Terminal

It's Your Life to do, Think, Feel, and Say What you Want to, no Matter how Little Time May be Left of It.

Photo taken by me at Echo Lake in Vancouver Island on October, 2025.

Mona squirmed in her chair, constantly crossing and uncrossing her feet, glancing at her worn out shoes, pants, and shirt before staring at her fingernails, studying them, sighing at their deterioration, their frailty. Repulsed by the pallid tint of her nails, she looked up and scanned the dimly lit room. All she saw were people who looked just like her, their faces just as detached, just as gaunt, just as defeated. All of the people were either bald or balding, except one. The eerie similarities she shared with everybody in the room only heightened the stark disparities they all shared with the one person who looked nothing like them.

She fixated on that person, that anomaly. With a head full of thick, wavy hair, wearing an expensive outfit, her face covered in make-up, the woman, who clearly didn’t belong, smiled constantly, talked incessantly, and made as much eye contact with those who looked nothing like her as she could.

Mona refocused her attention on the people sitting in the chairs around her. Every single one of them suffered from the same disease as her. Every single one of them was given a finite amount of time they had left, most were told months, some were told weeks, a few were told days, none were told years. Every single one of them was told there was no hope, no chance; that no miracle was going to magically arrive and save them. Every single one of them was terminal. None of this applied to the woman with the full head of hair, fancy clothes, and make-up, however. Yet, despite not having to face such a grave reality, she seemed to have more to say about how to handle it than those who did.

“I know how much pain you’re all suffering,” she said.

“Really?” Mona blurted out.

“What was that, Mona?”

“How do you know how much pain we’re all suffering?”

“I apologize, Mona. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m only here to -”

“Assist us with the transition of death, yes, yes, I know. We all know that. You keep telling us that. You keep pummeling that stupid word into our heads.”

“Being rude is not the right way to approach this situation, Mona.”

“Why?” Mona said. “I have worse things to worry about then whether or not I’m offending you.”

“I’m here to help.”

“You’re here to talk.”

Mona stood, raised her arm, and pointed at the sick, one by one, but had to stop when her body, severely drained by the strain of her sudden shift in position, forced her back to her seat. After recollecting herself, she said, “I think we have been given something special. I just realized that we have been given something that few are ever given.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” one of the other seated and sick said.

Mona looked at the speaker, whose face was so emaciated she knew they were surely one of the few who were only given days.

“We know we’re going to die.”

“Everybody knows they’re going to die,” Another person said, their face indicating they were given at least three, possibly four months.

“That’s not true,” Mona said, “People may know of the fact they’re going to die, one day, far away from today, but it’s not real for them. It’s something that happens to people on TV, online, in other cities, in other countries, but not them, and definitely not soon. But for us, we know when we’re going to die. We’re not saddled with the fear of whether we’re going to die tomorrow, or fifty years from now, and we’re not saddled with the stress on what we have to get done during that huge gap of time.”

Now it was the therapist who was squirming in her seat, constantly crossing her feet, looking down at her black high heels before gazing at her painted, polished fingernails.

“At first, I was terrified at knowing exactly when I was going to die, but I’ve realized that knowing is actually an incredible thing. By knowing, I don’t have to plan for fifty years. I can plan for six weeks, eight if I’m lucky, and considering I’ve been diagnosed with a disease that is eating me from the inside out, being lucky is something I’m convinced I’m not.”

Some of the patients laughed at Mona’s last statement. It was a nervous, yet warm laughter.

“Think about it,” Mona said. “We don’t have to worry about paying off a mortgage. Most of us won’t be alive long enough to even make the first payment. We don’t have to worry about the tension of settling into new jobs. We don’t even have to worry about the tension of new job interviews. We definitely don’t have to worry about retirement savings, that’s for sure. Some of you might say we have to worry about money for a funeral, but speaking for myself, I couldn’t care less if they toss me into a woodchipper. I’m dead, who gives a shit? And considering how we all look right now, being turned into mulch might be a step up.”

