by David Chill
"Yeah, I disagree. Uncle Fritz was a two-pack-a-day man. Newport, that was his brand. He knew what it would do to him and he kept right on doing it. Smoked in front of my Aunt Jenny for years. Lord only knows why that second hand smoke didn't make its way to her."
"Well, regardless. I never smoked."
"Yeah, I know. Tough break. Kind of like getting herpes from a hot tub. You miss out on the fun and just get the disease."
"Charming."
"I just want to know one thing," Blair said, eyeing me caustically.
"And what's that?"
"Why you didn't say anything. I'm your partner. You have a fiduciary responsibility to share this sort of thing."
"Nonsense. I don't have to share my personal life with you."
"If it affects our business you do. And I have to tell you. Not confiding in me about this? It means you don't trust me. I feel wounded."
I rubbed my face. It is bad enough to have to comfort people you love when you reveal bad news about yourself. It was unfathomable that I might need to apologize to Blair for making him feel unhappy that I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, and didn't have the courtesy to share it with him. But the feeling of owing Blair a debt quickly passed.
"I would have told you soon enough," I said. "On my terms, when I was ready."
"Well, the business world doesn't always follow your timetable."
"How do you mean?"
"How do I mean? I mean we get the green light from Garter to do the research project. That's a six-figure study, the discrete choice thing. Figure out the pricing of that sex pill."
"I thought it was on hold. That it might not happen."
"I made it happen. That's what I do. Bring in business."
"Go on."
Blair gave a sample of his dazzling smile. "I told them I had my ear to the ground. Kept in touch with my industry contacts. Told them my pal over at Opinions and Surveys was doing a project for Nature's Light. Said they had something similar in the works. A sex supplement for women. They were in the middle of developing a marketing plan for this. Planning to launch later this year. Boy did that get the folks at Garter scurrying! They forgot about everything else, and now they want to move on this!"
"So, you made it up."
"Of course I made it up. We need some business. And we need you back in the office, Leslie told me your procedure went well. Glad to hear it. Would have liked to have heard it from you, but good news is good news any way you get it."
“Look," I said. "This is part of a process. You don't just rid yourself of lung cancer."
"You don't just lie around in bed either. Not good for the spirit."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"Well, what's your next step? When do they discharge you? Or do I need to bust you out of here?"
I shrugged. "I'm supposed to be released tomorrow. I can be back in the office when I feel okay. If I feel okay."
"How do you feel right now?"
"Good Lord," I sighed. "I just had a procedure yesterday. There's something called healing."
"Sure. But I know you. And I know you don't like hanging around the house. You like working. You like being productive."
"And you like making money."
"I do. And I can make more of it when you're pitching in. Look, I'll start Wanda on the Garter project. But it needs your magic. We'll email you a first draft of the questionnaire and you can review. Shouldn't be too stressful. If you like, you can telecommute for a few days."
"Big of you. But you're not my boss. I'll do this on my timetable," I said, still feeling a little sore from the procedure.
"We need you, buddy," Blair said, his dark eyes looking big and pleading all of a sudden.
"I'll do my best," I responded, shaking my head.
"Atta boy. And I got some good news on our aspiring presidential candidate. Spoke with Greece yesterday, got an Amber alert. She's still the grieving widow, but the buzz around Washington is getting intense. Some people are generating petitions urging her to run. For Rich's sake. For his legacy. It's becoming a movement and it's taken on a life of its own. It's incredible!"
"What's our role here?" I asked, not feeling entirely comfortable about having gone on national television last week, helping to promulgate rumors of her impending candidacy, but not feeling entirely bad about it, either. My knowledge about presidential campaigns is that most will fail. But as Blair hastened to remind me, they also generate plenty of publicity and billable hours for the campaign consultants. With my longevity uncertain, and with a daughter to put through college, the idea of some serious money coming in was getting my attention. I also knew I was sick; I just didn't feel sick. I thought back to my first meeting with Dr. Ashland. Cancer often works silently.
"If Amber's in, we're in. Greece likes us, and that's what counts. Used to be that politicians made a lot of the decisions, both for public policy and their campaigns. Now all they do is fundraise and get their faces on TV. Their staffs run the show, and their donors tell them how to run it. And I think Amber is good with Greece. And Greece loved the work you did on those focus groups last week. Terrific insights on Amber. I think that helped push the needle with her."
"All right." I said and reached for the box of See's. I opened it, took out a piece, and bit into a dark chocolate chunk, clustered with peanuts. Not my favorite, but that's what happens with a box of chocolates. You get what you get.
"Is it good?" Blair asked.
"Chocolate's always good," I mumbled, chewing slowly.
"Leslie said you liked See's. Personally, I would have preferred a bottle of Tanqueray, but that's just me."
"Chocolate works better for my system. And, oh yeah ... you said you stopped by my house for a reason. How come?"
"You weren't picking up your phone. Guess the Wi-Fi isn't so great in a hospital. Unbelievable how Starbucks can master what modern medicine can't."
"What were you calling me about?" I asked.
"Good news and bad. The check from the Sudeau campaign arrived. That'll keep us going for a while."
