Six Weeks After Diagnosis
The air in the hospital room smelled sterile, almost chemical. Thijs sat against the pillows, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring at the walls. The faint beep of the heart monitor beside him felt like a constant reminder that his body wasn't his own anymore.
He had just finished his second round of chemotherapy. The treatment left him drained, nauseous, but it was the other thing that bothered him more — the sense that his life, his future, was slipping through his fingers.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the hospital grounds. He'd been staring at that same view for days, watching the seasons change from his bed. A feeling of being left behind crept up on him each time he saw a group of kids running, playing football, living life. He wanted to be out there. He wanted to be back on the field, running, scoring, fighting for his dream.
His mother entered quietly, carrying a tray of food that Thijs knew he wouldn't eat. She looked at him with a tired smile, but her eyes were filled with an emotion he couldn't quite place.
> "How are you feeling today, sweetheart?"
Thijs gave her a half-smile.
> "Same as yesterday. A little tired."
She set the tray down on the side table, hesitating before sitting next to him.
> "The doctor said you're doing well with the chemo. It's a good sign."
Thijs didn't look at her. He couldn't. He just stared at the wall, his fingers nervously tapping the blanket.
> "Yeah… but when can I play again? They said I'd be able to do things again, once the treatment works. I need to get back on the pitch."
His mother's smile faded, her voice softening as she gently placed a hand on his.
> "Thijs, we talked about this. Football can wait."
> "No, it can't," he said, his voice firm. "I can't wait forever. I have to play. I can't let this cancer take my dream away."
His mother took a breath, her eyes brimming with emotion.
> "We want you to get better first. Your health comes first. Football…" she trailed off, struggling to find the right words. "Football will be there. But you have to take care of yourself, Thijs."
Thijs' jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to fight against the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at him, but it was hard to find the words. Instead, he turned his gaze to the window, where he could see kids passing the football across a field in the distance. The familiar sound of a ball thumping against a foot echoed in his mind.
> I should be out there. I should be playing, proving them wrong. Proving myself right.
A few days later, Thijs found himself standing alone on a small, empty field behind the hospital. The grass was uneven, patches of it brown and dry. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Thijs to feel a connection to the sport he loved. He kicked the ball a few times, weak shots that barely made it past the goalpost.
His chest was tight, his limbs felt heavy, but he kept pushing through. He needed to feel normal. He needed to prove to himself that he hadn't lost everything.
He kicked the ball again, harder this time. It rolled slowly, barely crossing the line. Thijs clenched his fists, frustration building in his chest.
> Come on. Just one shot. One clean strike. Prove to everyone that I can still do this.
But each time he tried, his body betrayed him. His muscles didn't react the way they used to. His heart raced, his breath became shallow. He tried again and again, each time weaker than the last. His knees wobbled, and he finally dropped to the grass, staring up at the sky, breathing heavily.
> This isn't me. I can't be like this.
Later that evening, as he lay in his hospital bed, he turned his head to see his father standing near the window, looking out at the city. He hadn't spoken much that day, but Thijs knew his father was just as worried as his mother.
> "Dad?" Thijs said, his voice quieter now.
His father turned, giving him a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.
> "Yeah?"
> "Do you think the scouts will still be interested in me when I'm better?"
There was a long pause before his father spoke, his voice a little rougher than usual.
> "I don't know, son. I hope so. But right now, we need to focus on getting you well. Football's still there, and so are your dreams."
Thijs didn't respond right away. He just stared at his father's face, seeing the tired lines around his eyes.
> "And if it doesn't happen?" Thijs whispered, a sense of defeat creeping into his voice.
His father walked over to the bed, sitting beside him. He placed a hand on Thijs' shoulder, his grip firm but comforting.
> "Then we'll figure it out together, son. We'll find a new dream if we have to. But right now, let's focus on getting you through this."
Thijs didn't answer, but inside, a part of him was screaming.
> I don't want a new dream. I just want this one. I don't want to give up on it yet.
Later that night, after his parents had gone home, Thijs whispered softly to the empty room, his voice barely audible:
> "Just one more chance. I'll make it count. I'm not done yet."
