Monday lunchtime, in yet another part of town

It had been a difficult night. Unsettled by his son's near admission of what Jim already suspected -- that Berry had stumbled off the path in terms of his marriage vows -- he'd had difficulty sleeping. By sharing his own slip, he'd hoped to help his son see it was possible to regain one's footing and leave mistakes in the past. But talking about it openly had unbottled the fizzy cocktail of regret Jim had been carrying for decades.

While there was no-one to apologize to now, his wife being long gone, he felt an urge for absolution. His guts, which were never quiet these days, churned harder than usual. With regret. With worry. With the monster that had already spread its tentacles through his colon, into his bowel and was now getting a start on his pancreas.

Having cancer had a way of putting things into perspective.

Reactions were rarely predictable. Cases in point:

When he'd fallen into an affair, rather than excited, he'd felt humiliated by his own animal nature.

When his wife had died, rather than sad, he'd felt victimized by the cruelty of fate.

Decades later, when he'd been forced to retire, rather than free, he felt a weight of loneliness, isolation and purposelessness that they didn't advertise in those retirement planning commercials.

And the day he finally visited the doctor's office about the discomfort, nausea and bloody stools he'd been having for years and the doctor looked at him and said I'll need to refer you, but I'm very concerned it could be cancer -- rather than scared, Jim felt, on the whole, settled.

He wasn't sure if that was a normal reaction. He wasn't the type to hang out in online medical forums or use google to seek out all the harrowing details of what he could expect from the remainder of his time.

The referral appointment came through pretty quickly -- an aberration in the space-time continuum of public health care -- ultrasounds and a humiliating biopsy were done. Within just two weeks, Jim was back in his doctor's office, holding a copy of his results, a prescription for codeine (like he'd just had his wisdom teeth removed) and a pamphlet short-sightedly entitled "Living with Cancer."

Based on the doctor's kind face and dismal prognosis, Jim had made the rather weighty decision not to have treatment. After all, he reasoned, the chance of it curing him at this stage was infinitesimal, whereas the chance that it would sap him of his strength and make him feel vastly sicker than he already did was a certainty. And he felt, suddenly, as though he had quite a lot to get done before he died.

He'd gone straight home from that appointment and begun the process of wrapping things up.

Without informing anyone, he spent weeks decluttering and organizing until every shelf, drawer and closet of the old family home held only the bare minimum of things. He did this thinking of Berenice, who would almost certainly be the one who would come and handle his affairs when he'd gone. That was one last little gift he could leave his daughter-in-law -- a simple, tidy estate.

He carefully went through old family photo albums, making sure each photo was annotated as best he could remember (Bertrand & Mum, summer 1979, Wasaga Beach) so that his son would have a record of his childhood when and if he reached the age that he wanted to look back on it.

He wanted to do something more for Berry. Something that would act like a father's hand reaching down from heaven whenever his son needed it.

That's when he's decided on his "project." All in all, the project itself has been a great motivator for keeping going. Not that he'd been feeling too terribly awful, really. In fact, most days, he still found his prognosis surprising and unrealistic. Surely with only months to go, he should be feeling much, much worse? Then again, he supposed, that's the way with life. There are ups and downs, but in the end, we're ultimately grading downward, bit by bit, slipping toward the inevitable.

Before the inevitable became too obvious, Jim had packed a case of essentials and hopped onto a TTC bus toward Berry and Berenice's place.

The discovery of the bone in their backyard was just good luck. For the first time since his wife left, he felt like fate had handed him one. Thrown him a ... well... a bone. It had given him a (flimsy) excuse to stay, which he was going to do one way or another. But the bone meant he didn't have to tell anyone about the cancer yet, which he hadn't wanted to do -- people having a way of getting all sad-eyed and treating people who are dying like invalids despite all outward evidence of robustness.

If he'd wanted to be treated like a patient, he would have signed up for treatment.

So, he had a room in their basement. He had his whole family around him (for the most part, unless Berry was at work, which was an awful lot, Jim had noted). He had his grandchildren and his project to keep him busy.

And now, it looked like he even had a way of managing what he called his discomfort but would have been more aptly categorized as 'pain, moderate to occasionally severe.'

***

The article had appeared as a mid-page photo feature in the Business section of the Saturday Toronto Star, which, despite having no interest whatsoever in business affairs, Jim combed through from start to finish every weekend. He liked to worry about the economy, and the Business section was an excellent source of things to worry about.

