If you’re reading this, the big C got me. No, not Claire, the other one. There are so many things I wish I could have done, including you, but I guess when the sand runs out…

I hear the toilet flush and hastily put the note back down on his hospital bed. Moving back to the door, I position myself as if I was just coming in when Tim emerges from the bathroom. He’s not wearing underwear under the gown and I get a full shot of his ass as he crosses back to the bed.

“You know, Mr. McNamara, it’s okay to wear boxers,” I say just as he’s settling back in. He startles and nearly falls back out of the bed. I rush forward to settle him and pull the guard rail back up.

“How much did you see?” He asks, and I raise a sardonic eyebrow. “Right, well. I’m sorry. I, um, didn’t realize you were coming today.”

Tim McNamara is 35 and probably won’t see his 36th birthday. Fuck cancer, am I right? He’s been on the ward for three weeks, and despite a steady stream of friends and family visiting, I’ve never seen or heard him even mention a “Claire.” I want to ask, but there’s a line of professionalism I can’t cross. In fact, even hinting that I saw his butt is kind of pushing it.

“You didn’t think your hospice nurse would show up today?” I ask.

“Weekends are a thing, Nurse Rachet…RACHEL,” he says with a wink. “And before you put it in my chart that I’m having some sort of brain fog, yes I know it’s Tuesday. But, hey, maybe Tuesdays and Wednesdays are ‘your weekend.’”

This he says with air quotes, so I know he’s actually with it. Confusion tends to reign when patients get close to the end, so Tim’s attempts at reassuring me are nice. I check his vitals, update the chart making no mention of the brain fog or the lack of underwear, and am about to send our dear boy into a sweet, sweet, morphine-induced nap when he shakes his head.

“Do we have to do that right now?” He asks, and I pause. “My pain level’s a three.”

It’s not. There were tears coming out of his eyes when I took his temperature (under his tongue if you must know), but I put the needle down. “And if you weren’t lying about it?”

“Eight,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want meds yet. I don’t like being loopy when new people come to visit.”

I don’t like this idea. I don’t know who those new people are, but if he’s an eight, and visiting hours won’t start up again for another 45 minutes, he’s going to be much worse off than if I gave him the shot. “What about a half dose? Bring you down to a five.”

He nods, and I pick the needle up again. As I’m inserting it into his arm, he asks, “Nurse Rachel, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” I say.

“I was 27 once,” he murmurs wistfully. “Twenty-seven was a good year. My ass looked great at 27.” He sobers quickly. “Sorry. That was inappropriate.”

“Highly,” I agree. “But it’s okay. Lots of folks like you are inappropriate.”

“The walking dead?” He asks.

“Assholes,” I deadpan.

Tim’s laugh reverberates around the room, and I get the briefest glance of how gorgeous he must truly have been. Tim McNamara with cancer is handsome, Tim McNamara at 27 and in the prime of health must have been devastating.

As he laughs, the letter slips off the bed and lands on the floor. I pick it up and hand it back to him. There’s no mistaking I read it now. “So, is Claire the new person coming today?”

He sobers and shakes his head. “I haven’t seen Claire since we broke up. Two days after we entered this exciting new chapter in my life. The new person is my grandma. She’s in a home in Michigan, and my Dad went to get her this morning.” Choking back a sob, he adds. “She’s 90, and I’m going to die before she does.”

Housekeeping clearly hasn’t stocked the tissues, so I run to the bathroom and grab a wad of toilet paper. He takes it in one hand and grabs my hand with the other. I sit down on the side of the bed, careful to not jostle him as Tim clutches my hand and cries the most heart wrenching sobs I have ever heard.

“Thank you,” he says when he’s finally done. “I…um…thanks.”

“No problem,” I say. “So, I’m going to assume that you didn’t write that note to your grandma. Want to tell me about the woman who it’s meant for?”

He squeezes my hand again and looks at me hopefully. “Maybe she’d like to tell me about herself.”