by David Chill
Leslie stroked my arm reassuringly, and I managed a weak smile in return. I watched the clear fluid drip into me, medicine designed to kill off the cancer in a shotgun approach that would not discriminate between cancer cells and healthy ones. Everything suddenly came full circle. I tried to recall all of the optimism and the encouraging words people had voiced, ones that pointed to cancer evolving from a fatal disease into a chronic condition which can be successfully treated for many years. I thought of my parents, octogenarians with whom I still had not summoned the bravery to call and discuss my disease. I thought of the pain they would feel when they learned of my situation. I thought of Leslie and Angelina. I thought of the colleagues I worked with. I also thought about myself. I was grabbing the maudlin baton for others, the ones who would survive me, who would feel pain at my passing, miss me for a period of time, and then adjust to my absence.
I thought back to my moment in the hospital with the nurse who was working the night shift. The one who thought nothing of asking the most deeply personal and intrusive questions, the ones I had not considered, the ones I did not want to consider. Have you made your peace with God yet? I had not and I did not know if I could. My resentment at acquiring this disease was still raw, partly because I had not had the time to think it through. My life had become a whirlwind of controversy and opportunity.
The past few weeks had spun me along the shifting sands of having, losing, and magically re-gaining access to clients wielding enormous power. Of becoming embroiled in an assassination plot that would have historical implications. Of seeing enormous business opportunities appear and disappear; the ability to take good care of my family thrust into my lap before evaporating into thin air and then materializing once more. Even though I now had time to think, that brief opportunity also came entwined with a triplet of toxins, a chemotherapy session designed to help me, but which also dragged along the nagging fear that the cure could be as crushing as the disease. As much as I tried, I could not escape my reality, the periodic beeping of the pump machine next to me making it impossible to close my eyes and forget where I was for even a few minutes.
I did try to consider what that nurse had asked me in our middle-of-the-night encounter. I had not yet made my peace with God. I struggled with how to even approach that. Religion had been ancillary to my life, always nearby but never fully embraced. My life had been good, but I never considered why that was. Or why others' lives were not. I had tried to live a decent life and do noble things, succeeding at times, failing occasionally. I had fallen victim to the temptation of vanity and expediency, doing what needed to be done, whether that meant partnering with a Blair Lipschitz or promoting a political candidate or corporation whose views and products I did not like and did not respect. The easy decision was to go with the flow, take what life offered. I did not consider what life might have in store for me. It did not seem reasonable, logical, or fair that I would be stricken with a terminal illness at age fifty. Cancer was not something I had bothered to prepare for because it was not something I could have possibly anticipated. And yet here I was, and as a person of reason, I was forced to confront the unreasonable.
My thoughts were interrupted as I heard a nearby conversation. Helena was leading a pleasant-faced man about my age to the chair next to us. He had the look of peace about him, a placid expression, one that did not reveal any inner turmoil. Maybe he was just good at hiding things, but his glow piqued my curiosity. She sat him down, ran through the exact same spiel she had taken me through, not surprising, but perhaps disarming. We were all the same, patients to be processed in, treated, and sent on our way, with instructions to return in a few weeks to do it again. Lather, rinse, repeat. I waited until Helena left to retrieve the doctor's directions, and was able to begin a conversation with him.
"Good morning," I started.
He looked at me and smiled. "Yes, lovely morning, isn't it?"
I looked out the window at the gray clouds and frowned. "I was hoping for a sunny day today. We haven't had one in a while."
"Every day is beautiful," he said. "Every day is a gift."
"That's a healthy attitude. Do you mind if I ask how you got to that place? Or are you simply a glass half-full person?"
"I'm more half-empty. Or at least I was. People can change. I was diagnosed four years ago. Thought that was it. But it turns out I won the lottery. Tested positive for EGFR, got placed on Tarceva. I guess I had the right genetic mutation. Was on it for three and a half years before it finally stopped working for me. But it was a gift."
"What was Tarceva like?" I asked.
"Not bad, some side effects, mostly minor. Had a few rashes and some gum issues. In the grand scheme of things, having to deal with that stuff is better than not being around to deal with them. Minor cost to get a new lease on life."
Leslie spoke. "I hope Ned can do as well as you."
"First time?" he asked
"Just diagnosed," I said. "Couple of weeks ago. I'm trying to get my arms around all this."
"It's tough at first. I joined a support group, but it was a mistake. For me, anyways. There's a lot of sadness there. People you become close to, well, not all of them make it. You just need to remember everyone's different. No one has an expiration date stamped on them."
Sage advice, I thought, and true, not just for those stricken with a calamitous disease. We do not know when the end will come, but for the lucky ones it comes at a time when they feel they have fulfilled their destiny, but before sedentary helplessness sets in. My grandmother once told me that the drawback to a long life is that you outlive your friends. It is the type of realism that comes from someone who has lived long enough to feel both blessed and burdened with longevity, knowing that living a long full life does not guarantee you will have a long, good life.
"What you said a moment ago was interesting," I told him. "You used to be a glass half-empty person. I'm sure I am, too. I still don't know how you transitioned."
