Page 108 of Becoming Us
“Yeah?”
Her hand landed on my shoulder—light, practiced, like a motion she knew would look motherly. “The doctor needs to tell us something.”
I nodded and finally met his gaze. It wasn’t unkind. This wasn’t personal. I just didn’t want to be here. The sterile air made it hard to breathe, harder to hold in.
“Your father’s labs showed a number of concerning changes,” the doctor began gently. “We’ve seen progression. Several of his organs are under severe strain. His kidneys, his lungs, and now his liver have all been affected.”
I nodded automatically. The words floated in the space between us, detached from meaning.
“When he was brought in,” he continued, “he was experiencing severe hypercalcemia—dangerously high calcium levels, which can happen with certain cancers, like Hodgkin’s lymphoma, especially when treatment stops working. It caused confusion, irregular heart rhythms, and ultimately, loss of consciousness.”
I tried to breathe, but something in my chest caught.
“We placed him in a medically induced coma to stabilize him and relieve pressure on his body, especially his heart and brain. But…the damage had already progressed. The scans now show signs of multiple organ failure.”
Silence.
“He’s on life support,” the doctor added carefully. “But at this stage?—”
“Medically induced coma,” I interrupted. “That’s what you said it was.”
His expression softened. That look—like he already knew what he was about to say would stay with me forever—made my chest feel like it might crack open.
“Yes,” he said. “But things have progressed beyond that. His body is no longer responding. The coma isn’t something we’re maintaining anymore. It’s where his body has gone on its own.”
“Can he get a transplant?” I asked, suddenly desperate. “A liver or kidneys? I can donate. We have the same blood type. That matters, right?”
My mom’s grip tightened on my shoulder. A soft sniffle.
“I’m sorry, Noah,” the doctor said. “At this stage, none of his organs are strong enough to survive surgery. He’s not a candidate for transplantation. There’s nothing more we can do but keep him comfortable.”
Another sniffle. Closer this time.
I flinched. “I don’t get it.”
“Do you want me to explain it in more detail?” he offered.
I shook my head. “How did it happen this fast? Less than two weeks ago, they said he was stable. They said the scans were better. That he had more time. You all said he had time.”
He held my gaze for a beat, then looked away, brow furrowing as his eyes flicked to my mother.
That was the moment.
That shift in his gaze. That silence.
She hadn’t cried when I’d walked into the room. Hadn’t looked upset. Hadn’t told me anything was wrong. Just said the doctor wanted to talk. Just smiled like everything was under control.
And now she sniffled again. Playing the part.
“Noah,” she said softly.
Something cracked.
Everything I’d built to stay strong for him—the walls I’d stacked one by one, all this time—started to tremble. Like an earthquake, quiet at first, then swelling underneath me, until the ground didn’t feel solid anymore. Everything started making sense in the most awful way possible.
They’d lied.
They’d fucking lied.
