The other kind of list part 1 (Writing)

When David had his cancer, we didn't know what kind it was or if it was operable for about 5 weeks. As soon as they said there was something there though, I knew. I don't mean know as in 'agree with objective reality'. I mean know as in feel it in your guts. As in, that ache. I knew he had the cancer, I knew it was the kind that will kill him, I knew we didn't have long. So, there's the list. Not the happy kind, the "Bucket List" like in the movie, the list of things we'd do together before he died peaceful and happy and at peace with the world and we buried his ashes in a coffee can. The other kind of list. Of things he'd not be able to do. David was 24. In a way, if he'd be 6, it wouldn't have been as hard. Not that I'm saying it's easy - kids with cancer, that's one of the reasons I can't believe in any god. But the things that a little kid with cancer won't be able to do aren't as concrete to them. Yeah, they'll never get married, but it's not as if they have already met the woman or man they plan to. It's not as if they have to look that person in the eyes and say 'it's cancer'. It's not as if that person has to decide whether to marry them "before" or whether it'd be less sad to just stay engaged, until...well, for the rest of his life. Yeah, they'll never have their own kids, but they won't have to discuss whether or not their girlfriend should get pregnant, just so part of them can live on, even though she'll be raising the baby alone. They'll never graduate, but they won't have to walk in to their supervisor's office and decide whether their work is worth getting someone else to look at so that it can be completed, afterwards. They won't be travelling the world, but then again, they won't be trying to explain to a travel insurance company why they have to cancel their tickets. All of these dreams take on a painfully concrete reality when you can be sure the one you love won't have time to fulfill them.
We went to the hospital to find out what would happen. I was there to find out how long, being completely sure, so sure, it already hurt, so sure, it was already the most painful thing I could imagine, that they'd be shrugging, guessing, the way people do when they're incredibly uncomfortable, putting their hand over their mouth as if to stop what was coming out, and saying "We're not sure, with the latest treatments, a year? maybe two?". The intern we saw first was the same age as David. Exactly - they had the same birthday, in 1985. He noticed this when he first looked at the chart - 'Hey, we're the same age', casual as you like. He hadn't read the rest of the chart, so we got to watch as he scanned the lines down, his face falling. He looked uncomfortable, mumbled something about getting his supervisor. Poor bastard.