The headline that brought him here this morning to stand uncertainly outside the door of a whitewashed building that was once a Greek diner read: Local Purveyor of Pot Scores High Praise from 4-20 Crowd.

He didn't know who the 4-20 crowd was supposed to be and the three typos he found within the article itself -- were there no copy editors left in the newsroom? -- nearly aggravated him enough to stop reading, but he also knew everyone was experimenting with marijuana these days. You could buy it online now or go in person to one of these stores that were popping up across the city. It just so happened, the store that had been featured in this Saturday's paper was only three subway stops away.

And so it seemed worth looking into.

Although he did have lingering misgivings about purchasing what had been an illegal substance just a year or so before.

Which is why he found himself hesitating out front. To be fair, the place looked like a nightclub, even at 11 in the morning. Its large windows were frosted to preserve the passing public's innocence, he presumed. Or was it to preserve the privacy of the customer in the vein of adult video stores? He did feel a little deviant loitering around outside a drug retailer's storefront.

Furthermore, there was a beefy young man in a shiny leisure suit and ballcap guarding the door. At first, Jim thought the young man must be the store's dealer, but realized that probably didn't make sense since the dealing, as it were, would likely happen inside.

As he worked up the courage to approach the door, the young man looked up from his phone and called out to him.

"Mister, don't be shy. It's all good in the hood."

"Are you talking to me?" blustered Jim, irritated by the youth's casual language and embarrassed by his indecision at the same time. "I'm just waiting for a..."

The young man pulled the front door open and said, "No judgement here, sir. It's legal, and it's looooovely."

"Oh, alright then," grumped Jim. "I'll go inside and have a look. But only because you're insisting."

He breezed through the door, heart palpitating nervously. A flush of guilt crept up his neck.

Inside, soft spa-like music floated softly around the clean, clutter-free space. A sparing number of glass cases that would look right at home in the fanciest stores in Yorkville displayed jars and delicate little pipes. Accoutrements of pot smoking that he had neither knowledge of nor interest in. In fact, the whole thing was suddenly quite overwhelming. How was he supposed to navigate all of this?

Thankfully, a young woman dressed all in white with a name tag reading "Sarah, Cannabis Expert" beckoned him over to a long counter. Behind her, just like at a Tim Horton's, there were a series of digital screens with menu items and prices listed. Unlike at Tim Horton's, the menu was indecipherable. The overwhelmed feeling grew.

"How can I help you, Sir?" asked Sarah politely.

"Um," hesitated Jim before he plunged in. "I don't know what I'm looking for. Something to help with pain? I have cancer," he added, dizzy with the first release of his big secret even to this stranger.

He watched the girl's face for the look of sympathy that always comes after an admission of mortality and was impressed that she did not show it. Instead, she nodded efficiently and began padding away at the tablet she had behind the counter.

"You got it. Now, my first instinct is to recommend something with high CBD content - something that will help with pain and rev your appetite, which I understand can be difficult but imperative when dealing with cancer. Have you tried CBD oil before?"

Jim shook his head. Sarah was a true professional, he thought.

"Okay, so let's pull some of that for you to take a look at. Now, according to our customer reviews, you may be interested in trying a THC/CBD balance as well. THC is what we call the "recreational" aspect of cannabis." She playfully put her hand to the side of her mouth as if sharing a secret. "It's the stuff that gets the party started."

Jim nodded. A party. Why not? If this Sarah thought he could handle a party, then he believed her. She was just wonderful.

"Right. The next decision is: how do you take it? We have pre-rolled joints or capsules. Of course, you could also buy it loose, and I can show you our range of pipes?"

Dazzled by her competence, Jim answered gamely, "Why don't you set me up with all of that? I'll try them all."

Sarah's laugh tinkled pleasantly.

"Sounds good -- just don't try them all at the same time."

Jim laughed too and assured her that he wasn't looking for a trip to the emergency. Not yet, anyway.

With a few more touches on her tablet, she put the order in. Moments later, the products magically dropped into a small pharmacy basket behind her (there must be dealers hidden in the back, thought Jim), then into a nice paper bag with the store's logo on the front, and then into his hand.

She offered him the debit machine like in any other store, but he paid in cash, having brought plenty because that's what he expected dealers wanted paying in. He would have to adjust his misconceptions going forward.

"Have a great day, sir. I hope it helps!" said Sarah as she turned her attention to the next nervous-looking person in the line.

And that was that. Jim left the store with a bag full of pain relief and, to be honest, a little bit of a crush on the girl who'd sold it to him.