Although a work of flash fiction, this story was inspired by what happened to my father, who was battling advanced prostate cancer in the late summer of 1995 when he died of a stroke.

He didn’t look the way you’d think. No bony hands clutching a scythe, no skull staring from beneath a black hood. He was dressed plainly – white shirt and dark pants with no appliques or designs of any sort. Thin wisps of hair covered the top of his head and his beardless chin came to a sharp point. He appeared to be about 50 years of age, although he was as old as life itself. All in all, the man seated across from me seemed to be fairly normal except for one thing – the color of his skin. It was pale yellow, the color of a faded daisy or pus oozing from a festering wound.

            “Why are you here?” Death asked in a monotone voice.

            “It’s about my father. He has prostate cancer.”

            “I can’t change that.”

            “I figured as much.”

            “So why are you here? To talk me into making his life longer? I can’t do that either.”

            “Actually…” I paused and took a deep breath, “I’d like you to shorten his life, even end it tomorrow if that’s possible.”

            Death’s expressionless face had not changed since we met, but a slight tilt of his head suggested he might have been ever so slightly surprised by my request.  A few seconds passed before he posed the question I had been expecting.

            “Why?”

            “My father’s cancer has moved into his bones, including his pelvis. He can barely walk and his pain is so great no drug can relieve it, even for a few minutes.”

            “So, you want me to end his pain by ending his life, is that it?”

            I stiffened and nodded my head slowly. “Is that possible?” I asked.

            Death paused and stared at me, his face still showing no expression. “Yes, it is possible, but only if someone else takes his place.”

            I hesitated, knowing what he meant. Even so, I pretended not to. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean that if your father doesn’t die of cancer, someone else who was slated to die another way will now have to die of — what’s that slang term you use? Oh yes, the ‘big C.’”

            This time I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take his place. Of course, I’m assuming you didn’t have me dying from cancer to begin with.”

            “Actually, I didn’t but if that’s your choice, I’ll make the switch.”

            “Does this mean I’ll die any sooner?”

            “No, you might die next month, next year, or in 70 years. But you’ll die of cancer rather than the method I originally planned for you.”

            “I see. Thank you. How soon will my father die?”

            “Before you wake up from this dream.”

                                                                        ****

            The ringing phone pulled me out of my slumber. I tumbled from bed and grabbed the phone.  As I brought it to my ear, my sister’s sobs stifled my hello before I could say it.

            “It’s Dad,” she said after gaining some measure of composure. “He died in his sleep last night.”

            “Heart attack?”

            “Either that or a stroke. Mom wants you to come over as soon as you can.”

            “I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

            On the way to my parents’ house, I felt heavy with grief but also relieved. The switch had been made as I asked. That meant my dad’s suffering was over, but it also meant I would die of cancer someday. It might be the slow and painful death he had been facing. But maybe I could avoid that fate if someday, someone had an audience with Death on my behalf.