Living on the edge

It was a bright Saturday morning that ruined bright Saturday mornings for me. Interesting: when they don’t make you wait at the doctor’s office, that’s when you know you’re screwed.

“Is it serious?” I asked.

“Yeah...” he sighed. “It’s serious.”

“How serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Oh.”

“I’m so sorry, Mike.”

“How long?” I asked, looking down at my knees.

I wish I wore jeans today. It’s kinda fucked up to be in cargo shorts when you find out you have terminal cancer. It’s like getting fired while you’re on the crapper. It’s right after lunch. You’re taking the Browns to the Superbowl. Your boss walks into the gent’s, leans on the door of the cubicle you’re in, and says: ‘Hey Mike? Yeah, sorry buddy, but we have to let you go.’ And you’re just there, trying not to pinch off a loaf so it doesn’t make that ‘plop’ sound.

“Three months, maybe six if we’re lucky,” the doctor said.

That was six months ago. Well, to be exact: five months, twenty-nine days, and twenty-three hours.

What’s the definition of a ‘month’ anyway. Is it thirty days? Thirty-one days? I know it has something to do with the Roman calendar. Apparently, the month of July was named after Julius Caesar, and the month of August was named after Augustus Caesar. But why is September the ninth month? Doesn’t ‘Sept’ or ‘Septem’ mean ‘seventh’ in Roman or Latin or whatever?

“Hon!” Lizzy called out from the living room. “I’m heading out to buy that lasagna you like, the one from Gaston’s.”

Five months, twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, eighteen minutes.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said.

Now, what should I do while I wait? I could try to finish Zelda. Or I could check out that new Breaking Bad spin-off. Or I could write a note to Lizzy. You know, just in case. I’ve been putting that off for weeks. I just don’t know what to say…

‘Sorry about the lasagna?’

‘Sorry about the cancer?’

‘Sorry you had to quit your job?’

‘Sorry we didn’t have kids.’

I propped myself up with a pillow, picked up my phone, started to type…

‘Hey Lizzy’

‘Dear Lizzy?’

‘Lizzy...’

Just when I was getting somewhere, the phone erupted with a stern warning: 2% BATTERY!

I’ve always been one of those people who are really just comfortable with like 20% or even 10% battery. I wait until the very last moment to charge my phone. I want to say that’s because it’s better for the battery. I think I read somewhere that you shouldn’t pull out your charger until your phone is at 99%, and that you shouldn’t charge your phone unless it’s at 1%. But really I just kind of put things off.

“What can I say? I like living on the edge,” I would say whenever Lizzy gave me a hard time about it.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for two hours, Mike,” she would say, in tears, exasperated. Spent. Just the weight of our whole lives together sitting on her chest.

Another piercing beep: 1% BATTERY!

Man, don’t these aggressive notifications just drain the battery life faster? I whipped around to reach for my charger. Damn it, too late...