. "Mr. Hayes, are you certain? Donating everything?"
"Yes. Everything."
I owned three properties and had several million in savings. It was all pre-marital. Claire always thought I was just a simple programmer. The truth was, I was a silent partner in that publicly-traded company. She never asked about my work, and I never bothered to tell her. I used to think that when my time came, I would leave it all to her, so she would never have to worry about money.
Now, it seemed unnecessary.
She had Julian. She had her brilliant career as a neurosurgeon. She didn't need my money. My money would be better off helping poor people who couldn't afford medical care.
After hanging up, I felt a sense of release, as if a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
Claire came by that afternoon.
She seemed to be in a good mood, carrying a fancy gift bag. She paused when she saw me packing.
"What are you doing? Getting discharged?" There was a hint of surprise in her voice, but mostly indifference.
"Changing rooms," I lied.
"Oh." She didn't press the issue. She handed me the gift bag. "This is from Julian. He wanted to thank you for giving him your surgery slot."
"It's a watch. A Patek Philippe. It's quite expensive."
I took the bag and glanced inside. It was a Patek, but it was one of the most old-fashioned men's models. And there was a distinct crease in the leather strap.
It was used. Something Julian had worn, or perhaps, no longer wanted.
Seeing my silence, Claire assumed I was still angry. She came over and, in a rare gesture of affection, put her arm around my shoulders.
"Come on, honey, don't be mad. Julian meant well."
"Besides, I've already spoken to the hospital director. I'm performing your surgery myself next Wednesday. I promise, you'll come out of it completely fine."
She smelled faintly of antiseptic, mixed with the scent of the cologne Julian always wore. It was suffocating.
I gently pushed her away and placed the watch on the table.
"Thank you," I said, looking into her eyes and managing my first real smile in days. "I love it."
Claire was clearly taken aback by my compliance. She stared for a moment, then a satisfied smile spread across her face.
"That's more like it. I knew you were the most reasonable man I know."
"Oh, by the way, it's Julian's birthday tonight. We've booked a private room at a restaurant to celebrate. Do you want to come? It'll be fun."
Take me to her first love's birthday party? To celebrate him stealing my only chance at life?
Claire, you really know how to twist the knife.
I shook my head. "No, I'm not feeling well. I think I'll rest."
Claire didn't insist. In fact, she looked relieved. "Okay, you get some rest then. I'll have an aide bring you some soup."
"I'll bring you back a piece of cake after dinner."
She hummed a little tune as she touched up her makeup in the mirror, applying a shade of fiery red lipstick I had never seen on her before.
Just before she left, she seemed to remember something and glanced back at me.
"Ethan, after the surgery, let's go on a trip. To Iceland. The place you always wanted to see."
I looked at her, my eyes calm and empty.
"Okay."
She smiled and left. The crisp click-clack of her heels echoed down the hall, growing fainter and fainter until it disappeared completely.
I turned my gaze to the window.
The sky was darkening. Heavy clouds were rolling in. A storm was coming.
Claire.
There would be no surgery.
There would be no Iceland.
Only death.
Eleven o'clock at night.
The rain was coming down in sheets. Thunder rattled the windowpanes.
Lying in bed, it felt like the tumor inside my skull was about to explode. The pain sent my body into convulsions, my fingernails digging deep into the mattress.
I knew this was it. The final moments.
The tumor had ruptured. Intracranial hemorrhage. Brain herniation. Each term a step on the stairway to hell.
I gasped for air, but it felt like my lungs couldn't draw in a single molecule of oxygen. My vision blurred, the world fracturing into double images.
With the last of my strength, I pressed the call button.
No one came.
The sound of the bell echoed down the empty hallway like a ghostly wail.
Then I remembered. The nurse on duty, a kind young woman named Olivia, had been called away by Claire. Julian had apparently drunk too much at his party and needed someone to bring him a sobriety tonic.
This entire floor was a dead zone.
I rolled out of bed, trying to crawl toward the door to get help. My body hit the floor with a heavy thud. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through me, and I almost blacked out. I bit my tongue, using the sharp pain to stay conscious.
