Chapter 24: Cancer
The core of Chapter 24 centers around two major plot points:
1. The origins of Sheila's family troubles. Karen's toxic behavior stems from Officer Eddie. She uses Frank as a tool for revenge against him. At the same time, Frank's treatment of Karen gives her a first taste of fatherly love and significance, making her realize that Frank is aware of everything she's done—and that it's all to get back at Officer Eddie.
2. Frank discovers signs of cancer, setting up the following hospital visit.
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Frank arrived at the clinic in the morning. By the time it was his turn, it was nearly noon.
The doctor on duty was a woman with a cigarette hanging from her lips, bearing an uncanny resemblance in both looks and demeanor to the landlady from Kung Fu Hustle. She and Frank were old acquaintances—drinking buddies, even drug buddies back in the day.
"Take off your pants," she said nonchalantly after doing a brief physical based on the form.
Chuckling, she snapped on a pair of disposable rubber gloves. She blew into her palms a few times to warm them.
Smack!
Without warning, she slapped Frank squarely in the crotch.
Even with the warming attempt, her hands were ice-cold. Frank shivered from the sudden jolt.
"Cough," she instructed.
"Cough, cough!" Frank obeyed.
"Strange… There are definitely three of them," she muttered. "We'll need a biopsy to know for sure. Don't overthink it yet—but hey, maybe get started on that will, just in case. Ha!"
She handed him a form, patted him on the shoulder, then spit in her palm, smeared it out, stubbed her cigarette, and walked out of the room, leaving Frank alone.
The moment she said the word cancer, it hit Frank like a bolt of lightning. His mind went blank. Everything else she said afterward didn't even register.
"Cancer..."
Frank stared at the form in his hands, his fingers trembling.
He wasn't a doctor. He didn't know much about rare diseases, but cancer—that one he understood.
Cancer is like a whisper from the Grim Reaper. Even with chemo and treatment, it often just means dragging out the pain before the inevitable.
Frank wandered out of the clinic in a daze, unaware of how he'd even exited the building. Alone, he drifted aimlessly through the streets.
For the first time in his life, he truly felt death breathing down his neck. And with it, a fear he'd never known.
Technically, Frank had already died once—hit by a truck in his previous life. You'd think death wouldn't scare him anymore.
But that was different. That death was fast, sudden. One moment alive, the next—gone. No time to feel, no time to fear.
This was different.
This was a death sentence with a timer. A countdown. And waiting for that bell to toll—that was torture.
Better to just be hit by a truck again. Or take a bullet to the head and be done with it.
What made it worse: he didn't even have the full diagnosis yet. He didn't know if it was benign or malignant.
It was like Japan's death row. They never tell prisoners when they'll be executed. One morning, during roll call, guards just show up and drag you out. Every day is lived in dread of that final knock.
Death itself isn't the scary part. It's the waiting that kills you.
Frank stared at the test sheet in his hand with that exact sense of dread.
He vaguely recalled the doctor saying something about a biopsy, but he was terrified of the result. If it came back malignant, it would be a confirmation—a date on his death calendar.
And if he was lucky, and it turned out benign? He'd still need treatment. Expensive treatment. A bottomless money pit.
His credit card debt wasn't even paid off. Where would he get the money?
To Frank, this slip of paper might as well have been Schrödinger's cat. As long as he didn't go for the biopsy, the cancer might be malignant. It might be benign. Hell, maybe it was just a misdiagnosis. Something harmless, like internal swelling.
"Hah..."
Frank let out a long breath, crumpled the paper into a ball, and shoved it into his pocket.
When he looked up, he found himself standing in front of the Alibi Bar. He hadn't even realized he'd walked here—his body had brought him on autopilot.
Since he was already here—and with his mood in the gutter—Frank stepped inside and ordered a beer.
No point in avoiding alcohol now. If he had cancer, what the hell was he saving himself for?
"Frank! You haven't been here in a month. I thought you were hospitalized," said Kevin, the giant bartender. He placed a beer in front of Frank. "This one's on the house."
"Thanks. How've you been?" Frank asked.
"Vee and I are getting married," Kevin said quietly.
"Seriously? Veronica?!" Frank's eyes widened in surprise.
Kevin nodded.
"Good for you, man. I always knew you two would end up together," Frank grinned, genuinely happy.
Kevin and Veronica were their neighbors. Back when the old Frank was still a screw-up, they'd helped Fiona out a lot. Without them, Fiona probably wouldn't have been able to take care of the kids.
Frank truly appreciated them. Their good news lifted his spirits, at least a little, from the dark hole the cancer had dug.
He took a sip of his beer. The moment it touched his throat, it was like water to a man dying of thirst in a desert; like gas in an empty tank; like a sponge soaking up fresh life.
He meant to take just one sip—but he drained the whole glass in one go. His body was already craving the next round.
Before, Frank might have stopped himself, walked out of the bar.
But now? Hell no. He had cancer. What was there to restrain anymore?
One drink turned to two, then three. He drank until he was stumbling, and eventually staggered out into the snow-covered street.
"FUCK!!!"
Frank yelled into the air, watching snowflakes fall around him.
He couldn't have kids in his past life. Now, given a second chance, he had children—and he was finally starting to patch things up with them.
But before he could really reconnect… cancer.
What kind of cruel joke was this life?!
Behind him, a small sedan followed at a discreet distance. Inside was Gaspar from the disability association. He'd never stopped trailing Frank.
When Frank stopped walking, so did the car.
Fueled by alcohol and frustration, Frank spun around and marched toward the car.
"Come the hell out!" he shouted.
Before Gaspar could react, Frank yanked the door open and pulled him out.
"What are you doing?!" Gaspar shouted, aiming a camcorder at Frank's face.
Smash!
Frank grabbed the DV and slammed it to the ground, shattering it.
"Ahhh!" Gaspar screamed, heartbroken over the wrecked device.
Frank stomped on the camera, crushed it to pieces, then snapped the memory card in half.
"Do you know how much that cost?!" Gaspar shouted, livid and distraught.
Bang!
Frank shoved him up against the car.