by David Chill
We checked in, and after a brief wait, Leslie and I were led over to the prep room, where I changed clothes and was handed a hospital gown. The nurses installed an I.V. into my arm, checked my heart rate, and prepped me for the procedure. About forty-five minutes later, the thoracic surgeon, Dr. Silverstein, came in and briefly explained the procedure, walking out before I could ask any questions or inject any lighthearted remarks. The only comment I was about to make was the nervous observation that being treated by a Jewish doctor in a Catholic hospital would surely bring me double the good luck. In hindsight, I was glad I didn't verbalize my quirky, sleep-deprived thought. My anesthesiologist then came over to speak with us, his easy, reassuring tone meant to calm the frayed nerves of anxious patients. His name was Dr. Erman. I asked him where he went to medical school, and he smiled as he told me it was UCLA. I acknowledged this was a good school, and then reminded him that all of his training and education had led him to this crucial moment in time, and nothing he had ever done to this point, or would ever do in the future, could be as important as his work today. Leslie gently took my hand and told me to shut up.
I was eventually wheeled into the operating room, and after more testing, the anesthesiologist placed a breathing device on me and asked me to count backward from ten. I got to seven and then suddenly found myself being wheeled back out of the operating room. For a moment I thought I saw the white light, but there was far too much commotion for this to be anything but a busy hospital hallway, and the bright lights were simply shining down from overhead fixtures. A nurse was asking me how I felt now that the procedure was over. I told her I felt like shit, and she stopped and admonished me not to swear around her or she'd be unable to help me. After providing her with a colorful opinion of her intractable moral requirements, a long void ensued. I stared up at the ceiling and waited a while until someone else, with a different voice and more amenable attitude toward honest answers from a semi-coherent patient, however blunt, took over and wheeled me into the recovery room.
Dr. Silverstein swung by again to tell me everything had gone well with the pleurodesis. There should be no more fluid buildup. He said it would take a week to test the biopsy for mutations, and he would check back on me again the next day. I nodded hazily, my mind not fully processing much more than that all was well. After another long wait, I was taken to a room on the eighth floor, and Leslie came in shortly after with some pastrami sandwiches from a local deli.
"I remember hospital food from when I had Angelina," she said, laying out lunch in front of me. I glanced up at the clock and saw it was already close to noon.
"Thank you for getting this," I said, suddenly realizing how hungry I was.
"Husbands in hospital rooms get special perks," she smiled. "How are you doing?"
"I think I'm starting to feel okay," I said, smearing some mustard on my sandwich and taking a large bite.
Leslie looked at me. "We haven't talked much the past few days. So much going on. I feel like I heard more from you when you were on TV. Or when we had Eli and Jill over."
"I know,” I said, continuing to chew. “I'm sorry. I'm still sorting through a lot of what's happened."
"But can't you talk about these things with me? I know you prefer asking questions to answering them. But I'm feeling shut out."
I put down my sandwich. "I didn't mean for that. Do you understand what I'm going through?"
"I understand. But you have to let me in."
"I know. Look, I've been on a ridiculous roller coaster ride. Unlike anything I could ever have imagined. Think about it. One week ago, I was summoned to Washington to work on a presidential campaign, hired to conduct focus groups. A few days later I sat for a one-on-one meeting with the vice president, five minutes after which he gets assassinated on the balcony of the hotel room I had just been in. Then I ran into a political operative at the hotel bar, she apparently was having an affair with the vice president. The Secret Service dragged me back upstairs and grilled me for the next six hours, took my phone and wouldn't let me call an attorney. Can you imagine what's going through my mind?"
"I'm sure it was horrible."
"Then the next day my big-mouthed partner arranged a TV appearance for us, in which he took the liberty to attack our entire federal law enforcement as grossly incompetent. Then I got a call from that same political operative who wanted to meet, so she could hand me a dossier on some psychopath she's convinced committed the assassination. But she wouldn't tell the authorities who it was, because she was too scared. So she enlisted me, even though I didn't want anything to do with it. And oh, by the way, in between all this shit, I get diagnosed with terminal lung cancer."
Leslie put her sandwich down as well, and she blinked away a few tears. "Ned. I am so sorry."
"Yeah. I don't know how I could possibly get caught up in a criminal investigation of this magnitude, can you?"
"I meant the cancer. I'm so sorry."
"And I'm sorry for you and Angelina. The more I think about it, the worse I feel. The thing that grinds me the most is that Angelina may have to enter adulthood without a father. It just tears me up."
"We're not certain that's going to happen, Ned."
"I know, I know. And I'd like to stay positive, but can you see what a struggle this is?"
"You're going to a bad place way too soon."
I did not disagree. I was fifty years old, and I'd lived a life. I didn't regret much, but the most painful part of this process was thinking about the lost future, not mine, but Leslie's, and especially Angelina's. The embraces, the conversations, the laughter. I think of Angelina and wonder what she'll do after college, where she'll be living. Whether she'll get married, have kids. What kind of life she'll have, how I could have helped her. The things you sign up for when you become a father. The perfunctory assumptions I had taken for granted, the myopic belief that I'd always be there for her, to be a part of her life. That vision had begun to fall into the shadows. I feared her memory of me was going to be placed in a box, tied with a bow and slipped deep within a drawer. Like an old photo album you dust off periodically, dredging up remembrances of the past, ones that become more distant and more faded and indistinct over time.