Early Spring
Thijs sat in the passenger seat of his father's car, staring out the window as familiar streets rolled by. The sky was a pale, cold blue. Buds were starting to appear on the trees, and for the first time in months, there was warmth in the sun.
He was going home.
The doctors had said the word he'd clung to for months: remission.
Inside, Thijs' chest felt like it might burst from relief. He had survived the chemo. His blood counts were stable. For now, the cancer was quiet.
His mother kept glancing at him as they drove, as if afraid he might vanish if she looked away too long.
> "You'll still have check-ups," she said gently. "And they want you to rest. You're not completely out of the woods."
> "I know," Thijs said, managing a small smile. "But I'm done sitting in that hospital room."
When he stepped into the house, the smell of clean laundry and his mother's cooking wrapped around him like a hug. For a while, he just stood in the hallway, eyes closed, breathing it in.
Two weeks later, he laced up his football boots for the first time in months.
He'd convinced his father to drive him to a small field near their neighborhood. The grass was patchy, and the goals were rusted, but it felt like home.
> Just a few touches. Nothing crazy.
The first kick felt alien. His legs were stiff, his muscles weak, but he kept going. He dribbled slowly between imaginary cones, pushing himself a little harder each time.
After a while, he took a shot. It barely left the ground.
He stood there, breathless, frustration simmering beneath his skin.
His father watched from the sideline, arms folded.
> "Don't push too hard, Thijs."
> "I have to try, Dad."
> "I know. But remember what the doctor said. Your body needs time."
For a few days, Thijs kept coming back. Each day, he moved a little faster. Each shot went a little further. His cheeks grew pink again.
He even dared to imagine stepping back onto a real pitch, wearing his club's shirt again, feeling the weight of the ball at his feet while a crowd watched.
> I'll come back. I can do this. I have to.
But in late summer, it started again.
The first sign was a pain deep in his chest one morning when he tried to get out of bed. A deep, gnawing ache that made him freeze in place.
At first, he ignored it. He told himself it was just muscle strain, or leftover weakness from chemo. But the pain grew sharper, and other things returned:
night sweats soaking his sheets
a low fever that wouldn't go away
the weight dropping off him again, week after week
One evening, Thijs sat on the couch, shivering despite the blanket around his shoulders. His mother knelt in front of him, pressing her cool hand to his forehead.
> "You're burning up again," she whispered.
> "I'm fine," he insisted.
But she looked at him with tears welling in her eyes.
> "No, Thijs. You're not."
A week later, he was back in the hospital.
Dr. Vermeer stood beside his bed, a chart in his hands, a tired sadness in his eyes.
> "Thijs… I'm afraid the cancer is back. And it's more aggressive this time."
Thijs stared at him, not breathing.
> "No. No, you said it was gone."
The doctor sighed.
> "It was. But some cells remained, and they've grown again. We'll try another round of treatment. But I want to be honest — this is going to be harder to beat."
His mother sobbed softly beside him. His father clenched his jaw so tightly Thijs thought his teeth might crack.
Thijs lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, his chest feeling like it was full of broken glass.
> I was so close. I was getting stronger. I thought I was winning.
He turned his face to the side, eyes stinging with hot tears.
> I'm not ready to give this up. I can't be done yet.
Age 17 – Late Winter
Snow dusted the edges of the hospital windows, catching the pale sunlight like tiny crystals. Thijs lay curled on his side, blankets pulled high around his thin shoulders. Each breath felt shallow, as though he was trying to fill his lungs through a straw.
Nurses moved quietly around the room, checking machines and adjusting IV lines. Thijs barely noticed them anymore. He'd grown used to the steady beeping of monitors, the smell of antiseptic, the squeak of rubber soles on polished floors.
His mother sat beside him, knitting a scarf with trembling fingers. She'd unraveled and restarted the same row at least five times.
> "Mom… you'll wear holes in that if you keep starting over," Thijs rasped, a small smirk flickering across his lips.
She gave a watery laugh, blinking rapidly.
> "I know. I just… I like keeping my hands busy."
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Dr. Vermeer entered, his face a mixture of kindness and sorrow. He flipped through the chart in his hands, then lowered it gently.
> "Thijs… can we talk?"
Thijs shifted slightly on the bed, wincing as a jolt of pain shot through his ribs.
