Curse of the Afflicted

by David Chill

  "No," Randy said definitively, and turned to the vice president. "L.A. is fine. The California primary is early next year, they moved it up to March. And L.A. is where the trends start. It's got everything. It's a deep blue state, and that's where a huge chunk of the delegates are. I think it's perfect."

  I looked over at Blair, and his desperate eyes were now shooting darts. There were a million bad reasons to do political research in Los Angeles. It was an atypical market, a city loaded with people who had grown up elsewhere, in different states or different countries. It had a liberal tilt, and many people worked in one industry, entertainment. In short, L.A. was as big an anomaly as there was. But before I could utter another word of caution, my partner jumped in.

  "If you think it's terrific, we think it's terrific," Blair declared. I tried not to roll my eyes, and instead felt my mouth and stomach tighten. Something felt very wrong here.

  "All right, all right," Sudeau said, standing up and signaling our allotted time had ended. "I'm not personally crazy about L.A., but I see Randy's point. We have to win the nomination before we can do anything else. If this idea has legs there, maybe it can fly in the rest of the country. You guys work it out. But I want to find out right away if this rebranding makes sense. Let's see if it can do anything. What we've got now isn't going anywhere except sending me down the tubes. Work with Randy on this, fellas. Get an agreement signed, and let's move. But keep me in the loop."

  We shook hands and the chief of staff led us toward the door. "Really appreciate you guys coming out," Greece said. "The vice president loves this kind of stuff. Really anxious to see what happens."

  "Happy to help out, my friend," Blair said, patting Randy on the back as if the two had been pals for decades.

  A different Yukon picked us up and took us back to the airport. I spent the time on the phone making arrangements with a focus group facility, pressing the owner to get the recruit right, and mostly not talking with Blair. I directed the facility owner to recruit a cross-section of ages, incomes, education levels, and ethnicities. All had to have voted in the last two elections. We'd have one group of men, one group of women. This was not how I liked to do research. In fact, it was how I hated to do research. Everything moving too fast, thrown together too quickly, garbage in, garbage out. The fact that the results might impact the fate of the free world was only starting to loom in the back of my mind.

  We pulled into the airport, boarded a different Gulfstream, a slightly larger one, and a number of people joined us. A few looked familiar; one might have been a correspondent for a cable news network, another might have been a former congressman. As we settled in, I checked my messages and saw that I had one from Dr. Sterling. I placed a call as the jet slowly rolled toward the runway. The office receptionist put me on hold and I closed my eyes as I waited. Eli often had me wait fifteen or twenty minutes, his patients in the office taking precedence over most everything else. But less than thirty seconds later, his voice came on the line.

  "Ned?"

  "Yeah. What's up?"

  "Listen, I wanted to get back to you right away. It's about your chest x-ray. There's something on it. We found a small mass on your left lung. It's possible this might be nothing, but we need to find out. I'd like for you to go in and do scans. As soon as possible."

  It took a moment for the enormity of this to sink in. After a few seconds, Eli asked me if I was still on the line.

  "I ... I am."

  "Can I schedule something for later today or tomorrow?"

  I lowered my voice. "How could this be possible?"

  "Look, it's possible. Nothing can be ruled out. We need to do a CT scan. That'll tell us more."

  I closed my eyes and listened to the engine noise begin to escalate. I managed to lower my voice even further, a whisper so low that I could barely hear myself speak. "So you're saying I might have ... I might have lung cancer? This is crazy. I've never smoked a day in my life. You know that."

  "Not all lung cancer is contracted through smoking. But yes, there's a chance you might have it. If it's caught in the early stage, we could remove it through surgery. We just need to do more testing. We need to be sure. How soon can we get you in? Today or tomorrow would be ideal."

  I took a breath. "Not today. I'm traveling today. Tomorrow."

  "I'll schedule you first thing in the morning. The imaging center opens at six-thirty. I'll pull strings to get you in. I'm also going to schedule an appointment with a respiratory specialist, there seems to be fluid buildup in the lung. It's called pleural effusion, that's what probably is causing the back pain. We'll need to get that checked out, too, see if there are any malignancies."

  "Okay," I managed, trying to get my head around this. "Hey, Eli. Is there a chance this thing could just be benign?"

  He paused. "It's possible but we can't tell yet. We just don't know enough at this point. But it's worrisome. I have to be honest with you, Ned. It is very worrisome."

  Chapter 6

  My next five hours were spent staring aimlessly out the window of the Gulfstream. The blue sky, the small, distant land beneath us, the small dots that might be modest houses. The green fields which looked like pastures or farms, nestled between the vast spaces of dry, brown earth, terrain void of a single blade of grass. Long stretches of land where perfect circles sat within endless rows of perfect squares, the product of some elaborate irrigation process. A few wispy clouds hovered here and there. These were the long, rural canvases of America, artful landscapes which you could never see from the ground. Everything looked different from thirty thousand feet in the air.