"Good," I nodded with more than a little relief. "And?"
Blair reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "And Haley. She said she'd get even with us for firing her. Guess she was right. Lawsuit time."
"Oh, crap."
"Oh, yeah. Sexual harassment. Can you believe that?"
I shook my head. "Why did you hook up with her?"
"With a body like hers? No reason not to. Half of the Westside was doing Haley Comey. Funny thing is, I didn't have to work at it. The whole thing was her idea. All I did was say yes. She seems to think you played a role."
"Maybe," I said wearily, "it's because I had a different response to her. All I did was say no."
Chapter 22
I spent another day at Saint John's before getting discharged by Dr. Silverstein. A resident had come in early that morning, a nice, baby faced young man who seemed a little unsure of himself. He examined my charts at length, said something unintelligible about white blood cell counts, and recommended I stay another night in the hospital. Then Dr. Silverstein came in, scoffed at the idea, and told me I was better off at home. Hospitals, he continued, were among the worst places to stay if you want to remain healthy; certain viruses were rampant and patients commonly acquired new infections. He also shook his head and muttered something disparaging about white blood cell counts, saying young residents needed to be seen and not heard.
Leslie drove me home, and I stared absently at the gray cloud cover, the continued manifestation of June gloom. The rest of the day was spent resting, watching TV, and avoiding anything stressful. I checked email and saw that Wanda had already put together a questionnaire draft for Garter, but I decided to let it wait until tomorrow. Maybe until the day after. I was feeling especially calm. Then Leslie sat down next to me, watching silently, waiting for a timely moment to summon my attention.
"What's wrong?" I finally asked.
"Nothing," she
said quickly.
"Feels like something."
"Promise you won't be mad?" she asked cautiously.
"Sure," I said, sensing the impending storm.
"I did something I probably shouldn't have."
"We've all done that," I said, waiting for her to tell me she had let Blair know about my illness.
"Um, yes. Listen, Ned. I called that doctor. You remember. The one Eli told us about."
I took a breath. Yes, I did remember, all too well. The psychiatrist. An unknown scribbler of notes, someone with whom I would share my deepest darkest secrets, my most paranoid fears. I didn't like that idea much. My experience with therapists was limited to the one session Leslie dragged me to before we were married. It was during a crazy period before our wedding, when arrangements were being cancelled, and madness ensued. When the caterer who committed to us had a change of plans, when the minister discovered he was double-booked and chose the other couple, when the band we hired broke up because of a spat over a girl. Anything and everything had gone wrong, it was as if the stars had aligned in precisely the most inopportune way for us to exchange our vows. And instead of doing the sensible thing, clinging to one another and working together, we instead began to bicker, an ugly tendency that had previously gone undetected in our relationship. Before long, we were arguing every day and the partnership itself began to teeter.
Leslie was given the name of one of the super doctors, a laughable term assigned to a small group of local physicians not because they were necessarily good at what they did, but because they were well-known amongst the right circles. Our psychoanalyst presented himself as a couples counselor, and I regretted the session from the moment we walked inside his incense-infused office. The blinds had been drawn, and the darkness did not make me feel at ease. The good doctor wore a forest green cardigan sweater, and while I would never recall his face again, the green cardigan for some reason remained fresh and present in my mind.
The bulk of our session consisted of Leslie and I talking about what was bothering us, but neither of us were allowed to respond to each other, except to play back what the other had said. It was a maddening thirty-five minutes, drawn to a close by my raising my voice at the therapist and telling him the whole session was a bunch of utter nonsense. He held up his hand and said the gist of our issue was money, pulling out a calculator and reviewing the price of our wedding. He recommended where we could cut some corners, suggesting the cost of the reception might even be tax-deductible. He then announced our fifty-minute hour was up and asked if we could write him a check on the spot, apparently his office rent was due. As we waited for the elevator, Leslie and I looked at each other, burst into laughter, and hugged. In a convoluted sense, the therapy session worked. Neither of us felt the need to return, and our wedding turned out to be a fun day. We hired another caterer, picked a different minister, and used a DJ instead of a band. And we reduced the stress because we simply chose not to worry about the small problems.
"So," I said, "you do recall our one and only episode with a shrink."
"Of course. That was the turning point in our relationship."
We both laughed for a moment, and then, as if on cue, we both got serious. We looked down at the carpet for a while. "I'm not mad at you for calling the doctor," I said and looked into her eyes. "But do you really think I need to do this?"
"Yes," she said. "You're going through a horrendous period. And you feel you can't talk to me. I'm sorry for that. But I love you and I think you need to speak with someone. And I didn't think you'd do this on your own. That's why I made you an appointment."
"For when?"
"Tomorrow. Eleven-thirty. I hope you're not angry with me."
"No," I said quietly. "Not with you."
So the next day at eleven-fifteen, I pulled up in front of an office building along San Vicente Boulevard in Brentwood, inserted a credit card to pay for an hour of time on the meter, and walked inside. Dr. Heck's office was on the fourth floor, and as I walked down the thickly carpeted hallway, it occurred to me how eerily quiet it was. Unlike my office, there was no whirr of activity, no loud conversations, no one poking their head into a doorway, no dull tapping of keyboards. There was just an emptiness, many closed doors, and a gnawing sense that I might be the only person alive in here.