The man looked past me and thought about how best to answer this. "It isn't just about outlasting cancer. The medicine will or won't take care of that. You only have so much control. Oh, I used to think praying helped, and well, maybe it does. I'd like to think so, Lord knows I've done a lot of it these past few years. But in the end, I just can't be sure. Once you hit rock bottom, you either change or your soul withers away."
"I guess cancer can do that," I said. "But I don't know that I've hit bottom yet."
"Well, for me it was a little different," he said. "I used to be an executive with a large company. Head of international sales. Was doing great, had the big house, the boat docked in the Marina, traveled abroad a lot, drove the Mercedes. I had a good deal. Then the lung cancer hit and, well, I like to joke, it all went up in smoke."
I gave a small chuckle. "Ironic humor."
"Yeah. Gallows humor is more like it. I was a smoker for twenty years, started with cigarettes in high school. Got up to a pack a day. I used to laugh when people told me about the dangers. I said they'd surely come up with a cure by the time I got old. I finally did quit smoking when I turned forty. But wouldn't you know it? Fifteen years later, I get diagnosed with lung cancer. I like to say I probably shouldn't have quit. But in reality, I just shouldn't have started."
"But what happened with your job?" Leslie asked. "Did your company stand by you?"
"Nope," he said, shaking his head sadly. "In fact, a month after I told them I had cancer they laid me off. Didn't get so much as a thank you for everything I did for them, and I did a lot. I helped build their business. But I was fifty-five, and I guess they thought I was near the end. Maybe they didn't want to watch me go downhill. Maybe they didn't have faith I'd get through it. Maybe they thought the medical bills would be too steep. That was a really tough road to go down. The betrayal and all. You know, we often hear about companies who stand by their employees when they get sick. And some sure do. But a lot don't. You just won't hear those stories."
"That's terrible," Lesl
ie cringed. "I imagine you had grounds for quite a lawsuit."
"Funny thing about that. I did have grounds, but you know what? My lifespan became an issue. The company offered me a package, it was decent but nothing special. But what if I sued and passed away before the suit came to trial? They knew my longevity was in question, their lawyers are pros at this stuff. They learned from the tobacco companies, just keep delaying until the guy isn't around anymore. I could have rolled the dice and tried, but I needed to take care of my family. So I took the package. I had made a lot of money in my career, but you know, we lived well, too. Spent most of it. I just never thought I'd be out on the street so fast. Or so harshly. You don't plan for this."
"And so how did that lead you to being a glass half-full person?" I asked.
"One word," he said and looked me dead in the eye. "Forgiveness. It's the key to life. It's the only thing that'll get you through. At least it's the only thing that got me through. Gave me peace. I don't know where I'd be without it. Frankly, I think the anger would have just eaten me up."
Chapter 27
The chemo infusion process was finished at eleven-thirty. And even though I had less than four hours sleep, the Decadron had me soaring with energy. Leslie parked her car in the driveway, and as we were getting out, I told her I was going into the office.
"Ned, are you serious?" she asked.
"I feel great," I told her as I kissed her cheek and moved toward my Pilot. "Hard to believe I'd feel like being productive after three doses of chemotherapy, but I'm flying. The doctor said there'd be a crash afterward, so I might as well take advantage of this energy while I have it."
Leslie sighed and gave me a wave. It took about twenty-five minutes to battle lunchtime traffic and reach my office. I was at my desk for no more than five minutes when in walked Wanda.
"Welcome back!" she exclaimed. "We've been worried about you!"
"I know, sorry. I haven't been myself lately."
"You're sorry?" she said, practically shouting. "We're the ones who are sorry. Oh, Ned, I was so shocked to hear."
I look at her. "Um, Wanda."
"Yes?"
"What have you heard?"
"About the cancer. Blair told us. How is the treatment going?"
I shook my head at my partner's indiscretion. "So far so good. I did my first cycle of chemo today."
"My word. And you're back in the office? How do you feel?"
I shrugged. "Right now I feel surprisingly good. Wired, in fact. But I'm on a steroid for a few days, so it won't last. I'm not sure what to expect when I go off it."
Wanda moved around my desk and gave me an awkward hug, the type of hug one gives when they're unsure of how it will be received. I briefly thought of Haley Comey, a far less caring employee, who undoubtedly would have had no such reserve when it came to providing a full embrace. I patted Wanda on the back, awkwardly as well, feeling the need to give her some reassurance, even when I couldn't reassure myself. I told her the doctors were optimistic, the treatment I was getting was the best they had available. None of that was untrue, but neither did it feel reassuring to me. Interestingly, it did seem to satisfy Wanda, as the concern in her face began to abate. As she left my office, she told me how happy she was that things were looking good.
"Oh!" she said, stopping suddenly and poking her head back into the doorway. "The Amber poll went out this morning. We're in the field. Should get results back in a day or two."
I smiled and thanked her. After a few minutes of combing through emails, another visitor darkened my doorway.
"I knew we couldn't keep you away," crowed Blair. "Can't keep a good man down!"
"I'm feeling energetic," I said, eyeing him carefully. "They tell me it's the steroids. I stop taking them tomorrow, so my energy's likely to ebb. Might as well make the most of it while I can."