Mona couldn’t help but laugh at the audacity of her own words, but was comforted, encouraged by the pained laughter spilling out of her poisoned peers’ reluctantly opened mouths.

In spite of a sudden bout of dizziness, Mona leaned forward and continued speaking her mind.

“We don’t have to worry about starting new relationships and the shit that comes with watching them fall apart. And for those of us who have children, I feel for you, I do, and while I know the biggest fear is not being able to watch them grow up, at least you don’t have to worry about watching them fuck up.”

“Mona!” the therapist said, “I think you’ve said enough.”

“That’s something else we don’t have to worry about,” Mona said, “following rules. What can anybody really do to us? Are they going to hit us? Yell at us? Arrest us? Good luck living with yourself punishing somebody with a cue ball for a head and poison for blood. All we have to say is cancer, and BOOM, instant pity, instant forgiveness for whatever the hell we choose to do at that particular moment.”

The therapist opened her mouth.

“Mona –”

“Cancer,” Mona interrupted.

“Mona, this is serious, you can’t say-”

“Cancer,” Mona interrupted again, this time following up the dreaded word with a mischievous giggle.

“Sure, it’s only for a limited amount of time,” Mona said, “but great things are never meant to last that long anyway. That’s what makes them great. So, I guess the real question isn’t, or at least shouldn’t be, about how we deal, or cope, or transition toward death, but what we want to do until it comes. What we want to say. What we want to feel. And I don’t know about any of you, but I’ll be damned if I spend that time whining about how much my blood and bones hurt or convincing myself its best to just lay in bed, stay quiet, and wait to die. I want to spend that time doing all of the things that people over the course of their entire lifetimes would never think about doing, or saying, or feeling. Things they wouldn’t dare consider because they’re too worried about the consequences, something none of us have to worry about.”

“Encouraging words,” one of the weakest looking patients said, “but considering some of our conditions, what do you suggest we actually do with this gift of finite time? Look at us. I can barely make it to the bathroom without having to stop and rest.”

“I can’t pour a cup of coffee without feeling like I’m going to pass out,” another patient said.

“I can’t even jerk off,” another patient said.

Mona looked at each patient and considered their grievances, their arguments against her point. They were valid. Every single one.”

“I don’t have the answers,” she said. “I think we should each focus on doing whatever we can with the little bit of time, and little bit of energy we have left.”

There was a collective groan from every one of the patients.

“Now you sound just like her,” another patient said, pointing at the therapist, whose head was lowered, her eyes focused on the floor, calm and quiet.

“I just thought -”

“Why don’t you just shut up?” another patient said, “I’m here to feel better. I’m not here to be pressured to do things that will only cause me more pain.”

Mona couldn’t understand why those she believed she was speaking for, those she thought she was motivating, encouraging, had so abruptly, and so callously, attacked her. She glanced at the therapist and saw her head rise. She looked at the rest of the patients, and saw their eyes, wan and empty, focus directly on the therapist, anxious to hear what she had to say.

“We shouldn’t blame Mona for saying what she feels,” the therapist said. “That is what this group is about. And while her words may have been misguided, we should appreciate her honesty.”

Mona attempted to stand, but with all the energy she used over the last few minutes, she was forced to remain seated. Forced to listen. Forced to endure.

“I think we should focus again on the transition that you are all going to undergo, some sooner than others. You should concentrate on being comfortable, on being at peace in your last days. You should strive to die with dignity.”

After watching the rest of the patients nod in unison, Mona, despite her pain telling her not to, stood, and made her way to the door. Every step was laborious, draining, but she made it. Gratified at the small success, she grabbed the knob and opened the door. Before walking out, she looked back at the patients, none of whom even noticed her leaving, for their attention remained fixed on the therapist.

Mona shook her head, left the office, and slammed the door, hard, harder than she believed she was capable, and as she made her way out of the building, thinking about what she was going to do, say, and feel in her final weeks, she smiled.

This story was initially published in August, 2016 by the Spadina Literary Review.

You can read the original version of the story here:

https://spadinaliteraryreviewarchive.com/VIN/SR14-Fic-04.html