Chapter Text
The whiteness of the room gave him a headache, one worse than what he already had. His stomach cramped and he shifted uncomfortably in the metal chair. The doctors had run their tests, and gotten their results, and now he was just waiting for someone to explain it to him.
"Ian Hecox?" A man in a white coat stepped into the room. He was in his thirties, with thick hair and an athlete's tan. Ian sat up a bit, nodded, and looked towards the man hopefully. The last thing he expected was bad news.
"You said you were suffering from stomach cramps, mild to severe nausea, loss of appetite, and diarrhea, sometimes bloody?" Ian nodded once again, and noticed the look on the doctor's face. Sadness engulfed him, knowing something was deeply wrong.
"I'm afraid..." he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. He was giving a patient news he had never given before. "I'm afraid sir, that you have cancer. A rare stomach cancer. It's...it's in its advanced stages."
For a moment, Ian felt nothing, and then the reality of what was happening crushed down upon him. He had cancer. He had cancer. The thought made his head ache and spin, and for a minute all he could see was the whiteness of the room. But he quickly realized, if there was ever a time in his life to act like an adult, the time was now. He raised his head.
"So, what now?" he was surprised at how even his voice was. He wasn't even crying.
The doctor's breath caught in his throat, and he looked down at his feet, shifting them uncomfortably. It felt as though a hand was squeezing Ian's chest.
"You'll want to see your insurance provider, see what they can do. But...when diseases like this are involved, it's likely you're not covered."
"What does that mean?" Ian prayed the doctor wasn't saying what he thought he was saying.
"You could try paying for chemotherapy, or a surgery on your own, but this cancer has extremely progressed. If insurance can't pay, well. . . we'll make you comfortable."
Ian looked down at his pale hands, folded in his lap. He could feel himself shaking his head. He was sure he was covered. He was sure of it. He had to be.
"And how long would that be?" It came out quietly. Fear had removed the power behind his voice.
The doctor sighed. "Six months, maybe." He couldn't look Ian in the eyes. He withdrew a card from the pocket of his lab coat. "Here, call me after you see an insurance advisor. If you can get something worked out, great, if not, we can provide a care package. Either way, we'll be here every step of the way."
Ian nodded, light headed, and accepted the card, not looking at the doctor. He could sense the man was shaking slightly, holding back tears. He stepped out as quick as he could.
***
Linda worked in a little grey building, with a big brown desk and bluish-grey walls. She had files and cabinets everywhere, and as Ian sat in the rickety wood chair in front of her desk, she looked through one.
"I am sorry, sir," she began, southern drawl echoing in the little room, "but I'm afraid we don't cover you for this kind of cancer."
There was a silence, except for the creaking of Ian's chair. He was shifting his hands nervously, looking at Linda, waiting for her to say more, have a miracle come out of her mouth. She saw his hope and sighed.
"Sir, if you wanna pay for this yourself, the cheapest and probably the least effective method you could do would be a surgery, and that would cost over two hundred thousand dollars, not to mention you'll probably need more surgeries after that."
Ian stared at her in disbelief. What could he possibly do? His insurance didn't cover him, and he couldn't pay for it himself.
"Could I just get a new provider?" Ian still sounded hopeful. He was still convinced he would be okay, still convinced someone out there would give him all he needed.
Linda looked down at the file as she closed it, guilt filling her. "There would be a severance fee for leaving our company, sir," she said softly, accent still present, "but I doubt any life insurance company would take you, given your condition."
Ian sat silently for a moment, staring at his hands, still twisting them nervously in his lap. He did not look Linda in the eyes as he stood and left. The guilty woman, unsettled, put his file back in her desk drawer, and rested her head in her palms, trying to block out the sadness she worked with every single day.
He didn't speak the whole drive home. The usually loud car was quiet, without Anthony or Mel laughing with him, or the radio blasting heavy metal or rock. He was numb, driving robotically, not thinking, not feeling. He pulled into his garage, glancing at the huge stack of mail, and headed into his house, tossing his keys on the counter. He walked without thinking into his room, and sat on his bed. He lived alone now, Anthony had already moved in with Kalel.
He took off his coat, and a slip of paper fell from his pocket, landing on his leg. He picked it up mindlessly. It was the business card from the doctor. Ian instantly realized what was happening, and sobbed, broken. Loudly, he cried, holding himself and shaking as the tears dripped down his face. He had terminal cancer. A rare stomach cancer that needed chemo or radiation or a ton of expensive surgeries, and he couldn't pay for it, and he didn't have insurance. He, Ian Hecox, had only six months to live.