"I'll try not to," I said. "But it's hard. Staying busy and not thinking about it helps. At least it's kept me from falling into a depression."
"You know," Leslie said. "Millions of people are living with cancer. Some are stage four. It's no longer a miracle. I've been doing some reading on this, too. There are drugs in development. The doctors may not have a cure for cancer yet, but they are keeping people alive."
"Yeah," I agreed cautiously. "That guy I met the other night at the hotel bar. Said he's been living with cancer for fifteen years. Looked in reasonably good health."
"Well, that's reassuring. Is he still working?"
"Yeah, he owns a pot shop outside of Denver."
Leslie threw her head back and laughed. It was nice to see and nice to hear. I hadn't seen Leslie smile in a week, the ever-present frown on her forehead concerning me. I felt responsible for her despair, even though none of this was my fault. My illness went beyond my own suffering, it had launched misery in those closest to me. I wanted to ease their pain. It is a curse to be forced to witness the suffering of loved ones. Seeing the hurt in their eyes is harsh and torturous, an anguish that ends up being greater than your own.
"Well, owning a marijuana shop actually sounds safer than politics," she said.
"Never would have thought that a week ago."
"But what's this about a political operative?" she asked. "And an affair with the vice president?"
I told her about Iris Hatcher and my three-taco lunch, a meeting that ended with the identity of a renegade CIA agent secured in an envelope under the seat of my car. An envelope that was now starting to feel radioactive. And that despite my pleas to the contrary, Iris had arrived at the absurd conclusion that I was better suited than anyone else in the world to hold onto this precariou
s information. Simply because she thought I was a decent guy.
"My God," she said, her hand covered her mouth.
"And right now I'm in possession of what may be critical knowledge that involves national security. And by not turning it over to the authorities, I may be complicit in a federal crime. The Secret Service goons hinted if I actually knew anything, I might be tried for treason. Back then I didn't know anything. Now I do."
"Did you open the envelope?"
"No. I didn't want to get my fingerprints on it."
"Then it sounds like you still don't know anything."
"That's a lawyer's game. The type they invoke when you're on trial, the type where lethal injection becomes secondary to going down in history as having betrayed your country."
"I think you need to talk to someone," Leslie said, picking up her sandwich again but not biting into it.
I shrugged. "I'd been wondering about speaking with a lawyer ever since the Secret Service began to grill me."
"No," she said definitively. "That wasn't what I was thinking. Not at all."
"Then what were you thinking?"
"What Eli brought up the other night. About a psychiatrist. I think it would be a good idea right about now."
I let out a breath and told her I'd consider it. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking and playing Scrabble, and then Angelina came by. Still dressed in her dark blue softball uniform, she told us she had pitched Brentwood into the next round of the playoffs, beating Campbell Hall 3-2. They would now advance to play Viewpoint on Saturday morning. We also learned she had decided not to attend the prom; her mood was not festive, and she thought it would be boring. While I liked to believe it was due to my condition, she did let it slip that Aaron was no longer perceived as cool, having not gone out of his way to talk with her in the past week. She did, however, achieve her goal, which was simply to be asked to the prom, and even though she wouldn't be going, she would still have that proverbial notch on her belt. I tried to remember my own high school prom experience and mostly drew a blank. I vaguely recalled it was heavy on alcohol and light on drama.
On my first night in the hospital, I discovered I had forgotten to bring any Dalmane with me, but I decided not to call and make Leslie drive all the way back over with it. After tossing and turning for an hour, I finally reached for the remote, and without bothering to turn on a light, flipped on ESPN. After an hour of watching baseball highlights, a nurse in light blue scrubs walked in and asked if I needed anything. She was African-American, about my age, and looked remarkably alert for one-thirty in the morning.
"A sleeping pill would be great," I said.
"Lots of things would be great. But you only get one if the doctor ordered it," she said and looked on my chart. "Hmmm. Dr. Silverstein didn't order it. You don't get one."
"My tough luck."
"I tried sleeping pills for a while," she said. "I work a lot of night shifts. But you know what? They made me too groggy when I woke up. Plus, I read somewhere they can cause lung cancer."
"Not my problem anymore," I said.
"Say what?" she frowned.
"I already have cancer," I explained. "Stage four. Diagnosed last week."
"Oh?" she said, and began straightening a few things up near my bed. "You a smoker? Or just one of the unlucky ones?"
"Unlucky. Never smoked."
She took a long breath and let it out, in much the way a smoker might. "Not fair, is it?"
I chuckled. "That's life."
"I know. Believe me. I know what's not fair. I used to work the ER. I'd see car accident victims, usually in the middle of the night. Young kids sometimes. Nothing sadder than seeing someone be taken before their time."
"Very true," I said cautiously.
"I'm curious," she said, looking at my chart again. "Your name's Ned. Tell me something, Ned."
"What's that?" I asked.
She looked up at me and paused for a moment. "Have you made your peace with God, yet?" she asked.