I didn't want to die here. Not like this. Not so pathetically.
I dragged myself toward the door, inch by agonizing inch. Every movement drained all my energy. Blood trickled from my nose and ears, leaving a long, dark smear on the polished floor.
Finally, I reached the door. I slapped at it with my blood-soaked hand.
"Help... me..."
My voice was so weak I could barely hear it myself.
Just as I thought I would die in this storm-tossed night, the door opened.
It was a medical intern making his rounds.
When he saw me, covered in blood, his face went white with terror.
"Mr. Hayes! Mr. Hayes, what happened?!"
He fumbled to help me up, yelling for his colleagues.
In seconds, a team of doctors and nurses rushed in, lifting me onto a gurney.
"Pupils dilated! Respiratory failure! Quick! Get him to the ER!"
"Notify the family! Notify his wife!"
"Where's his physician? Where's Dr. Sterling? Someone call Dr. Sterling!"
In the chaos, I heard someone shouting Claire's name.
The intern, Leo, pulled out his phone with trembling hands and dialed her number. It rang for a long time before she picked up. The sound of loud music and men's laughter blared from the other end.
"Hello? Who is this?" Claire's voice was slurred with alcohol and laced with annoyance.
"Dr. Sterling! It's Leo from the ER!"
"It's Mr. Hayes... He's... he's in critical condition!"
"The tumor's ruptured, he's herniating! He needs emergency surgery, now!"
"Please, you have to come back! We're losing him!"
Leo's voice was cracking, sweat beading on his forehead.
There was a two-second pause on the other end.
Then came Claire's voice, as cold and sharp as ice.
"Herniating?"
"Heh. Leo, you're a neurosurgery resident. You know what brain herniation looks like. He was fine this afternoon, packing his things. How could he suddenly be herniating?"
"Is he acting again? Tell him to stop the charade."
"It's Julian's birthday. Does he have to cause trouble for me right now?"
Leo lost it. He screamed into the phone. "Dr. Sterling! It's not an act! It's real!"
"Mr. Hayes is unconscious! He's bleeding from his ears and nose! We can't even get a blood pressure reading!"
"Please, come back! I'm begging you!"
From the other end, I could hear Julian's voice. "Claire, who is it? What a buzzkill."
Followed by Claire's gentle, soothing tone. "It's nothing. Just an unreasonable patient."
Then, she spoke her last words to me, through the phone.
"Tell Ethan that's enough."
"I don't have time for his games tonight."
"If he wants to die so badly, then let him."
Beep... beep... beep...
The line went dead.
Lying on the gurney, I watched the fluorescent lights streak past overhead. A tear escaped the corner of my eye, mingling with the blood.
The wave on the heart monitor finally flatlined.
The world went dark.
The red light above the emergency room door was blinding, but inside, it was silent. There was no whine of a defibrillator, no rhythmic thud of chest compressions.
The doctors had seen the paper clutched in my hand.
The Do Not Resuscitate order.
It had not only Claire's signature but also my own bloody thumbprint, pressed there just moments ago.
"The patient... refuses resuscitation," the intern, Leo, choked out, tears streaming down his face as he looked at the blood-soaked document. "But... but he's so young..."
The senior ER doctor sighed and pulled down his mask. "Respect the patient's wishes."
"In his condition, even if we brought him back, he'd be in a vegetative state. Let him go with dignity."
They stopped what they were doing, standing silently around the operating table.
And so I lay there, still.
My consciousness began to fade, my soul feeling as if it were drifting out of my body.
I saw Claire.
She was still in that luxurious private room. Julian was cutting a cake, dabbing the first piece of frosting on her nose. She was laughing, her eyes full of adoration. Everyone was cheering, chanting, "Kiss, kiss, kiss!"
Blushing, Claire leaned in and planted a kiss on Julian's cheek.
"Happy birthday, Julian. Thank you for coming back to me."
What a heartwarming scene.
If you could ignore the fact that at this very moment, her husband was lying on a cold steel table, growing colder by the second.
Suddenly, Claire's phone rang again. It was the hospital.

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