I walked into Dr. Heck's waiting room, sat down, and thumbed absently through a magazine, not reading, not focusing, barely even looking at the pictures. After a few minutes I tossed it back onto the table and looked around the room. A couple of paintings lined the walls, landscapes of sunsets or sunrises, it was hard to tell which was which.
After sitting for ten minutes, the office door finally opened and a short, seventy-ish man with graying, rumpled hair, gold-framed glasses, and a stooped posture, motioned me inside. He introduced himself as Dr. Heck and pointed to a black leather chair for me. He eased down into an identical one, facing me, about six feet away. I sat down, got comfortable and waited. And waited. I looked at Dr. Heck and he looked back. I didn't say anything and neither did he. The silence grew awkward, and after about ninety seconds, I finally spoke.
"Well, I guess you win, don't you?"
"How do you mean?" he asked.
"I spoke first."
"Did you think this was a game?"
"In my line of work, it sometimes is."
"Oh. What do you do?"
"I ask people questions," I said, giving my standard line, which normally was followed by further probing. In this case, Dr. Heck said nothing. Rather than endure another long gap of silence, which at two hundred and fifty dollars an hour was wasteful, I spoke again.
"I work in research. Political polling," I added. "I conduct surveys and focus groups for politicians. And for corporations, to help bring in money for us when the political well runs dry."
Dr. Heck looked at me. "And what brings you here today?"
I took a deep breath and let it out. "Last week," I said, "I was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. My physician, Eli Sterling, he's been a friend for a long time. He thought it might benefit me to talk with someone. So did my wife."
"I see," he said. "What do you think?"
I did not answer right away. It was interesting to see his dispassion here, the same reaction that doctors and nurses had when learning of my illness, a subject they took at face value, an ongoing part of their job. The revelation that a person had a life-threatening disease did not faze them. I suppose they've seen this many times before, medicine is a field devoted to treating sick people, so this is what they encounter. It is reassuring in one sense, unsettling in another, that a person can take another's impending mortality in such easy stride. I could only conclude this is how they remained sane, that if they got emotional over every patient, they would be rendered unable to do their jobs properly.
"I admit I'm probably in a state of shock. I never planned on anything like this happening."
"How could you possibly?"
"My parents are both in their eighties. I had no reason to think I wouldn't make it as long as they have. I've lived a healthy lifestyle, never smoked. Nothing in my family history ever indicated cancer. I'm stunned by all of this. I'm still trying to figure it out."
"What are you feeling?" he asked.
"Not much," I admitted. "That's maybe what scares me the most. Maybe this hasn't fully sunk in yet."
"Why hasn't it sunk in?"
"I don't know. I suppose ... I haven't allowed it to. I've had too many other things going on in my life. I've been crazy busy, and not in a good way."
"How so?"
I took the doctor through my ordeal, the living nightmare that wouldn't go away. I explained my interaction with the vice president, that I was the last person to meet with him before he was assassinated. I related my episodes with a variety of federal law enforcement agencies. I omitted the part about Iris and the envelope; there were some things I felt were best left unsaid to a stranger, even one with whom I was supposed to be fully can
did. A part of me regretted sharing that with Leslie. The doctor listened carefully, then got up and walked over to his desk. He turned on his computer and began combing through some websites. I stared at him, bewildered. Finally, he came back over to me, sat down and took of his glasses.
"I'm sorry," he said as he wiped his glasses with a piece of cloth, and then put them back on again. "I don't normally do this in a session. But I have some patients who are delusional, they believe they play an active role in current events. That world leaders know who they are, and that secret agents are out to get them."
"And you thought I was one of those."
"I understand that you're not delusional. You are actually living through a scenario many patients only envision in their mind's eye. And as odd as it might sound, those patients are easier to treat."
"Because they can be coaxed out of their delusions?"
"Sometimes, yes. Your situation is apparently very real. I can help you deal with certain aspects, especially with coming to grips with the cancer. It's called psychosocial oncology. Regarding those other events, well, perhaps I can help you try and cope."
"All right."
"I'm curious about something. How have your friends and family reacted to your illness?" Dr. Heck asked, bringing me back to my own situation.
"I ... I haven't told anyone outside my wife and daughter. And Eli of course. And ... well, Leslie told my partner as well. Business partner."
Dr. Heck raised an eyebrow. "Why haven't you told people?"
I thought about this. "Fear, I guess. I haven't even told my parents. They're frail. I don't want to worry them. But there's another concern. How people will look at me now. How it might hurt my business, maybe clients thinking they can't trust that I'll be there for them."
"Why would you think that?"
I sat back for a moment and thought. "I guess early on in my career, someone I worked with had a heart attack. He recovered, but people were uneasy around him. No one wanted to be responsible for that happening to him again. We were nice to him ... but ... I don't think we trusted that he'd be the same."