"Steroids, huh? I guess you'll be bench-pressing your weight soon."
"Not that kind of steroids."
"Whatever. Hey listen, I'm glad you're here, I want to talk to you about something. Maybe we can grab some lunch. I'm buying."
"Generous of you."
"Yeah, listen maybe you can also drop me off at my mechanic on the way back. The Jaguar's in the shop. It's just over in Westwood."
"I figured you had an ulterior motive," I said.
"Ah, relax. I just need a favor."
We went down to the garage and climbed into my Pilot. I ignored Blair's continued admonitions that I needed to get a new car, that the owner of a successful and prominent business needed to maintain an image, an aura that shouted success. He barked the words ceaselessly, but I had been hearing this for years and largely tuned it out. I pulled out of the garage and turned right onto Wilshire, heading east. As we drove, I looked over at the various buildings and stores, the coffee shops, bakeries, small ethnic markets. Few of these had been here when I had first moved to L.A. over twenty-five years ago. In another twenty-five years most of these would be gone. Life was fluid. Things didn't stay the same.
"Damn, you're pretty quiet," Blair finally remarked. "Feels like I'm holding up both ends of this conversation."
I shook my head and noticed out of the corner of my eye that Blair was pulling a cigarette out of his pack of Old Golds and lighting it. My mouth opened but no words came out at first. Part of me wanted to smack the cigarette out of his mouth, part of me was stunned at the utter gall of it. There are instances when you can feel a fine line being crossed, the point at which a new, more distinct line needs to be drawn.
"And how'd the chemo go today?" he asked casually.
"Do you really give a shit or are you just making conversation again?"
"Hey, that's not fair," he protested.
"Don't you dare talk to me about what's fair. And if you don't put that cigarette out right now I'm going to shove the lit end down your fucking throat."
"All right, all right," he said, straightening up and looking around for a place to dash out the cigarette. "They don't have ash trays in cars nowadays. I don't know what to do with this."
"You want some ideas? I have lung cancer, for Christ's sake. You think I should worry about an ash tray? Where the hell do you get your nerve?"
Blair finally opened his window and tossed the cigarette out and it disappeared. He didn't bother to roll the window back up, but the breeze actually felt good.
"Look, I'm sorry, all right?" he said, his eyes suddenly getting that pleading look. "I know you've been under a lot of pressure."
I had indeed been under a lot of pressure and had thought I had been doing a good job of controlling it, under the circumstances. But maybe I needed to stop trying to control things, to let the emotions just boil over and spurt out. Maybe that was needed for me to keep my sanity. Maybe playing the role of the good soldier who absorbs what life dishes out should come to a merciful end. If nothing else, I was starting to feel good about this, and wiping the cocksure expression from my partner's face gave me no shortage of satisfaction.
"Tell me something, Blair. Who else did you tell about my cancer?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean Wanda knew. I sure as hell didn't tell her."
Blair squinted. "She was suspecting something. She had a feeling something was wrong."
"That didn't give you the right to tell her. That should have come from me."
"And just when were you going to tell her?" he snapped.
"When I got damn good and ready."
"Okay, look, you're right," he said, holding his hands up. "When you're right, you're right."
A thought suddenly entered my mind. "And Amber Sudeau? You tell her, too?"
"No," he said shaking his head before stopping suddenly. "Well, not exactly."
"Not exactly?!" I yelled. "What the fuck?! Either you did or you didn't!"
"Look, it was a way to secure the campaign for our business. Our business. Yours and mine."
"Go on," I said rolling my eyes. "This I have to hear."
"Okay.
Someone told me Randy Greece was a cancer survivor, colon maybe, I don't know. One of those internal things. Got diagnosed a few years ago, when he was working for Senator McAllister. He got forced out. McAllister didn't want to deal with looking at someone losing their hair from chemo and all that. The whole experience left a mark on him. I figured by mentioning your situation, we could play the sympathy card. Pull on the heartstrings and all that. Believe me, I was doing this for your benefit. For our benefit, I mean."
I stared straight ahead as we crossed the invisible boundary that separated Santa Monica from Los Angeles. I really couldn't look at Blair at that moment. I glanced to my left and saw we were driving past Douglas Park, a grassy patch that took up most of a city block. This was where I used to take Angelina to play when she was young, an urban pasture where we'd bring our mitts and I'd throw grounders and high fly balls, and she would shriek with delight when she'd catch one. It was a blissful time for me, a time to bond with my daughter, but a time that was now relegated to the distant memory bank. Angelina still played catch but it was with her teammates now, she had moved on. I was beginning to think the business relationship I had with Blair might need to be moved on as well. Nothing lasts forever, whether it is good or it is bad.
"I am a private person," I finally said, "and this cancer is mine. Not yours. You don't get to decide who you want to tell. I don't care what it does for the business. This is my life. It's not a damn marketing tool."
"All right, look I know you're probably going through hell right now," he said.
"You don't know what I'm going through," I snarled. "No one does. No one can. Don't pretend you do. And stop saying you're doing all this for me. Or for us. You're doing it for you. At least have the decency to admit it."