I sat up and squinted at her. "That's a rather strange question to ask, isn't it?"
"Not really. I ask that a lot. We're in a Catholic hospital. Being in touch with God is allowable."
Now it was my turn to take a long breath. I looked up, the light from the TV dancing merrily about on the ceiling, drawing random patterns which quickly appeared and then disappeared just as fast. I had not made peace with God because I had not made peace with myself. I had not come to grips with my illness, my fate, the random nature of my malady. In fairness, I had not had much time to think about it, but I also knew I had not made any effort to do so yet.
My life had been filled with things other than religion, which was strange, perhaps, coming from a place like South Carolina, where religion is frequently woven into the culture. I was a casual believer, more of an observer, a witness. I had never come face to face with the question of my mortality, never needed to address the subject of how long I might live. I had taken some things as givens, such as a life well lived is a life lived long. I had no reason to think otherwise, no reason to think of this subject with any depth. I was, in a way, like the adolescent who assumed he would live forever, never taking the time to reflect or appreciate that life is indeed not forever, that the path we are on has an end point. The wakeup call of my diagnosis changed that. But I had not addressed the inner meaning of that wakeup call.
"No," I finally said. "I don't believe I've done that."
"Well," she said, "I'm not one to tell people what they ought to do."
"But you're doing so anyway, aren't you?"
She gave a sly smile. "Uh-huh."
I pondered this. "So, you think this works? Making peace with God?"
"Look, honey," she said as she removed a couple of plastic water glasses from my tray. "If you have an illness, you go see a doctor. And he starts the process to try and heal you. It doesn't mean the treatment is always going to work. But starting treatment is better than not starting it. The illness won't go away by itself. Same with making peace. You have to start somewhere. You can't ignore it."
I considered this, but I was unable to come up with anything that made sense. "And if I make peace with God, it's going to help me?"
"Ain't going to hurt. But it basically means you don't blame God for what's happened to you."
And then the crux of her point began to sink in. Whether I blamed anyone for my predicament. Clearly, I was not about to blame myself, but I was at a loss for just who was at fault here. It would be easy to simply shrug my predicament off as an inchoate case of bad luck, a randomness for which no one need bear any responsibility. The inherent unfairness of life that comes attached to certain diseases. But in the end, I mostly tried to avoid thinking about it. I didn't ponder the question, because I had no answers.
"It's hard not to blame someone," I admitted. "Although the doctors really don't know how I got cancer. It could have been air pollution, bad genes, anything is possible. Where do you start?"
"That's why you need to make your peace. Gets rid of the doubt."
Chapter 21
I dozed off at some point and when I awoke it was light out, and a different nurse was puttering around my room. This one showed no interest in engaging in any discussion of peace or spirituality, but rather wanted to take my vital signs, update my chart, and get on with her day. After she left, I picked up my phone and began listening to music. I had no interest in thinking about anything that required introspection right now. I wanted to allow my mind to drift, to give my psyche a rest. To heal. I listened to a Jimmy Buffet tune about life on a tropical island. And then just as the song was ending, the door opened.
"Well, this is some vacation you're taking," came a familiar voice. I looked up and watched Blair Lipschitz walk in, carrying a box of See's chocolates underneath a pair of spy novels.
"Oh, wow," I said, bereft of anything more intelligent to utter.
"Oh, wow, is right," Blair said, looking around and sniffing. "What kind of
a villa is this?"
"The kind we normally keep secret."
"Yeah, and you did a poor job of it," he said, placing the candy and books on my night table. "Had me fooled there for a minute. You should tell me the truth."
"You should tell me how you found out."
"Your lovely wife," he said, sitting down next to me. "She spilled the beans."
I frowned. "That's not like her."
"Maybe yes, maybe no. She did look pretty stressed out when I saw her. Ah, don't blame Leslie. I'm good at charming women into doing things they didn't plan on."
"I'm not sure I want to hear much more of that."
"Relax, will you? I just stopped by your house to drop something off. A present I got. Figured I'd share the pain."
"Pain?"
"I'll tell you about it in a minute. But imagine my surprise to see Leslie there. You said you were going on vacation, but people like you always bring your wives along on a getaway. For a minute there, I thought you might be having a romp with some skank."
"You thought that, huh?" I asked dryly.
“No, I didn't. That's not you. I told her about this urgent business matter, needed to speak with you right away, asked where you were. I have to tell you, Ned, your wife is not a very good liar."
I closed my eyes. No, she was not. It is interesting to hear one of your spouse's virtues being sullied as a vice in need of fixing. Leslie was like me in that regard, neither of us had a poker face, our thoughts were practically scribbled on our foreheads. Being poor at lying was a liability in some people's orbits though, the world of Blair Lipschitz being one of them.
"So, what did she tell you?" I finally asked.
"Everything. Look, don't blame her. Leslie needed to talk. They get like that. It's hormonal. When women feel they can't discuss things, they get very unhappy."
"And you made her happy."
"I know what buttons to press, my friend. Yeah, she told me. Tough one, lung cancer. My uncle died of that, but he had it coming to him."
"Bullshit. No one has cancer coming to them," I retorted.