  I steered my mind toward the picturesque view but as much as I tried, I could not avoid my dark inner thoughts. I occasionally needed to nod emptily at Blair's jabber, fending off inquiries as to what was wrong with me. There are some subjects that needed processing before they could be discussed, and some subjects about which could not be discussed with Blair. At least not right away. The plane ride had blessed me with time to think, to ponder and to speculate, to sort out the good and the bad, all with the backdrop of evolving scenery below. None of this could provide any solid answers, but the lofty perspective provided a context to help me focus.

  I had never been a smoker. I tried to lead a healthy lifestyle. I was generally a good person. I went to church occasionally. My parents were both alive, well into their eighties. This glimpse into the abyss wasn't supposed to happen to me, not for decades, but here I was. I tried to avoid looking upward into what might be the heavens, as I gazed out the window. The five hours slipped by very fast.

  The jet swooped, slowed, and eventually banged onto the runway, taxiing at what felt like a ferocious speed before slamming to a surprising and sudden stop. It was a jolt that brought me back to the here and now. As we walked down the tarmac, I told Blair I would see him tomorrow at the office, then I quickly sped off in my Pilot. I darted toward home initially, but then, looking at a black Audi in front of me, I saw it had license plate holders promoting the Brentwood School, and I was reminded of Angelina's game. I didn't need to go, and I had the perfect excuse not to go. But I also sensed that the more distractions placed in front of me, the less inclined I would be to drift into that dark place.

  I waved my way past the school security guard, an affable sort, and drove down the small hill that led to the crowded parking lot. It was always congested, too many cars, not enough spaces. I drove around for ten minutes before an amiable-looking teacher pulled out of a space and I quickly slipped in. Walking to the softball diamond, I came across a few familiar faces, contented parents who nodded and smiled. I nodded as well, but I had trouble smiling back.

  The game had begun, they were in the third inning, and there was no score. I climbed halfway up the wooden bleachers, careful to find a spot that was away from anyone I knew, or anyone who knew me. Leslie wasn't there, but I made eye contact and acknowledged a few of the moms nearby. My normal spot, sitting up in the top row, in the eagles' nest that was always lin
ed with a cluster of other detached dads, was out of the question today. Small talk was not possible. I waved to the other dads when they noticed me, but made no other overture. Being alone in a crowd was what I sought, physically near others, yet spiritually untethered.

  I watched Angelina pitch, her smooth motions, flexible and rubbery, whipping the ball furiously toward each batter. Her intensity, the perspiration shining from her golden face, her blue eyes focused and icy. She struck out half the batters she faced. The ones who managed to hit the ball did so with the dull clanging sound of an aluminum bat, but most were barely able to ground out to one of the infielders. One girl from Sierra Canyon, chunky and rotund with large hips, was finally able to sock a pitch up the alley between left and center field. She chugged into second base with a double, but she was stranded there, and the teams went into the bottom of the last inning with neither school having scored a run. Finally, one of Angelina's teammates reared back and slugged a pitch over the outfield fence for a home run, trotting slowly and vainly around the bases as her teammates screamed and jumped up and down, thrilled with their 1-0 playoff win.

  It is an unusual feeling to witness joy in others and to not feel any of it resonate within you. To see your daughter exuberant, mobbed by friends shrieking with the glee of having achieved something for which they had worked hard. To watch the smiling parents clapping in the stands, proud to the point of being smug, high-fiving each other as though they had been performing on the field themselves, sweating and toiling for the victory. And yet I felt none of this, only the sense of being far removed from the jovial scene, as if I were seeing it through a distant and distorted lens. As if I was looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars, surveying a scene that appeared much farther away than it really was.

  I waited outside the girls' locker room, standing a good twenty yards from the door, close enough to notice when Angelina exited, far enough away as to avoid any human contact. She emerged after about twenty minutes, saw me, and rushed over to kiss my cheek. In the next breath she told me that she was going over to Jordan's house with a few of the girls, and that she would see me later. I nodded and managed a weak smile; she didn't wait for an answer, instead she happily waved goodbye and raced back to her friends, gabbing excitedly as she scooted away from me. Her friends were nice and they were good for her. I had once told her many years ago, pick your friends, don't let them pick you. I'm not sure if my words sunk in, but the results were good. Either she had chosen well, or perhaps they had.

  Our house was empty, Leslie was most likely still at work. I made a sandwich, ate it quickly, and then trudged upstairs to lie down and be alone with my thoughts. I heard the front door open after a while, no conversation, just the muted sound of a door slamming and grocery bags being slapped on the granite counter top. I made no effort to get up, in fact, I stayed there, prone on the bed, lying on my back, staring at whatever I could make out on the ceiling. Eventually the purple shadows began appearing in the bedroom, slowly growing darker and grayer. The small strands of light slipping through the cracks in the blinds faded until they finally disappeared. I tried to sleep, but all my mind would allow was to daydream amidst the twilight.

  Leslie came up a few hours later, turned on the lights, and apologized immediately when she saw me on the bed. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, any desire to talk tonight had vanished. I was not ready to discuss my situation, not ready to have that awful conversation with anyone. Not yet. I knew there was still hope, that the scans would reveal more than the x-rays, that Eli's worries could be unfounded. But his somber concern made me wary.