> "Sure."
His parents leaned in closer as Dr. Vermeer sat on the edge of the bed.
> "The chemotherapy… it's not working anymore. The lymphoma has spread too far. Your body is too weak to handle more treatment."
Silence crashed over the room like a wave.
> "So… what happens now?" Thijs asked. His voice was steady, though his fingers dug into the blanket so hard his knuckles turned white.
Dr. Vermeer met his eyes squarely.
> "We're going to focus on keeping you comfortable. We'll control the pain. But I think… we need to prepare for the time ahead. It could be weeks… or days."
His mother gave a small, sharp cry, pressing her hand over her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks. His father wrapped an arm around her, though his own shoulders were shaking.
Thijs stared at the ceiling. For a long moment, no one spoke.
> "I wanted to play again," he murmured finally. "I was getting stronger. I thought… I thought I could come back."
Dr. Vermeer placed a gentle hand on his arm.
> "I know you did, Thijs. And you fought harder than anyone I've ever seen. But sometimes… it's not enough. And that's not your fault."
Tears slid silently down Thijs' temples, disappearing into the pillow.
> I was supposed to be more than this. I was supposed to be on the pitch. I was supposed to be scoring goals… not dying in this bed.
Later that evening, his parents sat close on either side of him. His mother wiped his face with a cool cloth, even though he hadn't asked her to.
> "You've always made us so proud," she whispered. "No matter what happens, you've made us proud."
Thijs' voice was little more than a whisper.
> "I don't want it to end like this."
His father cleared his throat, but his voice cracked anyway.
> "Neither do we, son."
Outside, the snow continued to fall, silent and relentless. Thijs closed his eyes, feeling the chill of reality sink deeper into his bones.
> I'm not done. Even if this body gives up… I'm not done. I can't be.
Early Spring
The pale light of dawn spilled into the hospital room, painting soft gold across the white walls. Thijs lay propped up against his pillows, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Outside, the world was waking up. Birds called softly from bare branches. Somewhere in the distance, a football thudded against a fence, followed by a burst of laughter.
Thijs listened to the sound, his eyes half-closed. He could almost picture it: green grass under his feet, the weight of the ball against his instep, the rush of wind as he sprinted forward. For a moment, it felt real enough to touch.
His mother sat close, holding his hand between both of hers, as if willing warmth back into his skin. She kept brushing his hair back from his forehead, her motions gentle, rhythmic.
> "You're so brave," she whispered, her voice catching. "You've always been so brave."
Thijs tried to smile, though it barely lifted the corners of his mouth.
> "I'm tired, Mom."
> "I know, sweetheart."
His father stood at the foot of the bed, his posture rigid, eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall.
> "We're proud of you, son. So damn proud."
Thijs blinked slowly, his gaze drifting to the ceiling tiles he'd counted so many times.
> "I wanted to go back," he murmured. "I wanted to play again. Just once. Even if it was only for five minutes."
His mother choked on a sob, pressing her lips against his knuckles.
> "You will always be our footballer. Always."
Thijs' breath hitched. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the past two years pressing down on him like iron chains.
> "I wish… I could have one more chance. To step on the pitch. To feel the grass under my boots. To hear the crowd."
His voice grew softer, barely a whisper.
> "I don't want this to be the end."
His father stepped forward, bending down so his forehead rested gently against Thijs'. His voice was low, rough with emotion.
> "If there's anything beyond this… you go find your field, son. And play your heart out."
Thijs swallowed, the edges of his vision blurring as exhaustion pulled at him. His chest rose and fell in small, shallow breaths.
> If I get another chance… I'll make it count. I'll train harder. I'll become the best. I'll live for football — and for them.
His mother brushed a tear from his cheek.
> "We love you, Thijs."
Thijs' lips moved, though no sound came out at first. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost invisible, he whispered:
> "I love you too."
A long silence filled the room, broken only by the gentle beeping of the monitor. Thijs' eyes fluttered shut. His breathing grew slower, each inhale a little shallower than the last.
Outside, a breeze rustled the budding branches. Somewhere, faintly, a whistle blew as a new match began.
Then the monitor gave a single, flat tone.
And Thijs was gone.