You say you want to know.
You think knowing will ease things somehow. Help prepare you.
You believe knowing will somehow insulate you. Provide a buffer between you and the bitter calculus of grief.
You use clinical phrases with the doctor like "manage a chronic condition vs. make quality and end of life decisions".
So you spend the money, understanding full well that it will likely make no difference. Money can't stave off death. But you spend it anyway. You don't regret spending it. Because you want to know.
And now you do know. Soon there will be a hole in your life. One that use to be filled with soft paws, fuzzy hugs, a huge feather boa of a tail, warmth, companionship, and unconditional love.
Deep down, you knew already.
You know you will never be ready.
You said you wanted to know.
Diesel has a brain tumour.
My heart is broken.