  This was a process I thought I needed to initially go through alone. I didn't want to share my fears or upset my family without warrant, without being more certain, without greater knowledge. I would tell them when I knew more. Maybe the results would come back fine, and we could all have a collective sigh of relief, without putting them through the worry. So I'd wait. But as I eventually drifted off to a fitful and unsatisfying sleep, it vaguely occurred to me that I had not spoken more than a single sentence to a single soul since my conversation with Eli, over twelve hours earlier.

  I slept for a long time, perhaps my body clock was readjusting to the change in time zones, perhaps I was making up for the lack of sleep the night before, or maybe I was trying to slink away from a bleak fate that might be awaiting me. I rose a little before six o'clock the next morning, my mind keenly aware of my appointment. I slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in the bathroom so as not wake Leslie, and drove off as the gray light had started to form over the eastern sky. The streets were largely empty, a comforting reminder of what Los Angeles once was, many years ago: uncluttered, peaceful, and even beckoning.

  The imaging center was housed in a gorgeous steel and glass structure just off of Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. It had a palatial entranceway, a spiral staircase, and a gleaming blue marble floor. It was shiny and new and reassuring. I had once done a market research survey for a hospital chain, and patients were very clear in their opinions. If a medical center looked like an architectural masterpiece, it stood to reason, the care you received there would likely be first-rate as well. This was far from a truism, punctuated by the fact that the hospital chain who hired us later wound up being the defendant in a remarkably large number of patient lawsuits. But the initial image can sometimes qualm fears.

  "May I help you?" smiled the pleasant receptionist.

  "I have an appointment to do scans. CT and PET."

  "And your name?"

  "Ned Baker."

  "Ned?" she asked, her soft gray eyes growing a little wide.

  I nodded yes.

  "What a nice name," she said.

  "Thank you," I responded, a little puzzled.

  "Don't see too many Neds around here."

  She thumbed through her beige manila folders, smiled when she came upon mine, and handed me a clipboard holding a dozen pages of thin white forms to be filled out. The process took a little while, although I paused after I recorded my age. I looked at the number fifty that I had just scrawled, gazing at it for an extended period. I'd never considered where I might end up when I reached fifty, how I'd look, what my station would be in the world. My life's projection as a teenager mostly stopped at thirty, as if that were the ultimate age, and everything beyond that point fell haphazardly off a cliff. But I was fifty, there was no doubt about it, the five and the zero glaring back at me. I just had trouble accepting its meaning, contemplating it long enough to realize that I was indeed, and inarguably, aging.

  After about fifteen minutes of idle wait, a young phlebotomist led me through a long white hallway, sterile, no pictures on the walls, only a sign or two pointing toward various labs and scanners. Once inside an exam room, she had me lie down on a cot and inserted an I.V. into my left arm, the quick jab of a needle creating a sting for a moment before melting away. After strapping it securely, she helped me up, and we continued our trek down the hallway. We passed through a pair of thick double doors that needed a good hard shove to swing open, and into a room with a cautionary yellow sign, complete with an ominous warning that nuclear medicine would be utilized past this point.

  A warm, stocky technician smiled at me and stood up from her desk. The name on her badge was Janet, she had flaming red hair and was dressed in sea green scrubs. She was about my age, maybe a bit older, something that felt oddly comforting, a maternal feeling perhaps. She led me behind a curtain and instructed me to undress and put on a gown. Afterwards, I was directed to lie on a nearby cot and relax, which I took to mean check my email. Janet left the room but returned a few minutes later and gently admonished me for not following directions. Her tone also reminded me of my mother, gentle and understanding, yet firm and unyielding.

  "Is this your first time doing scans?"

  "Does it show?" I asked.

  She smiled again. "You shouldn't answer a question with a question."

  "Is there another way?"

/>   Janet admonished me with a reproachful look, but I saw the hint of a smile as she walked out the door. After what had to be a good forty-five minutes, she returned, pretending to give me the once over with her eyes, as if to ascertain whether I was fully rested, and then she led me over to the scanner. Lying prone on my back atop a gurney, pillow under my head, cushions propping up my knees, she draped a heated blanket over me and instructed me to be very still. And for the next thirty minutes, the gurney slid into and out of the scanner, the occasional beeping and whirring letting me know that the scan was progressing. Toward the end, she released an iodine concoction into my arm, the warm feeling sweeping down through my body. It was pleasurable for a moment, but then I could practically taste the harsh mineral quality of the iodine, and my abdomen and pelvis suddenly grew hot. The warmth dissipated, although the metallic taste remained in my throat.

  "That's it," Janet said, helping me off the gurney, her arms surprisingly strong. "We are done."

  "So, what's the verdict?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't know. The radiologist reviews the scans and then sends them to your doctor. You should talk to him later. Just drink plenty of fluids today. Water. Lots of water. Gets the radioactive chemicals from the scans out of your body quicker. And stay away from small children and pregnant women."

  "Oh," I said, a little confused. "Am I radioactive?"

  "Only for a brief period. But like most things, it will pass."

  I shivered for a moment, then thanked her and left the Imaging Center for my next appointment. I walked the two blocks to the office of Eli's respiratory specialist. His name was Dr. Lynch, and he was a short, balding man with a serious expression.