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The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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Cancer
By BrokenxSmilesxMourn27

 


Cancer. A class of diseases characterized by the uncontrolled division of cells. It will kill you, unless you're lucky. Most often, you're not.

There are two important types of cancer: benign and malignant. Once the doctors know what type you have, they then begin chemotherapy, radiotherapy, or perform surgery. The treatment will typically cause you to lose your hair, but it can also save your life.

In New Jersey, my home state, twenty of a hundred thousand men suffer from brain cancer, and only eight of those men are lucky to survive.

I just had my biopsy performed. I knew it was time to be tested for cancer, so I went in. After many tests, they concluded a biopsy would be needed, and they tested my brain tissue for cancer. It was positive. I, Frank Iero, have malignant brain cancer that is spreading throughout my body and has affected my lungs. I have an eighty-one percent chance of surviving the lung cancer, and a forty percent chance of surviving the brain cancer. Averaged, I have a sixty percent chance of surviving if my cancer doesn't spread anywhere else. And the fact that the main problem is in my brain means that I probably won't get lucky.

“Frankie, are you alright?” Gerard asked when I walked into the apartment in an unusual manner of calm.

“Yeah, I suppose I will be for now.”

“For now? Frank, what happened?”

“Cancer happened,” I mumbled while directing my eyes downward. Gerard gasped and pulled me into a hug. I felt wetness on my face and realized it was my own salty tears of grief. I knew I would die and lose the family I was lucky to ever have.

“How bad is it?”

“Really bad.”

“Oh. What…what type?”

“Malignant brain cancer.”

“Oh my god. How… how long, Frankie?”

“Six months, tops, with chemo.”

“Are you doing chemo?”

“I don't know. Chemo is supposed to kill the cancer. But it won't save me. It'll slow down my death. And it will make me more fragile. I'll have no energy. It'll be a waste.”

“How long without the chemo?”

“Four months, tops.” And then it happened. Gerard cried. More then cried; bawled. From then on, no one mentioned my sickness, and we went on like normal. No chemo, no pain, no crying. But as time wore on, we all silently counted down the days left. We went out and performed the best shows we could for our sake; to preserve memories of me was a goal.

After about three months, it began to become difficult to do normal day-to-day things. The guys were there to help me, especially Gerard. He felt he owed me something, or at least it was what I deserved.

But still, my condition worsened. The medication I was on slowed my death, but not enough to matter. I still was losing my hair, though. It was horrific to see, and I didn't want them t remember me like this. I tried to get them to stay away as much as possible, but they wouldn't. The day Gerard came home with his long black hair cut off and bleached so it appeared he too had cancer was the day I realized that it didn't matter how I looked.

Two weeks later, I could barely breathe, let alone talk. Gerard sat by my side the whole time. I felt the need to sleep, like it could cure my pain. Before I fell back to sleep, I needed to finally say my goodbye.

“The hardest part of this… is leaving… you.” And he cried

-POV Change-

The funeral was small and cold. It took all I had to deliver my eulogy. But when I looked at Frank's lifeless body lying in the casket and felt his chilled skin, I cried. I used to never cry, but cancer happened.

The funeral itself was beautiful. There were red and black roses on his casket, and I made sure to do his make-up perfectly. He was dressed in his old stage outfit: the black suit, red tie, and bulletproof vest. Wrapped up in his arms was his white guitar with “pansy” stuck on it.

When it was time for him to be buried and everyone to leave, I walked up to his casket, placing a single white rose with the other black and red ones. I gently kissed his cheek before walking away in the newly fallen snow, my tears freezing when they mixed with the powdery snow.

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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