His mom grunted and told him to speak with the doctor. Ishar stood up from his chair and paced around, as if pacing would help her pass the phone to the doctor faster.
It was never a good sign when your mother hid something this important from you. It meant that something unavoidably serious was going on, that she couldn't bear to burden you with.
"Hello, this is Doctor Kadam."
Ishar grasped the phone with both hands and said, "Doctor? Why is my mother in the hospital? Is she okay?"
There was silence on the other end. Then, in a very soft, a very ridiculously soft voice, the doctor said,
"Son, didn't she tell you? She came here, feeling fatigue and we diagnosed her. I am so sorry.The results shocked us, and we must say we feel very ashamed in telling you so late. She should've gotten here sooner. It turns out that she…she has cancer."
Ishar's heart stopped. No, it couldn't be. The air seemed to be collapsing on him, crushing him with despair. The tears in his eyes fighting to break down. He opened his mouth, his voice nothing more than a small, raspy whisper, and forced himself to say,
"What stage? How long does she have to live?".
The doctor replied in a pitiful voice, as if raising it by a decibel would hurt his breaking heart, and said,
"Stage 4. Seeing her previous health reports and likeness of survival, we predict that she has about 6 months to live…I'm sorry, son."
But Ishar wasn't there to hear the end of it. He collapsed on to the ground, grasping the grass for support, and taking in deep breaths to calm down. The world seemed to be crushing him, mocking him for his inability to heal his mother.
Ishar fell to his knees against the cool ground, clutching his chest, and broke into heartbreaking sobs.